▹shuji hanma/f!reader ▹6k words ▹smut, hate sex, angst, spanking, pussy spanking
▹it's 1 am and shuji is really trying not to limp. the night feels heavy in his chest, thick with the embarrassment of coming out of a fight gone bad. there's really one place he could go to instead of crashing on the bench in a park somewhere… and it's unfortunate that you're the only person that could help him out. too bad he hates your guts.
▹dividers by @/cursed-carmine
‹𝟹 more tokyo revengers fics ‹𝟹 read it on ao3
it's 1 am and shuji is really trying not to limp. the night feels heavy in his chest, thick with the embarrassment of coming out of a fight gone bad—he still feels the sting in his thigh where the hit landed, he should've seen it coming, the little shifty cunt got out of his eyesight for one moment and—
he stops to relight his cigarette, muttering a curse with it bobbing between his lips.
this night was supposed to go differently, but now he's on his own, surrounded by the vibrant noise of the city. for others, it's only just starting, but shuji is already looking where to finish it. a habit—patting his jean pockets for the house keys—reminds him of how he stormed out this afternoon, chased off by his parents' yelling after his father took the keys from him. a sort of punishment, though not one that will result in anything good if the previous instances are anything to go by. but fine, it's not like he wants to go back now anyway. he could easily climb in through the window, but that would mean tiptoeing trying not to wake the ill-tempered old man sitting in the worn out sofa, and being injured won't make that very easy for him. no, home isn't an option tonight.
looking over his shoulder at the sudden loud noise of revving motorbikes, shuji feels a pang of jealousy at all the people that are staying behind. he should rejoin them, he should turn around and ignore the ache and the sticking of his jeans to the blood on his skin, he should and he so desperately wants to go back to laughing at some poor sod tripping over a purposely stuck out foot or trembling from the booming voices of hotheaded gang members ready to jump him if they so decide. but… he can't bear to turn back now, not when he's getting a little light-headed and breathless just from walking. he's just going to embarrass himself further. laughter echoes in his head, it doesn't stop even when he presses his bruised hands over his ears, still slowly walking, limping, ahead and aimlessly trying to piece together a makeshift map of all the locations where he could catch a fucking break.
in the depth of his mind he knows there is one… but even the thought of it makes him roll his eyes in annoyance. the place he doesn't go to unless things are dire, unless he's so desperate for a fuck or he's so drunk he doesn't know what he's doing, going against better judgement (though he hardly has any judgement at all) because would he fuck want to find himself around you without an ulterior motive. shuji hasn't even cleared this decision with his brain, and yet the drag of his feet keeps moving in the direction of your place, like some kind of fucked up autopilot thriving on self-destruction. and maybe he's a little sick for wanting it, despite the frown between his brows at the very idea.
the dull ache in his thighs keeps his walking slow, but something could be said about him still moving despite the sheer unwillingness to keep going. he has to exhaust every option, though, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. maybe he'll get lucky and you won't be home. he lights another cigarette with the previous one, keeping that one thought in his head. you won't be home. like a mantra he's trying to make true, manifesting his own physical misfortune to pacify his mind.
your apartment building is towering over him ominously. the flickering light over the entrance isn't helping, either. maybe it's an omen, a carved out sign that screams run, you stupid bastard, but he's trying to remind himself that he's not a coward. no matter how much he hates being here or dreads seeing you act like you're none the wiser about how he feels, still keeping up with your caring and gentle touches like last time… he just wants to prove to himself that he can do this. that is, if you're actually at home. which he's still hoping you're not. obviously.
the front door gives way, so at least he doesn't have to go through the whole excruciating ordeal of waiting for you to come and check who it is and maybe even refuse to buzz him in. one lucky thing, he scoffs.
the lights time out twice by the time he's climbed up the stairs to your floor. there's still time, he still has a chance to turn back, but he clears his throat and rubs his hands over his tired and bruised face, readying himself to see the last person he is willing to be vulnerable around.
every second between the knock on the door (too faint for you to hear, so he had to knock again, this time like he means it) and the sound of several locks opening from the inside feels as if a deft hand is playing his nerves like a guitar, plucking strings with a sort of planned carelessness to appear nonchalant while picking out the most bone-vibrating sounds. for a moment, just before the door opens, he's trying to force himself to be fine with it all, maybe going over why he dislikes you so much, trying to once again convince himself that it's not important and that he could get over it.
shuji doesn't account for the feeling of shame to ache more than the split skin just above his eyebrow. his heart beats in his ears, pounding his head into a dizzying disorientation that has him leaning on the top of the door frame for balance. he hangs his head down, swallowing saliva quickly to hear something other than the laughter that followed when you picked draken over him, and then later your giggle when you let emma have him instead like it didn't matter that much in the first place. like even your better choice was replaceable, if anything just because your friend liked him better. and it wouldnt really hurt that much in that moment had it not been fucking draken. that old embarrassment resurfaces every now and then when he's not swatting it away like an annoying fly, the dumb helpless feeling of things slipping away from his fingers. like the keys to his home weren't the only fleeting thing that he could hold in the palm of his hand before he got the harsh reminder that nothing in life is guaranteed and fortune favours his enemies after all.
the door opens and he's unsure if he feels more relieved of pissed off that you're home.
"shuji?" you say, softly like you've just woken up, though he knows it's bullshit and you're putting on this sweet innocent doll thing again. as if you didn't check your peep hole to see who it was, as if you're not relishing in seeing him struggle to stay on his feet when he would rather be lying in a ditch somewhere. or that's what he tells himself.
"you gonna ogle me while i bleed out or let me in?" shuji grumbles, pushing himself off of the door frame and walking inside when you move out of the way.
he hates that he knows the layout of your place. hates that he automatically takes off his jacket and hangs it on the hanger and knows there's just enough space for his shoes beside it. why is this the moment of weakness when his brain decides to remember details he didn't even know he knew? you close the door and walk past him, brushing against his elbow, and he has to stop himself from thinking about how it felt to grab you and pull you closer, to hear you yelp and giggle before you tangled your fingers in his hair.
you're quick on your feet, already rummaging for the box of gauze and other shit you put on him when he inevitably comes over bloody and tired. the cushion on your couch may as well already have his bony ass imprinted on it, and despite his emotional discomfort it feels good to sit down, to let out a deep groan as his body settles down into the familiar softness, and let his head fall back to finally rest. not that he should be resting here anyway. not that he should have even come over, but the more he sits and feels your closeness, the less appealing crashing in the park nearby sounds.
you didn't ask him any questions, he notices. just kept busy with dabbing a wet cloth over his bloodied knuckles, and maybe it's because of something inside him that he's not willing to acknowledge, but he lets you do what you will, maybe feeling ever so slightly grateful for it.
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shuji wakes up desperately needing a smoke. he goes to pat his pockets, discovering that he's not wearing any pants. an almost smirk starts to form on his lips until he realises he's alone, sitting on the familiar couch—though not his own—in the dark with only a little lamp on in the hallway. he's stiff with a dull ache in his limbs, a headache announcing itself in his temples. there's a glass of water on the coffee table, a couple of what he assumes are painkillers beside it, so he leans forward with an audible, if a little shameful, groan to grab them. water feels good on his scratchy throat and he drinks while trying to piece together what has happened—what he did.
he was weak. that much is clear. knocking on your door was akin to admitting defeat, because why else would he let you see him in this state time and time again. his leg still kinda hurts, but it doesn't sting like hell anymore, looking down he sees that you finished the job of bandaging him up even after he passed out asleep. he hopes that he didn't mutter something embarrassing. his shirt and jeans are neatly folded on the other end of the couch, almost in a mocking way showing him that he got a kindness he's sure he didn't deserve from you. with a stifled grunt he gets up, inspecting his clean, though bruised and scratched, knuckles, and a few bruises blooming along his ribs that he can see when he turns towards the hallway. it's incredibly late, he's glad you've gone to sleep and left him alone.
digging around the pockets of his jeans for the remnants of cigarettes left in his there, once more he remembers—by the lack of his house keys—why he's here and not in his own bed. the lighter is cold in his hand and he squeezes it tight, the stinging tug on the freshly scraped skin on his knuckles almost a little satisfying as he tries not to lose his shit.
some crisp air on the balcony is just what he needs as he pushes open the door and stands there in his boxers. shuji shields the flame from the breeze as he lights the cigarette, closing his eyes trying to savour the smoke before he exhales it. this night has been an absolute shit show.
you don't have an ashtray here, but he feels no guilt ashing his cigarette on the edge of a plant pot on the balcony. maybe next time you'll cuss him out and kick his ass instead of letting him get cosy in your apartment, maybe that's what he needs to stop coming here. maybe that's what will let him move past the clenching feeling in his chest that he's telling himself is hatred.
there's one left in the pack, almost intact, only a little crumpled from when he landed on his ass—he's still trying to convince himself he tripped, refusing to believe someone managed to kick him onto the ground. he'll save that one for later, for when he's ambling the streets dragging out the minutes until he gets home and faces the consequences. there's one more stop before he gets dressed and slips out of here, hopefully without you noticing, he flicks the bathroom light on and hisses as the cold white bulb fries his eyes for a moment.
normally he wouldn't flinch at the sight of his face in the mirror. he'd wink at the reflection, maybe flex a little, lean in to fix a strand of his hair so it looks effortless and messy instead of just stupid, but now he's looking into the glass and wondering how he got so serious. the curve of his mouth isn't tugging upwards, his dark undereyes stand out against the pale skin of his face, there's a bruise just under his eye, stretching along his cheek bone and he can feel it pulse under the skin. fuck, he needs a good night's sleep. maybe several nights. maybe he should call kisaki and ask if he could crash at his place tomorrow and ignore the world until he's properly awake instead of running on fumes from fight to fight just trying not to slip out of the heat of the moment. maybe so, but first he needs to piss.
no matter how much things suck, at least there's a few moments when he can just focus on the relief as he stands there with his eyes closed. it's so mundane, so normal, and it finally doesn't feel like he's running for his life.
"feeling okay?"
he startles, cursing as he nearly gets your toilet seat wet.
"the fuck—" his heart bangs in his ears, thundering as he looks over his shoulder to see you leaning on the door frame. of course, he didn't close the bathroom door. of course, this is your place after all. of course, of fucking course, you must have woken up when he walked down the hallway past your bedroom. he can't recall if your door was shut or not, he simply didn't pay attention while feeling along the wall in this familiar space he's hating himself a little for remembering. either way you're here now, tugging on the oversized t-shirt you're using as pyjamas, making it cover at least the tops of your thighs in a feeble attempt to appear somewhat modest. your hair is all over the place, clearly showing you just tumbled out of bed upon hearing him. and your face…
"did you—" you yawn, "see the painkillers i left?"
shuji just nods, shaking his dick off before he pulls it back into his boxers. "what is this, you're spying on me while i'm trying to take a piss to check if i took my meds?"
even as tired as he is, he doesn't miss the roll of your eyes as you push off the door frame to rinse your face with water. why you'd want to be more awake at this ungodly hour is beyond him, but then again, he doesn't want to make sense of your actions or motivations.
"sass me all you want, shuji, i'm not gonna let you suffer just because you can be a dick sometimes." he frowns as you catch his eyes in the reflection above the sink.
"sometimes?"
there's a little quirk of your mouth, too tired to be a smirk, too lazy to be a smile. "most of the time." you concede, wiping your hands away from him as he turns towards you.
"i shouldn't have come here anyway." absentmindedly he scratches across his chest, chasing after some invisible itch that makes him very aware of the fact that he's mostly naked in your bathroom… again.
"you said that before," by the twitches of your head towards him it's clear you're trying not to look at him, whether out of respect for privacy or determination not to start something tonight, "but you know i'll help you when you need me."
"i don't." he all but snarls. like a cornered animal, though he knows he's in no danger here. not from you, not in your apartment. he's just lashing out to stop thinking kindly about you, and on some level he knows it. "i don't need you."
you just nod, but he catches your eyes in the mirror again, for better or worse, and stands a little straighter. you must be doing that on purpose, putting yourself out there like that, making sure he's thinking about you when he doesn't want to. shuji hates that you take it gracefully, handing him a towel to dry his face after he splashed it with cold water. he wants you to be at least half as mad at him as he is with you. at least a little bit, to stop him second-guessing this overwhelming feeling of dread.
"i'm just saying," you begin, folding your arms across your chest, "that if you're hurt and can't go home i'll help. i'll ignore that you hate my guts and i'll never mention it to anyone, just…"
a sigh on your lips betrays the exhaustion and some sort of longing, but he chooses to believe it's not for him, because where was that longing when you danced on two sides of the choice, toying with him before someone 'better' caught your attention and took you from his grasp. not that he wanted to have you in his grasp anyway… it didn't matter… he just felt stupid that he lost to fucking ken ryuguji of all people.
"you touched my stuff again." he interrupts because he can't let you go on about how you're so nice and helpful to him, not if he wants to keep a shred of his sanity around you. "told ya not to touch my fucking stuff."
you raise your eyebrow at him, and he's glad that you don't have a soft sleepy look on your face anymore. he can't bear it, another minute and he might start feeling bad for sticking a cigarette butt into your plant pot.
"you're welcome?" you scoff.
"i don't go 'round just putting my hands on everything in your place, do i?"
as if to argue his point, he reaches out and grabs the first thing he can reach on the hook by the door. it's something soft, and he only looks when your eyes widen at the sight. shit.
"if you could just… leave them…" you murmur, furrowing your brows as he lifts the pair of panties he picked up towards the light.
shuji can't deny that seeing you this flustered makes him feel a certain way, some kind of proof that he's not the only sick bastard in this dance getting hard by the displeasure between you. and he really is getting hard, he feels the strain of his boxers against his growing erection and the weight of your gaze as it meets the bulge.
it's a little freeing, too, knowing he doesn't have to try to make you like him. the hate he feels scratch at his fingertips is enough to keep him aroused, and you're never fucking making it difficult, are you?
he steps forward until you're backed up against the hallway wall, looking up at him as his hand—still holding the pair of panties he swiped—presses flat above you. the heat is rising between you again, stirring something in him whenever you're vulnerable around him.
"why would i do that?" he asks, almost too quiet for you to hear. it's almost unlike him, that low voice, but there's hardly any space between your bodies and every word hangs in the air until you swallow hard. "why the fuck would i do what you want me to?"
you don't answer, but where there was some kind of softness in your eyes before, now it's covered with something closer to what he's lacing his words with, a poison made to enhance this tension until the only emotion is the feeling of his hands on your body, his teeth on your skin, your moans in his ear. his other hand goes to your throat, and you quickly cover it with your palm, but not prying it off… never prying it off.
the defiance in your face has shuji bare his teeth just a little, enough attitude to not make the mistake of thinking this is in any way him being weak, this is him taking what he wants.
shuji slots his knee between your thighs, pressing closer until you've got no other choice but slowly grind against it, because both of you know how this will end. all of his burning rage ends here, when his cock is achingly hard for some sick reason, because the red he sees when looking at you surges into his crotch every time you're close enough to touch. he lowers his head down so it's level with yours, never letting go of your neck as he nudges your ear with his nose. shuji can feel your warm skin shiver, your hips roll against his thigh as you try to get as much friction as you can while he's here and willing.
a hitch in your throat vibrates against his palm, and shuji groans into your ear, nipping the shell of it in a moment of weakness. he will not kiss you like that, not gonna make it feel tender, no matter what. if he's going to give in to the want, he'll take it for all it's worth.
and it's worth the tension in his cock as your soft thigh rubs against it in a desperate effort to get yourself off while he presses you against the wall. his other hand trails down your side, then up again as if he's mapping out your curves, as if he hasn't grabbed them countless times before, until he cups his large palm over your breast, bunching up your oversized t-shirt when he wishes he could just rip it off and touch you like he deserves to. a moan tumbles out of your mouth, kicking him sideways as his thumb rubs over your clothed nipple. he shakes his head slightly, you're such a freak getting off to him touching you like this, making you work for it to show you want it more than him, even though his erection is screaming, the blood pulsing in his ears by the time your hips stutter and you squeeze his leg with your thighs, a feeble attempt to keep riding out through your orgasm.
your eyes rolling back and lip caught between your teeth is a sight, one that has shuji's jaw clench and his cock twitch impatiently. he's lowering his leg, but not letting you away from his crotch which presses against your belly with urgency. one clever hand sneaks under your shirt after releasing your throat for a change of approach, now tugging your soaked panties to the side so he can relish in the evidence of how much you want this.
"tch… pathetic." he groans, thumbing your folds apart slowly, gathering the wetness that's gathered there before he presses against your clit, sinking his index finger inside you. "all that from a little grinding… you been missin' me?" he adds the last part almost like an insult, knowing it has you rolling your eyes at him, and what's his talent if not getting under your skin and stinging you over and over.
"shu—"
"that's it…" he mocks, "tell me to shut up, doll." he groans, lifting your shirt up until he almost gets it off you, only briefly considering leaving it over your head like that. at least then he wouldn't have to cum while seeing your blissed out expression. but he yanks it off completely, tosses it on the floor somewhere, and finally gives you another finger to suck in with your cunt while he lowers his head and sucks on the soft flesh of your breast, biting it to hear you whine.
now all he needs is to get his cock out of these damn boxers, but your hands are already pawing at him, slipping your fingers under the waistband until you're tugging them down low enough to free him from the fabric, springing upwards so eagerly it would be embarrassing if you didn't clench around his fingers at the sight. he keeps pumping them inside you, gently scissoring them until you're squirming, wrapping your arms around his neck quite demanding so he sees no other option but to reach down to grab you by your ass and hoist you up, making you protest as his fingers leave the warmth of your cunt. your slick juices are covering his long fingers so he takes a moment before giving in to place his two wet digits against your lips, waiting for you to open like a good girl and lick them clean.
the tip of his twitching cock pushes at your soaked pussy, nudging your folds apart but not quite sinking into you yet, almost dragging it out like the excruciating moments in between him knocking on your door and you opening it, suspended in a space of possibilities as if he could suddenly get a fucking grip and leave without fucking you… as if he could deprive himself of the satisfaction of betraying his more rational side. so he does that tantalising dance a little more, until you're tangling your fingers in the hair at the back of his head, until you're kicking your foot out and panting hard, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold and onto his cock. it's torturous, but at the same time rewarding, because coiling in his abdomen is becoming more intense so he knows that the moment he gives it what it craves will be all the more satisfying. you've called him out on that before, calling him a masochist, but the word just slid off his skin like water that time, even though you may be a little correct with it. not that he would give you the satisfaction of knowing that. the fuck do you know about him anyway?
shuji never gives you the time to adjust. from the first slide of his cock into you, his hips start thrusting never once waiting for your hand to unclench from his hair. leaning down, he grunts into your neck, catching your sensitive skin with his teeth as he clashes his hips with yours. fucking you is a means to an end, the end being his own volatile nature relishing in an orgasm stolen from your body. every single time he thrusts into you, feels your greedy cunt suck his cock inside it, he imagines it a victory of sorts, because even though you thought you could cast him aside before, you keep opening your legs for him now. there's no sweeter victory than your pussy so slick crying out for him.
even now, as you moan quietly for him, breathless and pressed against the wall, he's looking at you with his lips parted and his eyes glazed over, unsure if he could ever get such a damn kick out of fucking someone else, someone he didn't fucking hate this much. a masochist… maybe. but it doesn't matter what you call it when all that truly matters is how much he loves punishing both of you with harsh, determined snaps of his hips against the flesh of your thighs.
"nah… nah fuck this." shuji mutters, grabbing you tighter and taking you away from the wall. you're clinging to him harder, the beginning of a protest dies in your throat as he takes you to your bedroom, step after step making you bounce against his body.
"what the—" you begin, but a moan ends your sentence right there when he lays you down on the bed and keeps rolling into you like nothing happened. "shuji… f-fuck."
"shut up." he punctures the words with harsher, faster thrusts, stuffing every single inch of his cock inside you. shuji listens for the pulse under your skin so deliciously warm under his lips as he presses them on your neck, sucking a bruise against your throat while he ruts into you like a madman. the squelch of your wet cunt against his balls as they tap against your lips has him grunt harder, louder, while he's biting another bruise into your neck. it's dizzying, maddening, and shuji grabs your legs to direct them behind his back where you lock your ankles together.
his hair tickles your chest as he shakes his head trying to keep it together when you pull him in deeper with your legs, making his pace falter for a moment before he realises he's starting to move a little slower, but the strokes are more precise.
shuji looks down at you, frowning, because you're seemingly under the impression that you're calling the shots here. "hey," he snaps, pushing himself up and grabbing your cheeks with one large hand, "knock it off."
your response is a half-baked whimper, your lashes batting up at him as he squeezes your cheeks together. he might even think you're cute pouting like that if you didn't piss him off so much.
"j-just slow down a lil…" you drag the words out, squeezing through your teeth until he releases your face and props himself up on his palms, creating more space between your bodies.
"why the fuck would i slow down?" shuji all but cackles, looking down at the dark red bruises at the base of your throat. "don't act like you don't wanna be fucked stupid."
he grabs a pillow from the edge of the bed, though, and slides it down to your hips. a smack on the side of your thigh tells you to lift up, and he slots the pillow under your ass, so when you settle back down on it he speeds up again.
"fuck… fuuuuck there it is." he grunts, still holding himself up to watch your tits bounce with every rough snap of his hips. "don't fuckin' tell me how to fuck you again."
the angle change has him rutting into your cunt like it unlocks some primal part of him. the messy, wet slide of his thick cock in and out of your soft walls is loud, slippery, and so damn addictive as your poor little cunt tries to squeeze his cock to keep him inside. pathetic. he pushes himself up and unhooks your legs from behind his back, pressing your knees further against your chest. he's got you opening up for him like a flower. a flower that's taking his relentless thrusts all sopping wet and going dumb on his dick. a flower that's whining as your hands grip the sheets under your back while he fucks you. shuji shakes his head and ignores the tugging sensation on his leg under the bandages, hoping he won't bleed through them while he's trying to fuck the night to an end.
shuji didn't think this would be the view he would have tonight. you, folded over yourself with your pretty cunt swallowing his cock. you, getting red in the face as your head tilts to the side, and you repeatedly moan against the mattress in time with the rough snaps of his cock into your perfect spot. you're so drunk on him it's almost funny, your body is pressed into the mattress and every single push of his fat tip into your spongy walls seems to deepen that hazy state you're in. to think you tried to make him fuck you slowly…
your thighs indent under the press of his fingertips. squishy flesh of your body invites his palm for a smack as he lands it on your ass and then the underside of your thigh. shuji grins as you whimper and tighten on his cock, dripping your arousal around it as he spanks you again and again, slamming harder into you until you're crying out.
"gonna cry?" he teases, a little breathless, "gonna cum on my cock? with me slapping you like this?" landing a lighter little slap against your clit earns him another jolt of your walls closing on him. shuji chuckles, doing it one more time to see you twitch under him.
"fuck— you—" the whine on your lips turns into a long, drawn out groan and you shudder and cum and he feels your defiance rise as your cunt squeezes him tighter.
"mhm… that's right." he groans, leaning forward just a little, changing the angle to feel the pinch on his tip as your cunt pulses with the waves of your orgasm, sending shivers up his spine. this is how he wants to feel it, until he's seconds away from bursting, until the golden light behind his eyelids blinds him and he has to let go. shuji slams harder into you, fucking that messy little cunt with reckless abandon while pressing your legs forward.
and right there is where he loses himself, on the very brink of an orgasm, his balls tightening with the inevitable release, his abdomen feeling like there's a storm inside. he quickly pulls out of your sopping cunt, stroking his cock with swift movements as his hand glides along the length easily with how wet your pussy got it. strings of pearly cum spill from his tip, landing in warm puddles on your belly.
it reaches as far as the underside of your breasts, and you open your eyes only to avoid the burning gaze of his golden irises, instead looking at your skin shimmering with a light layer of sweat and the very prominent splatter of shuji's cum. you're breathing heavily, but so is he, sitting back on his heels still holding his spent, quickly softening cock. his other hand runs through the mess that is his hair, the blond streaks in the front sticking to his forehead.
your legs finally fall onto the bed, still quivering a little, but your breathing is evening out. shuji looks down at the mess he made on your stomach and the corner of his lips lifts a little as he leans in to lick a slow, torturous strip between your sensitive folds. your attempt at pushing him away with your foot for the overstimulation on your poor clit only has him more amused, sucking in the little nub between his lips for a brief moment, just enough to make you curse at him.
"yeah, yeah." he murmurs, letting a glob of spit land just above your belly button, close to a little splatter of cum. "same to you."
he gets up off the bed with a groan, a little dizzy, and awkward standing in your bedroom. he knows his way around well enough, though, so he pulls a few tissues out of the box on the bedside table and puts them in your palm, setting out to go and find his boxers. by the time you're up and wobbly on your feet, leaning against the door frame naked, he's pulling his jeans up and stumbling into the hallway to put his shoes on.
"you're welcome." you mutter, folding your arms across your chest.
shuji looks you up and down, you missed a drop of his release on your hip, but he's not about to tell you that. he grins and grabs his jacket. "ditto. but don't hope for a repeat so soon."
the rolling of your eyes is only the best way he's ending this night. a glance at the clock tells him it's not the best time to go out and roam the city until he can brave his return home, but he'll have to manage. the alternative would be unbearable.
"oh shut up, shuji." you add something else after it, something he can't really hear as he unlocks the front door and slips out, exhausted, but a little better than when he found himself at your door earlier.
"yeah, see you in hell, doll." he responds mockingly, patting his pockets once the door shuts and he's out in the dark stairwell again. and he remembers that he left himself one last cigarette for later, but he can't feel the pack in his pocket… fuck.
⋆˙⟡ burekforsatoru || do not modify, repost, or feed to AI. likes and reblogs appreciated, nice comments make your skin clear.
Warnings: alcohol, public display, party environment, female reader, praise, raw fuckin, creampie, birth control, prn w plot! (moderately proofread)
Synopsis: Simple. Pull a card, drink or do. If you do—make sure the players to your right or left are willing to risk it ;)
🎶 NO GUIDANCE- CHRIS BROWN & DRAKE at party
🎶 LIQUOR- CHRIS BROWN after bathroom
3K SPECIAL !!!
As the night falls of a big win, the team takes their pictures and sends their supportive families off to their hotels or long drives. You remain present a little later, as manager, with matters to tend to. Your family could come if they wished since you’re provided extra tickets; though you obviously aren’t playing, so unless they are just in the mood to watch than it was no point.
Coach strolls off joyfully. With his face flushed and breathless from the yelling, overwhelming audience, it all ended in a second when all sneakers stopped squeaking against the court. You signed for clean up duty even though it wasn’t your gym, but technically the event was hosted by MSBY.
The clipboard became light on your fingers as you swiftly walk to the closet of the facility. The high-pitched sound of the carts rolling multiples in the gym echo and you leave them on the court, under the (now dark) roof, the only lights being illuminated over play area.
This part was irritating some days, but others it was therapeutic. Your skin crawls at the mere thought of being alone, in the darkness, of an empty building— but the quicker you do it, the quicker you may leave.
You begin the easiest portion first, shagging any stray balls played with by kids or used for photos after play, but a large sum of the time is spent walking back and forth within the large gymnasium.
You will say though: even with repetition, the fear never completely dissolves because hearing the push door open while you’re standing in the dead center of the light gave you a heart attack. Weight shifted to your toes with building keys in hand, you only relax when you see a head of mixed hair.
“Hey,” his voice carries in a soft tone from afar, like it’s forbidden to be loud in a dark, vacant gym.
“Hey,” you parrot, leaning down to pick up the last ball. Once you walk it to the cart and scan again, you fully acknowledge him. “What are you doing back?”
He’s gotten closer now, with his water bottle still swinging in hand from earlier, but he is no longer in his jersey. “I don’t like to feel dirty with sweat longer than I have to,” he said a few years ago.
“Came to help you out,” he grins. The thin shirt he wore fell loose over his tight frame as he stuffs his own keys in his sweats. His hair was still slightly damp too, now fallen. Not because he washed the gel out, but because it is it’s “bedtime.”
You shake your head politely as you proceed to roll the carts back into the closet.
The corners of your mouth lift, “It’s alright, just part of the job,” you reply.
“I’m helping anyway, so you can try to shove me out if you want to.”
He does that famous grin of his, except a more tired version. He was calm and quiet. Extremely different from how you saw him around 35 minutes ago, but he was only like this when he was tired, upset, or something else you don’t know about. The exhaustion of play was probably just kicking in.
Clearly there was no pushing him out, no matter what sentiment about rest you could give him, so if he was here, he was going to help take down that almost-eight-foot net.
Once he gets both sides down, you come in to help roll/fold it, then use the bottom rope to tie it off. In the end, it took less than half the time it would’ve taken to do it alone, and that includes the endless giggles about nothing in particular throughout the whole thing. He carries the net and pads away over his bicep.
“So how long do you usually stay after?”
2 hours. You don’t tell him that, so instead you yell something along the lines of “Not too long!”
“I waited up for you because I noticed you’ve been the last to leave almost every time. Alone. Once you never came out, that’s when I realized you were in here working.”
He explains the situation from a different point of view. You had found yourself bending to pick up trash from the long rows of seats, skimming through to lay some work off the janitors. He finally appears out of the closet, so you walk back to the chairs that you were instructed to leave out.
The door closes loudly. He then outstretches one hand for the keys, with his opposite hand still located on the knob.
You toss them poorly, he easily catches them with a hearty chuckle.
Once you grab your things, you walk and talk side by side down the soundless hallways. You hadn’t known him long, and to be completely fair— you weren’t necessarily acquainted with everyone on the team— but he was very caring for the people around him. He was attentive, but forgetful. You’re not sure how it works, but if he forgets something, then does it really matter if he notices it each time?
“I don’t like that everyone gets to leave but you. I’ll start staying back.”
“That’s not necessary; I’m a big girl,” you entertain.
“It just feels wrong. Leaving you here by yourself too? No,” he declares. He shakes his head tenaciously, and despite his large steps, his shoulder remains brushing against yours in sync.
“…You do realize how bad this looks right? A player staying back with the staff?”
A boisterous laugh erupts from him, “Only if you word it like that. We’re the same age, both students, and you’re the manager—not the coach. What can they say? I’m fucking you for a better looking jersey?”
Oh okay. woah.
You almost physically recoil in shock, but it just renders you speechless for a moment; moreso the images that just flashed into your head.
It seems he picked up on it, because he rushes to apologize.
“Shit- sorry, I didn’t mean-“
“No, no, it’s okay—I really don’t mind,” you console. It just caught you off guard, and it was obvious what he meant, so none of this was his fault. Also holy shit? Bokuto saying “fucking” in that way? You’re slightly tempted to ask him to repeat it. This proves the image of him in your head is a lot more innocent and less vulgar than the real one.
There’s a light flush to his skin and his shoulders are tensed, but it doesn’t stop him from teasing you.
“You say you really don’t mind?” He leans down to repeat the words in your ear, except when he says it, it’s significantly dirtier than when you did. He’s trying to imply you wouldn’t mind him…doing that to you.
Would you?
He contemplates his next words in your silence.
“It almost sounds like you’d like it,” he breathes out, but the devious grin lurks behind it.
“Stooop,” you roll your eyes and wrap your fingers around his face. He giggles even as you shove him away jokingly.
Once calm from his own fit of laughter, he tells you the team is supposed to celebrate tonight at home and he wants you to come. You oblige after making him beg a few times for forgiveness.
He did warn it would technically be as if they were out, but you don’t mind. They deserve it. Drinking at home is also better than drinking elsewhere anyway: no risking an image, no chance at driving, and since everyone knows each other, it automatically becomes somewhat safer.
Passing the concessions on the way out, you make sure to list the stock of what’s left while you leave him to count the money collected.
The roles were supposed to be reversed, but you don’t complain as you get to watch him handle the money like second nature. A small muscle in his arm flexes as the bills fly past his fingers and he whispers the numbers aloud to himself.
“You’re really good at that.” You say in awe. You weren’t aware how close you were leaning over his shoulder until the slight turn of his head has his nose about an inch from yours.
“Learned a little something from a business friend of mine,” he sighs in a hushed tone. He took the compliment shyly as if there weren’t fans screaming his name about an hour prior.
You clear your throat and provide him space before he relays the number to you. Thank god it’s dark.
He wishes you didn’t—he enjoyed the feeling of your small hands over his broad shoulders.
. .
The time nears 10 o’clock when you head to Bokuto’s. There wasn’t much to do at home other than shower, and because it was a casual event, you arrived in a cute pair of jeans and a tank.
The door opens to a familiar face. Soon you’re being led to the living room where music and low lights set the mood, some players of the team surround you, drinks are being passed around, and the atmosphere is far more calming than any club you’ve ever attended.
Atsumu is the first to greet you. He rises to his feet for a hug, expressing how much he didn’t think you would come to something like this.
As you look around, others are genuinely surprised by your presence as well, but it’s expected. For some, it’s the first time they’ve seen you outside of practice. Bokuto watches you begin to become uncomfortable under curious eyes.
The large hand that loops around your waist sends a warm wave through your body. He towers over you, all muscle and height, so when you look up to see his smile, you can’t help but return it. He leans down, fanning cool breath against your skin like earlier.
“Can I get you a drink? You okay?” A fulfilling scent floods your nose. God, what cologne was he wearing?
“I’m okay, thank you.”
He twists you to his seat on the sectional couch, to which he picks the spot on the floor right next to you. The feeling of his hand lingers.
You speak to Sakusa. The liquor in his hand is almost to the bottom, but he still seems more than present.
The TV plays in the background and you slowly ease into the party by conversation. Bokuto’s voice is so distinctive you can hear it whether you’re listening or not. His conversations with Hinata are pure amusement, especially as they talk about moments from the game. Sakusa asks about your family, what you study, things of that nature—it was very refreshing actually.
The team celebration was more team bonding and getting to know the players for you. A lot of how they act reflects on the court.
Some old friends of his along with other girls were there, presumably some their partners, but essentially it was a equal group. It didn’t stop the fun, because in the end, Meian had won every Uno game held and everyone had a justified animosity towards Sakusa for all his plus 4s. He’s fully aware of it, and as you all glare, he tips his head back, laughing incessantly.
You were slightly scared of him at first because he was so reserved.
At the height of the night, in the midst of tipsy attendees, someone pulls out a box from under the coffee table. You’re not even sure if it was Bokuto’s.
“Drink or Do,” A dark haired woman reads aloud. She glances around the crowded couch knowingly, silently asking if we were down. Hell, half of you were already drunk. The game was just “Do” by this point.
Of course, Atsumu is the first to audibly agree as if the slight slur of his words wasn’t enough signification he shouldn’t be playing.
She pushes her glasses further up her nose before displaying the contents of the game. She impressively shuffles the cards, clearly showcasing her sobriety. Bokuto suddenly grunts underneath you.
He raises himself just enough to slip up onto the couch beside you. You watch quietly.
He must’ve seen your shameless, big eyes admiring him too.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you return. His lips stretch into a show-stopping smile and he turns his attention to the table. You follow his gaze to the game neatly assembled.
“Thanks Kiyoko. Who goes first?”
She shrugs and it was concluded you all would follow in a circle. Kuroo takes one for the team, first getting up and retrieving an extra bottle of liquor. His fingers connect around a card from the middle, all eyes falling on him in anticipation. It was explained on the pack that you could either get a physical card or a card about truth.
You only know the court versions of these men even though they knew each other, so your back hits the support of the couch in underlying excitement.
Kuroo reads it first to himself, then aloud.
“Name two other people you would have a threesome with or take a shot.”
A truth card. However, it seemed to take him no time to think about it.
“Alisa and Bo.” He slides the card unabashedly to a random spot on the coffee table, creating a potential pile for the rest of the used ones. The man beside you just crosses his arms and chuckles. His shirt stops about halfway down his deltoid and hugs him perfectly at the top, almost like it was altered just for you to look—it’s painful to look away, catching sight of Alisa giggling and pulling a card next.
“‘Take a shot from a player’s chest. The last player picks who.’ So regardless, I have to drink. How is this fair?”
All eyes land to Kuroo, conversing with Meian. He catches the memo, but doesn’t seem to care about his pick. He says Kiyoko.
Kiyoko wastes no time filling a shot to the brim. She places it snugly between her breasts, then awaits Alisa impatiently. She eventually places both hands to the gray-haired girl’s face, leading her face directly to her boobs. They laugh genuinely through the whole thing.
The fact that those two were playing this game implied they were single, and all you can think is holy hell, how is that possible? She wraps her plump lips around the glass rim, tilts her head up, and allows the liquid trail down her throat once free. A flood of groans and comedic applause fill the air.
“Is there something you would like to tell us Alisa?” Aran insinuates.
She then manually removes the glass from her mouth, dropping it to the table and brushing her bottom lip off flirtatiously at Kiyoko. “Your turn!”
. .
Kiyoko ends up admitting to the three riskiest places she’s ever fucked, stoking a heated discussion about the best and worst places to do it within the table. Everyone had clear opinions.
“At a school though? Really? I’m no saint, but that’s foul.”
Next, as told by the card, Sakusa must give a hickey to the random player on his left.
It was you.
He sucks on the surface of his teeth with a smile after reading the card, his gaze slowly turning to meet yours. You only stare at each other curiously.
He’s the first to speak up: “Are you…?” His brows furrow.
“I’m cool about it.” You aren’t sure if it’s the liquor swimming through your bloodstream providing you confidence but you lean your chest forward, unintentionally displaying your breasts in the low tank, and tilt your head up just enough. It was so fast, though once he concluded you were sure it all happened naturally.
One hand of his comes up to cup your jaw. In contrast, the other softly slides up your collarbone, wrapping back around until the strap of your cami is being nudged off your shoulder. He gravitates closer until all you see is a full head of dark hair.
“I’ll spare you,” he hums, leaving only you to hear him. Your brain is too occupied by his overwhelming presence to understand he meant putting it in a spot that wouldn’t have people questioning you left and right.
Then finally, his pink lips attach, sucking hard enough for the surface cells to break, effectively creating a hickey that darkens by the second.
You have to remind yourself to keep breathing.
He leaves a few open mouthed kisses on the spot to soothe the pain, but if you didn’t know any better you’d say he got carried away. The back and forth drag of his thumb on your jaw and the fluttering kisses leading up to your under ear tell you so. Others seem to see it too. Is it wrong to thread your fingers through his hair?
The moment ends almost as quickly as it came, and the game moves on. You reach for the top of the deck and flip it around.
“Act out your favorite sexual position with the player to your left for fifteen seconds.”
Dammit, all these left cards will be the death of you.
You survey Bokuto, in all his hair-down glory, just as Sakusa had you. “Uhh…” a downturned smile carves onto your features.
Alisa giddily reassures, “C’mon girl, don’t get all shy on us now!”
Surprisingly, it gives you enough courage to at least look Bokuto in his golden eyes. They were low with alcohol, anger, or something else.
“I don’t know— I don’t really have a favorite,” you admit. “Missionary, I guess?”
Maybe you should’ve picked a different one; you could easily swing your leg over him to cowgirl and be done. Leisurely, his arms uncross as he twists to face you, then he places his large hands around your ribcage to effortlessly lift you up and forward. You lean backwards with the newfound space, but once you’re down, he grips your hips and roughly pulls you close to him.
At the same time he slots himself between your legs, his fingers swiftly curl under your knees and lift them until they’re pressed to the side of your breasts.
All broad and firm that he is, he completely crowded your area. His fingers creep to your nape, trekking through the hair there, the heart of his thumbs resting upon your cheeks. Your hands subconsciously roll up his arms.
You attempt to scan him above you and search for any ounce of discomfort—or any emotion for that matter—but instead, you find him hyper-focused on the bruising spot Sakusa initiated. Like it personally offends him, he won’t look away. You’re so close you can see his jaw tense.
“Bokuto,” you whisper. He finally catches your eye.
His back rises with a deep breath through his nose. He still struggles to look at your eyes since he was now fixed on your lips, despite being a few centimeters away. “Hm?”
You drift your fingers to wrap around the base of his neck loosely. “It feels like you’re frustrated.”
The chance to ease the tension worked, because his forehead drops to yours as his shoulders shake the slightest bit. After a long time of waiting, those glowing eyes of his locate you skittishly.
“Fuck, you’re killing me over here.”
A blare over the music sounds. “Times up,” someone’s voice calls.
. .
Eventually, you’d sobered up a bit by doing all your cards. You applaud yourself for it; some of those truth ones were harsh.
“Hey, where’s the restroom? I need to go, like, now.“
“The guest bathroom is over there, but I think someone’s in it and Bo’s bathroom is closer.” Kuroo points. “Through that door to the right.” You nod and journey your way past a few people.
The door to Bokuto’s room unlocks, causing him to look up from his position in the beside. You wish you could stay to look longer but you sprint past him and into the bathroom, only having enough time to close both doors out of respect.
. .
Correcting yourself one last time, you walk out with a now-dry hand closing the door behind you. To your surprise, Bokuto is still there.
“Sorry, yours was closer.”
He glances up from his phone. “It’s fine. Did you snoop?”
“A little.” You shrug facetiously. “Are you coming back out? To the party?”
He narrows his eyes accusingly, searching between you and the bathroom, then shakes his head as if to remove the previous ides from his brain. He casts another smile with a small laugh.
Is he ever not happy? You knew the answer, it surfaced just fine when he realized you worked alone while everyone else went home.
“Oh, uhh— maybe. Might be a while.”
You step closer, “Why, what’s up?”
He sighs deeply and huffs, “I’m just not…decent. Probably won’t be for a while.” In opposition to the smile on his face, his brows are furrowed. And they’ll tell you if you really want to know what he’s thinking.
“You aren’t…decent?” Your own eyebrows twist in confusion.
“Forget it, I should be out soon.”
“No, you just said you wouldn’t be. You can try to shove me out if you want to, but I’m staying until you tell me.” The deliberate use of his words has him contemplating whether he should lie or give in. You’re bent with both hands on your knees before him now, trying to look under his hair due to his hunch. It doesn’t take long until he concludes you’re too stubborn.
“Alright then.” He raises his head completely and uses his palms as support when he leans back. “You’ve got me hard as a fucking rock. If I left now, I’d be throwing myself into the lion’s den.”
Unintentionally, you shoot a glance to his sweats, only to find out he was as serious as you were. Somehow, only one question came to mind.
“I did it? Me?”
“Yes, you,” he mocks.
You stand in front of him, still bent over, blinking. He’d been tucked away in here because of the game? You just thought he left to do something and he’d return at some point; it was his house after all.
“How?”
He watches with disbelief plastered on his face. “How? You’ve been doing it all day. Touching me, looking up at me how you do—and God those eyes turn me into a horrible person. You might not have even realized it, but when I was on top of you, you connected your ankles like you didn’t want me to go. I was done the second I felt it.”
He kept going, “I didn’t want to scare you off, especially considering you work with us everyday.”
“I’m not scared,” you quickly respond, realizing you’d have to take initiative when his eyebrows raise and you spot a faint blush overtaking his skin. In fact, he makes you feel safer, like there’s an exaggerated sense of invincibility because he’ll always make sure you’re okay. There’s no way your heart has been beating this hard this whole time. He could probably hear it.
One step at a time, you saunter until you’re close enough for his arms to connect around your body.
His eyes are wide and glistening as if he couldn’t believe the scene in front of him.
He goes to stand, but you lightly press his shoulders down, advising him to slowly sink back to the duvet. His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow once your finger tilts his chin up even further, the prospect getting the best of him when you lean this slightest bit into his lips. They connect without a sliver of space. It feels so surreal, so soft, and you begin to wholeheartedly believe the soft buzz from one of these would raise your mood any time. It was slow, innocent, and sweet to get used to each other, but when your leg rose at his side to crawl onto him, he knew he was fucked.
Of course, he welcomes you with open arms, hands moving nonstop along your back once you’re sat comfortably. Following the grab at his hair, there’s a deep rumble in his chest. Desire surges through you at the sound. You turn your head and bite on his bottom lip, a soft noise of your own flowing out when it plops back into place.
His tongue molds into the kiss as his hands travel lower, down your thighs and gliding back up to your ass. Soft touches morph into gropes. Connecting both arms around his neck, you decide to tell him what you want and breathe a bit.
“Off,” you whisper, “I want it off.”
In no time, with one more kiss to the nose, he stands with his hands hooked under your thighs, turning completely around and laying you on his bed.
He only pulls away momentarily to turn the lock on his door, pinch at the end of the thin shirt that does him more than justice and tug it over his head. Now bare from the waist up, he comes to hover over you in the same position from about 30 minutes prior.
If only you could see his back, but the view from the front does not disappoint. Sculpted to perfection, strong and demanding attention. He kisses you again, this time farther to your neck and sliding his hands down your body, leaving your back to arch upwards from the bed in hopes he’ll go lower.
Then in a split second, you’re back to square one. He gazes at the mark of his teammate on your collarbone.
“Bo-“
Before you can even finish his name, he redirects back up to your neck, wrapping the opposite hand around it to force your chin up, then begins sucking a fresh new hickey. Hard. And clearly more visible than the lower one already there.
It almost makes you hiss because it was already a bright red, but you don’t mind. He removes himself to stand as if it never happened and tugs at your jeans with his fingers.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
He slides them down and off, dropping them on the floor uselessly. Groaning, his eyes travel down your body.
“Are you real?” It falls from his mouth before he can stop it.
“I think so.”
He massages your legs, easily removing every knot in your calves. “Feel like I’m dreaming. Had to make sure.” He places a light kisses everywhere from your belly-button to your toes, drifting towards your center, worshiping your thighs and humming.
He surveys you through his light eyelashes.
“If I had to take a guess, I would say you’re wet right now.” He shrugs. “Could be wrong.”
As if to accentuate his words, the light touch over the line of your panties makes you shiver. Defiantly, you shake your head no as if your body hadn’t already betrayed you. He feigns innocence, his brows turning upward in the process.
“That’s, of course, just a guess though.”
He pulls gently from your hips and slowly slides the fabric down your legs. He watches hungrily as he reveals every part of you. Unlike earlier, he wastes no time to shallowly dip a thumb between your folds, causing a deep, held breath from you both to mix with the air at the same time. The pad of his finger reaches your clit and begins circling.
You attempt to sit up when your hips begin to fidget but you’re caged by his own chest. He’s risen above you again. He can’t resist the chance to kiss you when he’s so close, so it’s eager but still sensual.
“Seems like it wasn’t just a guess, hm?” He grins against your lips.
“I hate you,” you whisper in return.
“Really? I don’t think you do.”
Simultaneously, a finger plunges into your wetness while his thumb remains circling, immediately being coated by the liquids you swore weren’t there. The gravel yet softness of his voice breezing through your ears is not helping your situation. In fact, your hands come to comb through the hair on his head when your mouth drops and your breasts reach his chest, only divided by the fabric of your shirt you wish was gone.
His finger is much bigger than your own so your eyes flutter shut as he moves it inside and kisses your neck. He feels around, watching what moves your hips where, and once he finds a specific spot, he ignores it.
Adding another finger, he pulls them apart inside to stretch you out. Your breaths below him quicken as he increases speed, your body trying to refill everything he is taking out of you. He, on the other hand, is greatly enjoying himself; so much so that he adjusts his position lower down your body, giving his supporting elbow and hand enough freedom to tug your tank and bra down the side closest to him. It’s bundled under your breast now, practically asking him to suck on it. He was going to anyway.
He kneads first, then attaches his plush lips to the nub there. All while toying with you below.
It’s not long before it’s too much, the sight itself and what it’s doing to the little spot below your stomach. He adds one more finger when sensing that you’re close. Soft moans and whimpers cover the sounds he makes beneath you.
With a pop and one last stretch of his fingers, he pulls out before you can release, leaving you angry and empty.
“Oh my god, you cannot be fucking serio-“ He forces the fingers coated in your own slick past your lips and down your throat. The other hand pushes his waistband down to show his black boxer briefs as he somehow kicks the sweats off.
While you were mad at him, you didn’t fight it, and it didn’t take him long at all to notice that you don’t have a gag reflex. He pulls them out shiny and clean sometime later.
“I should kill you,” you assert breathlessly. It held no weight considering you aren’t even looking at him, but at the ceiling.
“I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He ignores. His large arms scoop under you, having you being carried bridal style momentarily, then the bed creaks when your back hits and you bounce from the impact. This time, your head hits fluffy pillows bound with silk coverings. The man was obsessed with his hair.
You take this time to pull the rest of your shirt off and throw it away where you assume your pants are. He leaves to open a drawer in his bedside table before finishing with a packet in his hand. “I can talk dirty to you.”
“Please, make more threats on my life baby.” The sheets cave as he crawls back over, kissing your abdomen with the plastic still in hand. To be fair, you could say anything to him right now and it wouldn’t make him any less hard. You take both your breasts in your hands.
“You can fuck me without it, I’m on birth control,” you coo.
His movements pause instantly. His shoulders tense, like he stops breathing, and a rush of embarrassment waves over you. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable? He could just forget you said it.
Checking on him, you look down, only to find a head of black and white hair looking back at you instead of him.
“Are you sober?” It comes out as a complete switch in tone. A demand to tell him accompanied by the multiplied grip on your waist.
“Yes.”
Bokuto likes to believe he’s a good man. A good man with a lot of self-restraint, especially compared to his friends. And to anyone else, his immediate thought is no, but who is he to deny something like that from you? From you? Truth be told, the thought of ruining you bare is enough for him to accept the offer.
“Flip over, ass up.” He tosses the plastic to land perfectly on his nightstand. His seriousness prompts you to move faster than usual, obeying him despite how bad you want to piss him off to hear more. A few more soft creaks in the background help you conclude he’s shuffling around, but then it goes quiet.
“Bokuto?”
When you struggle to twist around, it doesn’t matter in the end because he’s slowly pushing himself inside. Your eyes blow wide and close. You mutter, “Holy shit.”
Your face contorts into one of mixed emotions; his expression showcases pain behind you. It’s like you can feel your walls enclose his tip, spread open to traverse up the head and stay there.
“It shouldn’t hurt, but if it does, tell me,” he advises. You nod in response.
He leans his hips further. Inhaling deep breaths, you feel comfort the second he curls his body over yours and waits in the crook of your neck. It’s silence aside from the bass reverberating lowly in his living room. “Give me an update.”
“You’re big,” is all you plan to say. Bokuto is not the most humble person you know and he would take something like that to the grave.
“You’re halfway.”
Fucking halfway? There’s no way.
He groans as he grinds all the way in until he’s balls deep, caressing the skin on your back as if it accounts for his actions. It didn’t hurt just like he’d said, but it felt like there was something foreign stuffing you up like a goddamn turkey. He might have been a little impatient, he admits.
“Your word is red.” There was sweat dripping down your face and it couldn’t have been flattering. “Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
Retracting to palm the dimples of your back, his cock slides against your walls until just the tip is peeking in, then he curls his hips forward back into your heat. You wish you could say it felt amazing, but it was actually quite uncomfortable.
It just felt like exactly what he was doing—rubbing along the rubber of your walls.
On his side, he was about to faint. You were gripping him so hard it was suffocating. It felt so good since he was fully bare, feeling every contraction and pulse of your pussy, but there was nothing he could do to ease you up other than keep going.
An idea popped into his head at the thought, sending his hand down to your jaw, twisting it enough to him where he could bend and lock your lips. The sultry sigh that leaves your mouth travels through his.
He continues the slow thrusts as your lips move with eachother. The angle of your neck proved burdensome, but you would do anything to have him as close as possible so you have no choice but to smell that cologne you like so much.
Your soft sounds increased in volume and became more frequent like he foresaw; therefore, he knew the moans were less from his tongue down your throat and more from his unstopping movements before you did. He pulls away and you follow him, but he goes too far.
He rises again, rubbing his hands in a circular motion around the curve of your ass. He brings one down harshly and grips the fat like he’s feeling you up.
“Harder,” you mumble. He barely hears it, but when he’s sure he did, he follows orders. You don’t even flinch, but now there’s a reddening print of his large hand as evidence to what you asked of him.
Amused, he switches his attention to the bounce of your ass when it hits his body. The momentum now carries you smoothly.
“How’s it feel?” He calls. From below, your cheek is pressed comfortably to the silk.
“Feels good.”
That’s all he was waiting on. Just good. It didn’t hurt and you weren’t uncomfortable, it was just good. As long as it felt okay for you, he’s sure he can make it better later.
Later is now.
He lifts one leg to a lunge and corrects his hand positioning snugly to your hips, then tugs you down forcefully. So hard it feels like a jolt shoots from your core. If the headboard wasn’t bolted to the damn wall, it would’ve broken.
Back and forth, he fucks you onto himself. A long, seductive whine is muffled by the pillow at your lips, turning uneven with every snap of his hips. Now that the uneasiness was gone, he can do what has been the star thought of the day: the slapping of skin, the creak of the bed, and the grunts from the man causing it all are music to his ears, and soon, the feeling under your tummy runs back up.
“Bokuto.”
He laughs deeply at this. The pillow sinks when you dig your face as far as possible into your arms as your cheeks flush over, able to somehow still find a way to be embarrassed, but he notices and goes to explain himself. “You’re the only person I know that won’t call me Kōtarō even if I’m buried to the hilt inside of you.”
What you were going to tell him is how the feeling is coming barreling back, the same feeling he previously revoked from you last second. The man slips past your entrance with ease now, no friction to stop him, leaving his fat tip to spread the clear essence dripping down your folds, his shaft, and now coating your thighs in a sheen of gloss. Your ass slams against his front continuously, reddening with every ricochet.
The heat of your connecting bodies already fills the room to make the atmosphere stuffy but neither of you seem to mind. His fingers dig into your skin, creating little indents. You whimper, “Kōtarō?”
“Hm?” You can’t see him, but you can imagine the little held tilt he does. You wish you could think about it longer. The image disappears as fast as it came, not standing a chance to your nerves on edge from of his length plowing through you.
“I’m close- don’t stop. Please.”
“It wasn’t part of the plan, baby.”
To him it probably wasn’t even that bad. He was moving his hips at high energy, just as he does everyday— but for someone who’s not a professional athlete, it was pretty discouraging to think about his stamina versus yours.
There’s a tug on your arm, silently informing you he’s going to pull it. He does, bringing the other one along too, and gathers both your wrists in one hand to raise your chest with the support of his open palm across your stomach.
Your back is to his front and your impressive arch can’t be covered by the hair trickling off your shoulders. He shifts his weight back to stabilize you both, then positions you so you won’t fall over: a hand cupping your breast while the other bases your jaw up. The coolness of his breath nears once he begins to nip at your ear. Just as you requested, he never stopped.
“You’re so beautiful,” he admires.
In an attempt to push back the little bubble in your heart, you focus the attention on the little bubble in your tummy. You don’t respond but whimper in acknowledgement.
Unfortunately for you, the man can snuff out anything he doesn’t feel is right. You ask him how; he calls it a hunch.
“I mean it.” His lips attach to your neck once more, sucking and kissing until there’s another spot to match the one given earlier. The music in the house is faint now, though it could be clouded by the euphoria of the new angle considering you can’t seem to hear anything else but him.
With that he punctuates each thrust like he has something to prove. To prove he does truly believe it— and if the info wouldn’t go through your brain, then maybe it would go somewhere else. He admires the effort to force your ass down and meet him halfway after you hang your head loosely off his big shoulder.
“Kōtarō,” you cry out his name, and it is by far the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. It even puts when you told him he could “fuck you without it” to shame.
“I’m here, relax.” He reassures, and it truly felt like he was. You two were too close to be called two separate beings, and with only a slight turn, you’d be staring directly into his eyes. You claw your fingers around his wrist at your neck, hoping, praying to God that he wouldn’t whimsically disappear the second you’re done with this whole thing.
If the recoil from how precise his thrusts were didn’t throw you around he would be a second away from kissing your forehead. Finally, your eyebrows synch in the middle and your lips form a pout.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck!”
It was silent for the moment of your release for the same reason. Because it felt like you were fucking floating. Your heavy breaths were short, and it took all the stamina he had left in the day not to paint your insides white. In fact, a line of faded white heterogeneously mixed with clear dripped freely to his balls, but it was yours. Every time you gasp for air, your cavern stretches and retracts around his tip.
Huffing with fatigue, you regain the ability to think. He steals your breath the second you regain it. It feels so good to kiss him again, to have him close, but he carefully lifts your head, pulls out, and lies you down. On your back.
He takes this time to sulk in your attention and allow your high to dissolve. Plus, multitasking is great, though he loves feeling your hands on him singularly.
“Think you can go another?” He grins. You think about your answer. Not for long, because whether you could or not, you wanted it to happen even if it meant fighting to keep your eyes open.
“Yeah. Will it be as good as the first?”
“Of course. If not, money back guaranteed.” A gust of air blows from his small laugh, and it adds to the desire to kiss him. “Let me see you slip it in yourself.”
Instead of answering, you reach down between the two of you, delicately wrap your fingers around his head that is now wet and throbbing an angry-red, lift it up to your clit where you swirl it around for extra measure, then position it just right to shuffle down on it yourself. Everything was swollen and sticky.
You look up to his eyes during the satisfied sigh that leaves both of you, the fullness returning. It felt like a part of you was missing the second he pulled out.
“Good girl,” he praises, pressing a short-lived kiss to your lips. He had spent the little time ensuring your ankles dangled over his shoulders, beside his ears, leaving your knees pressed to your breasts, imprisoned by his large frame. He’s far from it if you know him in person, but even just his stature makes you feel dominated. Almost comedically, everything to this point has been completely in your control and you knew it.
He was slower with you the second time, rebuilding the heat in your stomach strategically. Every thrust was ten times longer than the next until he completely slowed down to a speed he found fit.
Unfortunately for him, it didn’t take long to build at all, especially with the squelching noise from each time he enters you, opens you up, closes when he pulls back, and leaves your insides to match the outline of his cock. He was propped on his elbows, but still close enough for your arms to span the entirety of his back. His skin had tanned the slightest bit with the summer so the scratch marks you leave may be a slightly darker red than usual.
“Fuck, you feel incredible. There’s no way I can prepare myself each time.”
“So good,” you moan half-mindedly. If you weren’t so satiated, but in the right state of mind, you definitely still would have said it. It’s directly in his ear to genuinely test his patience, and giving him the primal urge to mark your neck until the entire thing turns purple. He knows it’s a stretch in his head yet it’s still only barely enough to convince him not to do it.
“Yeah? You like to take it slow?”
You nod but clarify, “Both.”
Taking the hint clear as day, he increases speed by getting off his elbows and holding under your knees, effectively switching the weight to his biceps to keep balance. Consequently, your lower back rises from the covers even more as you tilt backward. Thank god for your flexibility.
The back of your thighs redden and start to itch from purely how hard he was coming down on you, slamming you into the bed relentlessly. His vision is narrowed by the position of your legs in front of his face, but with them so close together, you could feel every part of him— every vein, drop, and movement into your heat.
“Bo!”
Once you realize it wasn’t you calling his name, but someone else who was rapping at the door on the other side, adrenaline shoots through you, tensing your body, successfully closing up your entrance and emitting a throaty groan from the man currently on top of you. “Man, you in there?”
He notices how uncomfortable you become just by your body language. Dropping your legs to the side of his hips, he regains access to your face so he may relieve your nerves with a comfort forehead rub. There was sweat gathered at your hairline, no doubt. His brows dip down at the thought of anyone ruining the moment when he turns to look at the door.
“Bokuto,” you whisper aggressively, an angry crease forming between your own brows. He snaps his head back to you, softening his gaze.
“Kōtarō,” he rectifies.
This only widens your eyes more. He cannot be serious. “That’s not important right no-”
His hand comes up to cover your mouth, only avoiding your nostrils. You even consider licking him but you rule it out as the childish option.
“It’s Kuroo,” he declares from outside the room, “I sent someone in here earlier. Is she good?” Kōtarō’s head twists back to the door.
“You sent someone in here?” Bokuto replies loudly, not missing a beat. Instead of dismissing him, he asks a question back. Classic Bokuto.
“Yeah, did she not come in?”
“No.” You wait impatiently and silently, still flustered by the whole thing. Bokuto seemed cool as a cucumber; the glare he possessed dissolved quickly. “Who was it?”
“Uhh, I’m not completely sure. I don’t know her name.”
You two had spent an entire game together, drinking and bonding, and he still didn’t know your name. What else could you expect though?
At least he came to check up on you, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.
On another note, Bokuto seems to be prolonging the conversation for his own amusement. If only he would look back at you to see the scowl in your eyes.
“Oh well. I didn’t see anyone.”
His attention reverts to your face and he temporarily removes his hand, but when you begin speaking again, he covers it back up and draws his body in close. Closer than he already was.
“You okay? You’ve been in there forever,” Kuroo adds. Why won’t he just leave?
“Yeah, just had to take a call. Did you want something?”
Bokuto ends his sentence with the trail of his thumb over your forehead. You feel his cock pulse inside of you, then to your surprise, begin to push even deeper. He pulls out, and repeats the action.
The faint hum and gust of air he feels on his finger from your nostril signifies your pleasure. If Kuroo knew he was fueling Bokuto’s risky fantasies, he would pester him all day about it. It felt too good to be mad at him.
“I’ve been over all this time and don’t know where your lighters are,” Kuroo goes on, “I checked the kitchen drawer next to the sink.”
Truthfully, the player above you couldn’t care less about whatever the fuck he was talking about. The idea of filling you up just right as you desperately try not to make a sound that will notify the man on the other side of this very door where you actually are is too good to pass up. Underneath one of your teammates— as a reminder.
“No weed,” he tells his friend, “we randomly get tested throughout the season.”
While Kuroo tries to prove that’s not what it’s for, all of Bo’s focus is on you just as it had been due to your wriggling beneath him. These thrusts were back to slow but meaningful, and too deep to be labeled natural. He whispers profanities to you whenever he doesn’t have to answer his best friend, and this time, he warns, “You’re gonna get us caught, beautiful.” Little did you know, it was all up to his master plan.
“Check the bottom left drawer of guest bathroom.”
He readjusts his positioning, attempting to pinpoint the spot he discovered sometime earlier. A few quiet mattress creaks and experimental thrusts later, his palm is still covering your lips in an attempt to reduce any sound about to give you away in case he hadn’t left, his other hand is brushing hair away from your face gently, and his hips are curling into an area that has an unbelievable amount of control over your legs. They shudder when he repeatedly hits it spot on.
A loud whine and the occasional groan he couldn’t conceal leaves your mouth, just barely going undetected. Or so you think. Your waist wiggles as your hands roam around his chest frantically. He was so smooth with it, like he had no plan of stopping anytime soon and he was programmed to continuously grind in your prostate. It was like it was just you two in a competition to see who would give in first.
Not even an inch apart, watching your soul and gauging your reactions through your orbs, his eyes all pretty and gold scan yours. Similarly enough, the resemblance to an owl is definitely there.
There was a tremble in your legs at the filling pool in your stomach. He grabs your moving hand by the wrist and flattens it over your lower tummy, then rests his on yours, applying pressure. On top of emphasizing the heat, you can barely feel the head of his cock rough in and out.
“You think I don’t know exactly what turns you on? What gets you wet like this?” He places a chaste kiss on the side of your jaw. He was staring so intently it felt like an unforgivable crime to look away.
Intending to say something along the lines of “You do, Kōtarō,” it fails miserably, coming out a line of muffled speech, but he hears you all the same. Reading your droopy eyelids like a book, he recognizes your inability to pick between the top half of his face and lips as you were right on the edge. Tears almost begin to swell.
“Need to see you cum on my dick the right way.”
He removes his hand from your mouth, immediately having you spill everything that was bottled up tenfold in a mix of deep breaths. So much so, you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.
“Talk to me, baby.”
You do just that, and if you were in the position to crack jokes, you’d say your dripping pussy was doing it too.
“Kōtarō I’m- oh fuck-please please please.”
The scene is wet, sticky, and everywhere in the place where you’re connected and everywhere in the place that you’re not. You look every bit of exhausted and reflecting in a sheen of sweat.
“Where do you want me?” He grunts.
“I-inside. Cum inside.” Your ankles link and dig into the descent of his back, sending him over the edge just as it did during the game. He doesn’t remove himself, keeping his movements so perfect it feels robotic; however, the thumb of the hand pressing into you circles where you need it to most. Depleting the stamina of a professional athlete isn’t easy and the only thing ensuring his continuation is the drive to make you feel better than he does.
“I’m back. I can take one of the candles, right?” Kuroo’s voice bounces off the room walls. Bokuto knows you’re at the summit, so to prevent your uncomfortable response at the pure thought of shouting his name with an audience (that he doesn’t mind at all), he relieves you and takes into your mouth as fast as possible.
His tongue mixes with yours before you know what’s going on, and it allows for the best orgasm of your life. It maybe made you a bit light headed, and might have taken away oxygen, but you’ll take it any day. The force of how tight you clenched down on him almost pushed him out. He resists, an animalistic groan vibrating about his throat as he leaks the contents of his balls into you.
Bokuto absorbed anything you would have cried that Kuroo could hear. He thought about allowing you to scream as you please, heightening his ego, but he then considered how many laps he’d have to run next practice; your clit was red and puffy under his finger, begging for relief, and the opportunity will come another time. Adding to the irritated scratches along his back, your free hand drags down the skin.
“Shit,” he curses. He stills inside, throbbing as spurts of silky white cum rest idly, clogged by his tip, and when he removes the flat hand to match the one at your hip, your arms meet around his neck tenderly and your fingers dig through his hair. Soft sounds and whimpers as you fall from your high accelerates his. Yours ended a little faster with a larger impact since it was your second, but it was his first. He couldn’t even find the will to pull out.
A little more present, you push his head to kiss you. Kuroo’s somewhere floating in the back of his mind. Maybe.
Naturally, you shiver at his movement.
He kisses you with need, throwing your hair aside and holding your face.
“Are you okay?” He asks, despite still barely being off his climax. He was still breathing heavily and twitching every now and then.
“Better than ever.” You smile wearily. “Are you?”
He nods happily.
At some point, you watched him pull away together. Low sounds from the both of you occupy the air as his shaft comes out sleek, and when his tip finally reveals itself, a line of cum slips after, finally being released and dribbling down your hole. He googles at the sight. It’s almost enough to make him completely hard again.
With a much needed bath, a change of clothes, and painkillers from the kitchen, most of everyone had already left but his closest friends. He ushers them out since the ones that were drunk had rides.
He places the water on his nightstand, slipping in bed beside your completely relaxed body, rubbing up right against you. His presence alone makes you turn around to his face. He kisses your forehead and holds you close when you hook a leg around him, snuggling your head near his neck.
“Does this mean I get a cool jersey?” His voice is alone and serious in the night air.
You don’t even respond, just unhook your leg and turn over. He giggles when your shoulders rise from a deep sigh.
Synopsis. Your milkshakes aren’t bringing all the boys bulls to the yard? You’ve never been properly fúcked through your heats? Don’t worry, there’s a new bull hybrid on the farm - Toji Fushiguro. And he promises to milk you dry.
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!cow hybrid!reader, bull hybrid!Toji, farm AU, hybrids AU, farmer!Shiu cameo, RÚTS, feraI Toji, he’s kept away, face-sítting, oraI (fem rec.), spítting, fíngering, manhandIing, overstím, he’s BIG, making it fit, p sIapping, p talking, mean Toji, tummy buIges, Toji with níppIe píercings, heat-inducing, first times (for you), vírginíty Ioss, ROUGH s, tail-pulling, running from it, dúmbifícation, BRÉEDING, matíng presses, Iactation, drinking it, creampíes, cúmpIay, implied marathon, slight exhíbitionísm, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.8k
A/N. ALRIGHT ALRIIIIIIIGHT- inspired by this tiktok by the gorgeous @/v4mpyrf4e (an absolute sweetheart, tysm for letting me write this) and to all the babygirls who summoned me there <33
“Another bull hybrid?” Shiu growls into his phone, listening to the conversation crackling from the other end of the line. “A Japanese Shorthorn at that?”
Those things were huge…
With a hand on his hip, he casts a thoughtful look out into the horizon. The beaming, bustling, sun-baked farm; amongst the tufts of grass, Shiu’s hybrids grazed, occasionally flicking their ears in the direction of the conversation. All but one of them.
In the shade of the overlarge crimson barn, he could spot you dozing away in the shade—one of his proudest purebred cows.
“No- no, I hear you.” He listens to farmer Kusakabe’s begging, “It’s not a space issue, it’s just…” Shiu hesitates, throwing yet another glance your way. Still dazed. Still exhausted. “It’s just that one of my cow hybrids- yes, her- fine, my favorite, just finished her heat. And I was worried that introducing a new bull would…”
A few more pleas.
Until, ultimately, the farmer sighs.
“Fine…send this Toji over then.”
“Oh, thank fuck! You have no idea how much I appreciate it, man.” Kusakabe bellows in celebration, and Shiu’s forced to lean his head away from the speaker if ever he valued his ear drums.
Atsuya Kusakabe was a farmer specializing in hybrids just like Shiu was, though his friend had taken it a step further and raised only bulls on his farm. Though he really did reconsider this friendship when the other was trying to pawn off one of his biggest bulls on him for a few days.
In his bemused wonderment at his friend, Shiu almost doesn’t register the soft nudge of something against his open palm. Something warm, something silky. He snaps his head down- and a sudden smile spreads across his face as he realizes just who it was.
You’d wandered off from your cosy lil’ corner, and cuddled up to him leisurely.
“Hey there, girlie.” Shiu whispers, reaching his fingers up to scratch behind your ecstatic ears. You weren’t quite the social hybrid, even amongst your own kind. Always frolicking by yourself when let out to graze, always straying behind the group after milking.
Shiu couldn’t even tease enough out of you (not even half a bucket!) when compared to the rest of the cows here. But the thing is, you seemed perfectly content with your few close attachments on the farm, your few friends, your rejection of many bulls (and trust that the attempts to woo were many). And whether that was because you’d grown too attached to him, whether that was just the way you were - he didn’t exactly mind.
He knew he shouldn’t have favorites, and yet…here you were.
“Feeling all better?” He’s asking, and you’re nodding languidly. Still tired, then. This season’s heat had been as powerful as ever - out of all his hybrids, it was safe to say that you had one of the strongest.
The neediest.
The sultriest.
Which wouldn’t even have been notable if you’d just let another bull hybrid mount you through them to ease the urges, perhaps even result in a cute lil’ calf for his farm- but that was exactly the problem.
You didn’t.
Shiu couldn’t even count on two hands how many times he’d tried to pair you off with one of his bulls - and each time had ended in a disaster. Either you’d barricaded yourself in another part of your barn room, or you’d claw your way outside altogether. Each and every time, Shiu would check on you in the middle of your heats to find that you were in the throes of your desires, fiddling with nothing but the toys he’d gifted you, and his sullen bulls would be pouting n’ pushed off to one side. Useless, really.
No matter how needy you were, you just wouldn’t take to them. And it wasn’t that they were particularly weak, or unattractive - there was Ino who you’d just ended up chatting through your heat with, Kashimo and Ijichi who you’d both kicked out, Takaba who you didn’t even look at, Naoya who you…
Yeah, he didn’t want to think about the beaten-up state you’d left Naoya in. It made him laugh.
He wondered who the problem was - those bulls that couldn’t woo you properly, or you who couldn’t be wooed.
He blamed the bulls.
And he’s patting the top of your head tenderly, carefully avoiding the slight protrusions of your horns that were oh-so-sensitive. Mutterly absent-mindedly, “It’s alright, it’s alright. Trust that we’ll find you a proper mate next year, girlie.”
You can only nod unsurely, gesturing at his phone. “Someone’s talking, Shiu.”
“Huh? Oh someone’s-” Oh, right, he was in the middle of his call still. He’d almost forgotten. Shiu tunes into the latest of Kusakabe’s spiel, and it didn’t seem like he’d missed out on anything too important—
“-had no idea what I was going to do for the few days I’d be in Tokyo for the Hybrid Farms Convention, I’ll pick him up right on my way back from there.”
“Mhm, sounds good.” He rattles off.
“You can keep him anywhere you like, to be honest. He doesn’t have any specific requirements, he’s just as sturdy as he is massive- hah! Though, I do give Toji a separate room of his own from the others…just in case.”
“Mhmmm.”
“My apprentices will be taking care of it while he’s gone, all ready for that big boy to be back.”
“Mhmmm.” Shiu lightly furrows his brows—if he has apprentices, and he has other bulls he’s leaving behind, then why did he need to leave Toji in particular with Shiu again? Oh, whatever…
“And you remember what I said earlier, right?”
Well, he wasn’t really listening but…“Mhm-”
“You have to keep an eye on Toji while he’s in rut.”
“Mh-” Shiu’s eyes bug out of his scalp, his knees grow a little weak, and he damn near drops his phone- oh, too late. He’s already dropped his phone down into the green grass below, startling you in the process. “While he’s in what?”
.
.
.
Name: Toji Fushiguro
Age: 30’s (approx.)
Hybrid type: Bos taurus
Height: 6’2+
Weight class: 1600kg - 1800kg.
Other notes: Subject has a sleek black coat, high intelligence, and a somewhat temperamental demeanour. He will insult you if it comes to infringing upon his freedom. Does not care for medical exams. Continuous horn growth that shows evidence of strong fighting capabilities, fatal power, and weapon-like appendages. It should be noted that the subject is of a larger size even amongst Bos taurus (in particular, the Nambu shorthorn bulls) and needs larger spaces of leisure than most. Take care to handle, needs multiple handlers.
Shiu’s face only grows pale as he reads down the medical sheet, quickly flicking his eyes to the very end so that he might be able to spare himself some of the torture.
-particularly powerful ruts with the urge to breed. According to the handler, it is noted that the subject has not spent a rut in the presence of a mate.
Even paler.
To emphasize, he is unmated.
And paler.
And currently nearing his rut.
For the second time in the past 24 hours (which isn’t many times, but it’s strange that it’s happened twice) Shiu’s fingers drop whatever he was holding in shock. Diligently, you’re right beside the farmer to pick up the piece of paper and hand it to him - giggling when he drops it for a third time.
Though, it was by sheer miracle that he doesn’t just faint right then and there.
Oh—he catches a glimpse of Kusakabe’s large white cattle trailer backing up into his hybrid pen and can feel himself teetering already. Thankfully, you were right there to nudge your head against his frame in support, slightly worried for the human man.
Because not only was Toji said to be nearing his merciless rut, but according to the medical sheet that his friend (‘friend’ hah!) had handed to him, he was unmated?
Makes sense, Kusakabe’s farm specialized in bulls.
But perhaps if Toji had a mate then the cow hybrids of this farm would be safe- he casts a sidelong look your way. Perhaps you - with your still-sweetened pheromones, and your even sweeter demeanour - would be safe.
“N-nothing-” The farmer places a hand on your head and pats, faintly. “Nothing at all, don’t you worry about a thing, girlie.”
Ah, well…Shiu thinks to himself, watching as the truck finally finishes reversing, and Kusakabe (that bastard!) slides out of the driver’s seat to open up the towering steel door in the back. It looked so massive compared to the admittedly above-average man, and that only made Shiu’s tension increase twofold at what may be lurking behind those metal gates.
Ones that seem to burst open with a roaring screeeech—
“Oh, shit.” His mouth was desert-dry, his grip unyielding on you who’d been angling your head to get a better look. “Oh, shit.”
Because Toji Fushiguro was massive.
Dominating.
So many thousands of kilograms of a hybrid that sauntered smugly out of the trailer, as if he owned it. As if he owned this entire farm and everyone in it.
The rest of the hybrids were drawn in by the commotion, turning their curious eyes towards the refined horns that gleamed as they entered the light. Towards the thundering ground. The powerful flank. The polished coat. The single golden ring ‘round his nostrils.
And you had to admit that you didn’t expect him to be so…handsome.
All ruggedly scarred lips from his tussles, and a face that seemed to be carved by the heavens above. You let your widened peripherals glide down the smooth skin of his front; all broad shoulders, prominent pecs, the cutest golden hoops pierced through his pink nipples, and abs for days. He shakes his shaggy black bangs out of his gaze.
Those smug verdant eyes that take one look your way - the way that Shiu had his possessive hold on you - and narrow.
Kusakabe startles as his prized bull hybrid suddenly stops in his tracks, his grip on his leash slightly faltering. And it seems that everyone within the pen holds their breath as a low huff of gruff displeasure leaves Toji, scorching hot fury reaching where you were.
Jaw clenching.
Eyes flashing.
He lowers his horned head as if he was about to-
“Ah ah-” Kusakabe’s the one to break through the charged tension on the farm with his command. He tugs on Toji’s firm leash, though, as a farmer, Shiu thinks he could see the slight waver in his movements.
Toji’s rumbling in refusal, tugging against the restraints. And Kusakabe’s nearly thrown off his feet- before he’s holding onto the side of the truck for balance, pulling the bull hybrid away from where his sights were set. “Easy, boy, easy.” He’s looking at you two with an apologetic smile, “Sorry, he’s just a bit excited with the ru-”
“Ahem ahem ahem-” Shiu suddenly coughs, cutting off the other man. “Better get him settled inside his enclosure, Kusakabe. Don’t want any more trouble now…”
“Ah- right, right.”
And with a slight swat at Toji’s flank, he’s fighting against the hybrid to guide him towards that lil’ enclosure made specifically for him. Shiu had taken care to section it off from the rest of the pen where the cows were, with hardy wooden tree trunks that composed the fences. And not one, but two padlocks that Kusakabe seems relieved to lock once he’s managed to get him inside.
Hands slightly shaking where Toji breathes hotly down his neck, black tail flicking in irritation.
“Calm down, calm down.” The farmer wasn’t sure whether he was telling it to Toji or himself- finally finishing off with the locks and looking up at him. “Now- you be a good boy, alright. Don’t give Shiu any trouble, don’t fight too hard with the other bulls- no use in telling you not to fight, I know you won’t listen to that anyway, and no matter what-”
Toji raises an unimpressed brow as Kusakabe raises a directing finger.
“-no going overboard with your rut.”
“And what exactly does ‘overboard’ mean?” Shiu wearily nears the special pen, arms carefully lifted off of you and wrapped around his own body in comfort.
Kusakabe beams, “No idea! We’ve never had him near cows before!”
Shiu felt like hitting him.
“Well, she just got off her heat-” At the way that Toji’s nostrils flare, his grin widens, Shiu almost regrets saying that with a gesture towards you. Oh? He blocks the bull’s greedy line of sight towards you, and grumbles. “-so no funny business.”
Toji scoffs.
“Use your words, Toji.” Kusakabe pleads, “No need to be like that.”
And he takes a second to pause. To consider. To seemingly mull over his words before- “Eat my ass-”
“Toji-”
“That’s it-” Shiu spits, not waiting for either man nor hybrid to finish before he’s stomping off to where you were watching the commotion from (as was the rest of the farm, but it seems like this hulking intruder had eyes only for you).
And with his hand placed gently where your flower-patterned collar was, Shiu leads you away from the herd. Away from the pen. Away from Toji, towards the barn where your room was. “That’s it- for the time that that bull is here, he won’t be seeing a single glimpse of you, that’s for sure.”
“But why?” You whine, your head tugging backwards. And Shiu could almost balk at the way that you - you - were half-heartedly resisting his grip, trying to look back at Toji. “Why can’t I-”
“Because.”
And that was that, you were isolated inside the barn, and Toji was padlocked away in his pen. Far, far away from you for the time that he’d be staying there.
And as Kusakabe waves his exit from his farm, promising to be back in a few days, Shiu makes sure to get a good punch in (all in good friendship, of course). Because Shiu Kong was calm. Shiu Kong was composed. Shiu Kong could survive just a few days with an in-rut bull hybrid infiltrating his farm.
“And how long until you’re back again?”
“Three- ouch, three days. You have a good right hook, man.”
After all, it was exactly that - just a few days.
What’s the worst that could happen?
.
.
.
The first day.
Toji could see you.
Through the slightest crack in those barn doors, just the tips of your ears peaking out as you glimpse at him. It turns out that just Shiu’s command couldn’t hold you, and you staggered your way up to the barn doors whenever that damned farmer of yours wasn’t around to see. Watching. Waiting.
Taking in the sight of him.
And it wasn’t that Toji wasn’t used to stares - he was a prized bull hybrid, larger than most. So it was quite the given that he’d gather stares from competition, from unmated cows, hell, even from farmers who would like their chance at raising human-hybrid offspring. And so it wasn’t exactly new…
But just this way you were looking at him…it made him shiver.
Those pretty doe-eyes held up a curious, somewhat fearful, admiration. A slight arousal dampening between your legs that his honed senses could smell from even here—
Toji swears something in him had snapped the very split-second that he’d arrived here.
That he’d first locked eyes with you.
That he’d first sniffed at the remaining sweetness of your heat. Your sex.
Every sense in him right now (even the rational ones) were screaming at him to break out of this enclosure and waltz right up to you, break through those barn doors if he had to. He wanted to smell your pheromones. To hold you. To stuff his hot, throbbing cock between your legs and watch as you struggle to take it all.
He wanted to breed you.
And - multiple times - Toji found himself barging against the locked doors of his pen. Whispering your sweet, sweet name underneath his breath (learned from some of the other hybrids that watched him), ramming his horns against the wooden walls.
He was in rut.
Badly.
Badly, badly, badly.
The sheer intensity of it was more than anything else he’d ever felt- fuck, not even his first rut had felt this strong. It wasn’t that he was unmated. It wasn’t that he was in an unfamiliar place. It was just you, you, you.
Taking the wind out of his lungs. Making his length ache heavily between his strong legs. Wafting his intoxicating scent - something spicily sweet, with a peculiar tang in it that made you drunk on it like liquor, like mulled wine - all the way to where you were watching from the barn doors.
You’re sagging heavily against its wooden frame to take it in, sighing at the murky pheromones that seemed to cloud the entire farm-
“Oi, girlie!”
And through it all, that damned Shiu had made sure to cockblock him.
Even now, here came his annoying, grating tone. He’d kept a close eye on Toji ever since Kusakabe had left in his truck, rarely straying too far from the hybrid pen. He was always butting in, always breaking the stare-down between you two.
With one hand on his hip, the farmer watches as you startle at his voice. Suddenly hurrying to stumble back inside the barn where you came from.
And it would’ve almost been cute had it not been a result of you breaking one of his direct rules: do not interact with the bull in rut. But the thing is, you’d never seen a bull like him—and he was in rut? Oh…
Shiu barks out, “Where’d you think you were going, huh? Yeah- that’s right, inside.” And with you gone, Shiu would glare up at Toji. Toji wasn’t shy to glare right back.
“Problem?” He smiles.
“Yeah-” The farmer had crinkled his nose- and pointed at the way that Toji had been impatiently pushing against the enclosing walls, trying to break out, trying to get to you. He spits out distastefully, “-that. Don’t think you’re getting anywhere near her, got it?”
“Not at all.”
That night, Shiu had sent for a few more locks to be delivered from the hardware store downtown (he wasn’t even sure that they did delivery, but he’d coax them into if it meant not taking his eyes off of you). Multiple. He’d fixed them onto the gates of Toji’s pen, “This should keep you out.” Shiu had declared, jangling the metallic additions with one hand. “Not even the finest bulls in the world would be able to break through these. Hah! Take that.”
“Fuck off.”
He’d charged at the other man, but alas, the gates stayed steadfast.
.
.
.
The second day.
Toji had murmured your name like a mantra all night.
All night.
Again and again and again-
“He really doesn’t seem so bad, Shiu.” You’d tried to whine to the farmer, when he’d come back into the barn after fixing a few more locks - the count was reaching upwards of ten by now - on the gates of the bull’s enclosure.
But Shiu had only waved off your pleading noises, “Now, don’t give me that look. I heard the way he was ramming against those gates last night, I heard his bellows.” Needless to say, you had, too…“And I just don’t think it’s safe for you to be out when such a bull is in rut, girlie. Not unless you wanted to be mated- hah!”
Well…
You pushed your quivering thighs together. You’d hate to admit that in the privacy of your room last night, listening to Toji grow so desperate, listening to him say your name like that…you’d actually reached for your heat toys about once or twice.
You’d never felt this way about a bull before- hell, you’d never felt this way about anyone before.
And it was such a strange sensation to be glidin’ up the buzzin’ tip of your vibrator to your clit, massaging that sweet lil’ nub without the carnal pangs of your heat. Just the carnal pangs of…pure need-
“Besides.” Shiu’s cutting through your lecherous memory, and you hope the evidence of your lewd acts don’t show on your face. He gently pats at your head, the way he’s done so many times before. “You don’t need to be mounted by such a big, bad bull. My poor girl.”
“I don’t?” You mutter to yourself.
And Shiu doesn’t seem to catch on, “After all, it’s not like you’re in heat.”
No…you suppose not.
But you can’t help but raise your face into the saturated atmosphere, seemingly so balmy and languid ever since Toji stepped foot onto the farm. And there, you can smell the most addictive scent- fuck, something that just made your core twitch with need.
“Feeling alright, my girl?” Shiu looks on at the way you shiver, and whatever he sees there makes him lead you back to your place within the barn. “Hm, maybe you should get some rest- it’s probably that bull’s pheromones messing you up.”
“M-messing me up?” You’re asking, your entire body feeling set alight. Though, you didn’t feel the slightest bit messed up.
“Mhm- since you’re unmated, just coming off an unsuccessful heat. But it’s alright-” Shiu reassures, starting to shut your door, and there’s a meaningful look in his eyes. “We can try again next year, I have a few other bulls in mind that you might like to mate with. And he won’t be getting anywhere near you until then.”
“He won’t…”
Shiu continues, “Besides, Kusakabe will be picking him up tomorrow, so you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
You don’t say anything, but you know that you aren’t worried. Not even the slightest bit.
In fact…your body wished he’d be here even longer.
But ah- if he was just going to be taken away tomorrow, then what was the use in wanting? As your wooden door slams shut, you’re realizing that you just might never see him again.
And, outside, Toji only rams against the pen fence even harder.
He wanted you.
He wanted you.
He wanted you.
.
.
.
The third (and final) day.
Or is it…
“What?” Shiu barks into his phone receiver, so loud that it startles every hybrid grazing in the vicinity. All of them were out, leaving the barnhouse all barren by this point - though Shiu didn’t doubt that his voice reached even you inside. And the sheer incredulousness in his tone makes even Toji look over, with a smirk that told the farmer that he was quite enjoying witnessing his distress. But Shiu paid no mind to that.
He couldn’t.
Right now, he was much more frazzled by the words that had the utter fuckin’ audacity to sheepishly leave Kusakabe’s mouth on the other end of the line. Almost in a trance, Shiu pinches the bridge of his nose and repeats. “So…you’re telling me…” Each word tremored with the sheer effort that it took to keep the rage out of them, “That you want me…to come…”
“All the way to Tokyo to help me fix up my engine and save me from being stranded? Yes.” Kusakabe’s voice finishes off, “Shiu, my oldest friend, my dearest pal, have I ever told you how much I love y-”
“Atsuya Kusakabe I will kill you.”
Toji snorts out in laughter, and Shiu is suddenly reminded that he’d been in the middle of fixing up just one more lock to the bull’s pen when he’d gotten the call. Gate held ajar for now. Padlocks unlocked as he fixed them on.
Glaring at the hybrid for the interruption, Shiu’s pinching the pen closed as he grumbles. “And you need me - you can’t just go to one of the many, many, many mechanics in Tokyo - because why exactly?”
“Aww, don’t be like that, Shiu!” Kusakabe cries out, “Do you have any idea how expensive Tokyo is? I just bought a cute lil’ pastry before the convention, and it bankrupted me for generations!”
“And you don’t have any other friends that are closer?”
“Man, if I had any other friends, period, do you think I’d be calling you?”
Shiu supposed that was a fair enough statement. “But- but I can’t leave…” He clicks his tongue, “Just get a train then! Leave that pile of junk at some trash site where it belongs-”
“I mean, I could…” And though Kusakabe’s tone was one of curious innocence, he’d long since learned that nothing ever boded well for him when he used it. He waits with bated breath until the other man continues- “-but that just means I’ll have to leave my truck - including my cattle trailer, which I use to transport my cattle - here. And you know what else that means I’ll have to leave?”
Shiu shivers, “Wh-what?”
“Toj-”
“I’ll be there right now.”
Kusakabe cackles, “Take your tiiime~!” And soon enough, the sharp tone of the call being ended reaches Shiu’s ears.
With one last semi-glare thrown in Toji’s direction, the farmer is speed-walking to his own truck - all those tools Kusakabe needed still inside from his last fix-up. More like running. More like sprinting to save his friend.
Not because he wanted to save his friend, of course. But because every second that Kusakabe was stuck in Tokyo, was a second even longer that you were stuck with Toji on this farm.
All alone.
And he couldn’t have rushed out of here more determined.
More hasty.
More careless-
“Well, would ya look at that.” Toji’s scarred lips twitch upwards into a grin. And he’s reaching one of his beefy arms out to lightly - just lightly - nudge at the wooden gate of his enclosure. Watching as it swings wiiiiiiide open—creeeeak! Bearing the rest of the farm to him with welcome arms. “What a sweet little gift f’me.”
All those pesky padlocks and ties, carefully added over the last few days, were useless if some silly lil’ farmer ever forgot to lock them.
Toji takes such delight in taking that first step out of his enclosure, broad pecs heaving as he takes in the candied trail of scent left all over by a certain pretty cow hybrid. You.
He then takes a second step, a third, a fourth—
And he knows exactly where he’s heading to - the barn.
Where you were just settling in for the day, your feverish body settling atop a particularly soft, tangled mass of golden hay. Cuddling in. You’d heard Shiu’s truck take off, though it would be out-of-character for him to leave so suddenly. You weren’t sure what to think, and you were just about to nod off when…
Creak-creak-creeeeeak—!
The barn door opens.
Shiu? Fluttering open your eyes, you’re just about to raise your head and ask him what all the yelling and commotion was, when-
Oh.
Oh.
That wasn’t the farmer at all.
Toji’s large, sculptured figure takes up nearly the entire door frame. And even from here you can see his sultry grin, his agitated hips. You can smell his intense drunken pheromones—“Room for two, sweetcheeks?”
.
.
.
“I’m- hah, sensitive there…” You’re pouting as Toji relentlessly tugs you by your stubby horns towards him. His overlarge hand plastered to the back of your scalp and guided you down between his meaty thighs - not only had he kissed you silly by this point, but the hybrid had you drenched and quivering all over the hay for more.
But first…
Your watery eyes bulge as you take in the sheer length between Toji’s legs - inches upon inches, throb after throb, all looooong and rock-hard with need. His erection stood right up to graze his navel with glittery drops of precum.
Decorated with so many puffy veins down his shaft that your cunt twitched just imagining how he’d feel inside of you.
Each one pulsated as Toji drip-drip-dripped in gooey sap down his cock, all ready to pierce your hot sex. Heavy balls tightening with even more, with the urge to breed. And you’d do well to remember that bull hybrids in particular were known for having absolutely massive cocks-
“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” Toji hums, the point of that nickname proven when he takes a deep, heaving gasp of the pheromone-saturated air.
Before you can answer, one of his hands slither down to grip that heavy cock of his. Right ‘round the fat hilt where he can move his long length to smack! down between your half-parted lips. Using just the globular tip of his cock, he’s smearin’ apart your maw and just glossing over it with his creamy pre. “You’re not thinking of tapping out already, huh? You’re not…scared are you?”
There’s a slight mocking hint in his tone, nevertheless you’re shaking your head fervently.
He snickers, “That’s right. You don’t care what that stupid farmer of yours has to say, hm?” And oh—Toji has to stop himself from simply stuffing every inch inside your mouth already, instead wetting your lips enough so that he can sliiiiide in. “You’re not really such a good lil’ hybrid like he says- huh?”
“No-” You’re hiccuping out, “Not at- mmpf.”
Only for big, bad Toji to rut his cock against your mouth. Shutting you up with his flared tip, you can taste the pure arousal seeping into your mouth.
All warm n’ wet on top of your tastebuds—you’re drooling around his thick tip before you even know it.
“No, because you’re a baaaaad girl, aren’t ya?” He’s tutting, swiping away the splatters of saliva that just kept on leaking from the edges of your mouth- and instead, he’s reeling back to replace it with a jetstream of his own spittle. Straight onto the middle of your tastebuds.
With a second hand tugging open your mouth, Toji takes a nice look at that gluey wad sitting on your tongue- before he’s plunging his rude cock right back in between your lips. “Because you’re- haaaaah, careful, careful, no teeth- because you’re my good girl, aren’t ya?” Staring at you with half-lidded green eyes, “Allllll mine.”
“Mmmpf—” You’re muffling out around his raw girth, Toji was just so big that your maw was constantly open in this lecherous ‘oh’ shape.
Gobbling his veiny inches up even deeper and deeper, you’re only growing wetter at the way that his bawling divot scrapes down the roof of your mouth. Swervin’ left and right, and reaching for that cute lil’ dangly thing at the back of your throat-
“Ever taken a bull’s cock before?”
Choking at the lodgement in your throat, “N-no—”
“Yeah? Thought so. Ever taken anyone before?”
Shaking your head.
“Well then, she’s taking me so- hah, well.” Toji’s crooning out from above you, fucking his hips in sloppy half-thrusts inside your mouth. That rough line of his happy trail ends up scratching the tip of your nose, and you find that his intoxicating scent only grows stronger the closer you get…“Haven’t you had breakfast today, sweetcheeks?”
With tearful eyes, you’re looking up at him in confusion. “Mmm—ngh.”
“Ah ah- flick your tongue at my tip if you wanna say ‘no’—oh, just like that.” And then his mean, scarred lips end up formulating a mocking pout. “Such a cute tongue, can’t believe she’s gone hungry for so long- ngh.”
“I-” Tears stream down both your cheeks, and you’re panting out through each thrust of his achin’ cock. “Fuck, Toji, you’re just so big-”
Other hand pushing on the back of your clammy head, deeper n’ deeper. His superhuman strength was just incredible- “And look, she’s just become so greedy.” As if he wasn’t the one tunneling every spot inside your mouth, spotting it with his pre. “Don’t you know you don’t have to take any more, sweet girl, don’t you- oh—” Toji accurately hits the back of your throat, a direct thud! of his globular cockhead. He grins, watching you salivate around his cock- “-oh, fine, if you insist…”
“You’re- hck!” And the fact of the matter was that he hadn’t even fully bottomed-out yet. Criss-crossing your eyes, you spot that you had even more inches to go- “You’re so ngh-”
“And you want me to bruise the back of your- oh, throat, you say?” Toji’s cutting you off with his mean grunts, smack after smack of his heavy balls.
They graze the front of your chin and make you feel such carnal pangs, your cunt grinding back against your heels. “I didn’t even- oh.” But too late - his geysering divot was already bruising away back there.
Push after push.
Probe after probe.
Until Toji’s shaft had stirred up every single hidden spot inside of you, and he was swelling up even more like he wanted more, more, more—
“Toji-” Your nails claw down the pale expanse of Toji’s thighs, just so plush rippling underneath your touch. “Toji I want-”
“Ohoooo?” His raven brows raise in amusement, a mean grin spreading across his face. “The good girl is making demands now, hm?” As you whimper away, he’s thrashin’ at the back of your throat- again and again. “I guess I can’t just keep listening to her, huh?”
Her? Who…oh.
He was talking about your thoroughly damp pussy, with the sappiest noises leaving you each time you’re pushing back on your heels. Soaked with desire.
And Toji seems amused by your shocked reaction, “How cute…go on then, sweetcheeks. Go on. Lemme know what that cute lil’ heart of yours desires.”
You’re pulling back from his red, glistenin’ tip with a lecherous pwah! “I-I want…” You’re sobbing, lashes fluttering in a way that makes- oh, you won’t be mad if he told you he was getting even harder now, would you? “-I want to feel you, Toji.”
To feel him?
To feel him?
His hazy peripherals snap down to see the way you were eyeing his long, long length. And then he’s realizing - oh, you wanted to feel him inside, did you?
Inside…fuck.
Your eyes damn near bulge out of your skull at the way that Toji’s rock-hard length only seemed to grow even…bigger at your words. Flaring up until he was red-hot at the tip, all slicked with a glaze of saliva and pre.
Toji smacks his painfully hard shaft down once more at your maw, “What dirty, dirty words- and from such a good girl?” He scoffs.
And just as you’re about to explain yourself, you’re suddenly feeling near whiplash at the way that Toji grabs onto your throat and flips the two of you around. Hoisting. Manhandling. Ending up with his back against the floor, head against the hay, and your naked cunt drivelling right above him.
So wet and pretty.
Toji’s mouth waters at the sight of your damp, glistening hole. And he can’t help but immediately reach one hand over to thumb apart your puffy pussylips, pressin’ apart your folds and spitting straight into your hole.
“Or were they words from her, hm?” Toji’s gruffly snickering, flopping that wide tongue of his out to catch your droplets of slick. “Talking out of that pussy, hah- you’re even dirtier than I thought, sweetcheeks.”
Your thighs ache as they hover, slightly chasing the warmth of his mouth. “M’n-not dirty! I just wanted to feel you…” Casting a longing look behind at his throbbing length-
“As if. And you can have my cock-” You look up hopefully at his answer, how cute—you couldn’t even properly fit his cock inside your mouth, and now you think you could fit him inside your cunt? “-but first I’ve gotta stretch this dirty girl ouuuuut.”
“But, I can take- hngh!”
As if. Before you know it, Toji’s slithering his long, looooong tastebuds inside your cunt with absolutely no warning, no hesitation.
Just the ridged texture of his muscle slithering inside, and you’re quivering at the sheer size of him. And he feels the tightness of your circular innards and grins- “Woah…” Just a single taste of you, and his pheromones are blasting out in pure need. “Don’t you know that you hafta stretch ‘er out first, hm? What- never done this before?”
Gingerly, you shake your head ‘no’.
“Oh- reeeeeally.” Just pryin’ aside your folds, you were so fucking wet that that honeyed slick splashes down onto his face like a puddle. Toji rolls his eyes, “I would’ve never thought.”
You huff n’ puff atop him, “Don’t- don’t tease, Toji-”
“Why, m’not teasing..” He’s spitting on your cunt yet again, letting the dewy excess trickle back down into his throat. “I already know that this pretty pussy hasn’t been satisfied like she deserves. I can fucking taste it-” Tunneling back in again. “Can hear it.” The most lecherous slurps echoing in your ears as he does, the bull’s ears flick your way to listen to it. “She wants only me- heh, wants me to be her first, doesn’t she?”
Slurp-slurp-sluuuuurping as he’s rovering his tongue, somehow contracting it and extracting it in a way that massages your velvety walls.
Again and again.
“All you hafta do is sit there- all pretty, and take it.” Toji croons, and something dark glints within that gaze of his as he catches your lost expression. “What? That dear farmer of yours never taught you how to take it like a good girl when yer being eaten out.”
“N-no-”
“Then let me teach you—” Oh, you knew he didn’t bode well by the way that he said it. You knew it.
And in a split-second, Toji has one hand plastered at your hip, and the other veering upwards to smack! down on your swollen pussy. “Ah ah-” As you buck, that hold he has on you grows numbing, and you’re sure he’s leaving nail marks there for weeks. “Toji’s first rule- don’t run.”
“I won’t—” You’re swallowing your words back just as soon as you say them, because just then- two of his rovering fingertips intrude their way inside your cunt.
Not even waiting for you to get used to him, not even faltering as you squeeeeeeze.
He’s straightly stuffing two of them inside your snug channel, the bulbous ends of Toji’s digits digging into each of your hidden spots without even trying. Turning them over. Pushing into every nook n’ cranny n’ crevice over and over- “Oh my god-” Bellowing out, your body starts to move back and forth against him - as if it didn’t know whether you wanted to bounce down or run away- “Toji, I’ve never felt something like this- ngh.”
Only for a loud smack! to ring out against your wet pussylips once again, and for Toji to haul you back onto his mouth with his beefy arm. “What’d I say about rule number- hah, one, hm? Silly girl.”
He was stopping you from running from it.
He was looping one of his thick, beefy biceps ‘round your waist, stopping you from moving away from his open-mouthed kisses. “Good.” Pulling you in so close that his golden nose ring presses frigidly against your clit and makes you flinch. “Atta girl- atta, sweet girl.” Toji smirks against your cunt, once you try squirming your hips and find that you can’t move even a single inch. “Now squeeeeeze those pretty legs around, I don’t care if I fucking suffocate, use me, sweetness- that’s the second rule.”
“Like- like this?” You ask, your whiny pitch trembling just as much as your legs were by now. Feebly, they attempt to straddle Toji’s head properly.
To which it almost looks as if the bull hybrid was about to laugh—“No.”
Numerous more spanks of his fingertips on your cunt, and soon enough you’re finding yourself completely limb atop him. As he fingers you to tears, rotund fingertips scouring all the way to your cute cervix-
“I mean-” From your hips, his hand is then moving to your thighs. Wrapping around them to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze- until Toji felt light-headed. “-like this.”
“I think m’d-doing it.” You’re gyrating atop him wildly by now, finding a staccato in time with his thudding! fingers. Not only were they thick, they were just so long too - and they left you feeling dizzy with his vulgar strokes, with his incredible scent.
“Third rule, fuck back into me.” He commands, with that specific tone of a bull in rut that made you want to listen to him immediately. Your hamstrings screamed in protest as you continue, “Fuck her back into me- harder now, aren’t you a cow hybrid? Buck.”
You could barely even believe your ears, “You’re just so fucking mean- fuck!”
“Yeah, yeah, just like that.”
And Toji’s tongue? Oh, he wasn’t just staying still - not at all.
Toji had his tongue wrapped ‘round your throbbing clit and spanking down with his tastebuds. “And the fourth and final rule-” He gurgles through the wettened wads you were seeping out, “-is to get ready.”
You’re blinking your teary eyes back open, looking down at him in shock. “Get ready for what?”
It takes a few more probin’ thrusts before he can bear to pull away- and that, too, with the loudest smooch! The bull hybrid’s pants come out in heaving gusts, scalding air making you quiver at the sensation.
“Get ready…” Toji rattles off, after a few sultry seconds. And oh- you wonder, why was his tone octaves higher? Why did he sound so breathy? Why was there something…crazed in the way he said it- “-because you think a bull hybrid in rut would really be this nice, sweetcheeks?”
Jaw dropping, “Oh-”
“You don’t know how painful it was to hold myself back-”
And before you know it, your spine’s arching as you struggle to accommodate him- struggling to handle the raw primal pressure of his thick tongue and two- three of his fingers plunging into your hole. Pushing and pushing and pushing—
You’ve become masterful at rule number three, it seems, as you’re pressing your thighs upon either side of Toji’s face until he groans.
All of his appendages just reaching all the way for the very back of your cunt—“Ohhh, please-” Your head throws backwards as you feel him fuck you with his tongue like he was trying to ruin your inexperienced pussy. “P-please-”
“Oh m’ having a pleasant time alright.” Toji snickers, his heated pants leaving your skin perspired. The mountains of his knuckles were striking your outer pussy so hard now that they were starting to grow red on his skin. “S’fuh-fucking sweet.” Stinging.
Plap! after plap! You’re moaning as his mouth unhinges undeniably deeper to let even more of his tongue’s inches inside. Stretchin’ out your cute orifice, “Gonna hafta stretch her at least twice- haaah- twice as fuck! much if you wanna fit my cock, sweet girl.”
“Twice as much…” You’re repeating breathlessly, you couldn’t even begin to imagine it. It already felt like Toji was pulling you to your very limits - so even more…
“Rule number five- just made it up, heh.” Toji spits out - literally, a glittering glob of spittle that sticks to your slit. It slides down to your hold and makes it easy for him to thrash his tongue inside like an animal- like he was frenzied by his pheromones, like he couldn’t control himself from push-push-pushing.
Not even at a controlled cadence- Toji couldn’t stop himself from squishing your sweetest spots at the very back of your cunt. In almost no time, he’s finding that cute lil’ heart-shaped g-spot of yours - and Toji’s fingertips and tongue were fighting over which one gets to press on it the most.
Again and again until you’re in actual tears- “Rule number five is- ngh, you have to take it.” Holding you to him, until your cunt folds were plastered against his puffy lips. “Take it all like my good girl if you wanna finally take my cock.”
“Please-” Being pummelled away to the maximum, it’s all you can say like a constant mantra. “Please please- ngh! Please-”
“That’s all that dirty mouth can say now?” Toji tuts, “Tch- what happened to wanting me inside? Wanting my cock? Wanting to be fucked like the slut you secretly are?”
Primal swabs, again and again.
Twofold.
After each word, Toji’s tongue sizzles against your tender pussy - lips glued so deeply against your folds, that you can feel him lappin’ away every ounce of your slickness.
It drips slightly down his chin, and leaves your cunt slipping on top of Toji’s handsome face. You grab onto his large horns with a yelp- “Oh! Fuck, Toji- did I really say that?”
“Of course you did- hah, gallop, sweethearts.” With yet another spank, he rovers his face even deeper between your trembly legs. Nose-deep. Skin-deep. So deep, in fact, that the veins on Toji’s sculptured neck pop out.
You’re unsteadily bucking against him on instinct, and that leaves the man groaning. “Just like that.” Swallowing up every inch of your outer cunt, you’re being pierced by the relentless ministrations of his tongue again and again—“You asked to be fucked like a slut- hngh, and that’s exactly what m’giving you. Aren’t I just the beeest mating partner, sweetcheeks?”
“But I didn’t-” You’re babbling out, drunk on the vicious scrape-scrape-scrape of his intrusions. His fingers pushed just as your g-spot, and you could feel him glissading down even deeper. Deeper. Deeper. “-I didn’t say that—”
“Oh, didn’t you?” He’s hazily looking up from between your legs - there was something bleary in his eyes, something gone. “I think I remember-”
“Well I don’t-” As you’re raising your voice, you can’t believe it- Toji’s powerful tail wraps around your thighs and drags you back down.
He rumbles, “Rule number one…” In warning.
And it’s only with a few more thuds! that Toji’s pretending to remember just what you’re whinin’ away about, his dark brows shooting up to his bangs. And you can feel your treacly cunt quiver with the vibrations of his laughter, “But ah- I remember now.” His eyes crinkle into slits of amusement, eating you out until his nose ring slicks with your syrup. Just the notion is enough to leave his pheromones heightening, “I believe you said…‘you wanted to feel me’.”
Mouth dropping in recognition, “Oh- I did.”
“And what did you mean by that, hm?” Toji speaks through the ringing slurps, zap after zap of pleasure. “You’re already feeling me here-” Pokin’ at your g-spot, “And here-” His tongue snakes out to suck on your clit once more.
“I just meant I wanted to feel you- hck!”
His sweaty brows furrow, “But yer already feeling me-”
“No- more like I wanted to feel your-” You’ve never spoken words like this before, not even in the throes of your worst heats. You glance back at his twitching erection, “-there.”
“My where?”
“Your- your cock, Toji!” You’re wailing out, your legs feeling numb at the way he strikes your sweetest bundle of nerves. “I wanna feel your thick, looooong cock- please.”
Oh, you really were such a dirty girl. He’s gnawing down on that nub of your clit, “And where do you wanna feel my thick- looooong- cock, hm?”
You’re stammering, mouth growing less in-your-control the longer he’s making a mess of your poor pussy. “Inside-”
“Inside where?”
“Inside my cunt-” And you’re shocked you manage that out without stumbling over your words, gryatin’ back into his open maw with sly figure eights. But even that wasn’t enough—
Toji rolls his eyes, such a mess. Such a shattered mess. Just pushing and tasting and lavishing his tongue all over- “Say it again-” When you’re repeating your sultry words, “More- dirtier. Be good f’me, girl, say it again-”
“I want your cock inside my cunt, Toji.” You’re whimpering out, you’re shaking. Feeling the inexperience bubble within each of your veins, because the hybrid was just having so much fun corrupting you. “I want it inside- want you to fuck me with that cock so badly-”
“Atta girl.”
Forcing you to say those lecherous words, forcing you to cum—
“Oh my god-” With your back arched, you’re throwing your body into the wave of pleasure that suddenly bursts inside your body. “C-cumming- I’m cumming, Toji-”
“And it’s all because of me.” He’s smugly saying, perfectly puncturing at your g-spot with his constant pushes.
Because of Toji’s rut, his senses were so honed that he could mark each peak of your high- the explosion of bliss that he pinpointed with his fingers, with the slashes of his tongue. “Heh- me.” With a wet chuckle, Toji’s tongue was going to lick up every inch of your pussy like he was frenzied. Couldn’t get enough. Lap after lap. “Me me me me-” He sucks on your clit, letting his canines nibble lightly on them, and it lets out the most lewd sluuuuurp. “-and look- she’s thanking me.”
“Fuck! Never felt something so good-” Whining out, you’re bouncing your back into each of his hits. “-might be the best orgasm I’ve ever had- hck!”
“S’a pleasure, sweet girl.”
By the time the best of your high bates, Toji still hasn’t let up between those syrupy legs of yours. When he’s licked up every droplet of sap you’re letting out, he’s moving over to lick at the sheen of slick glued to your thighs.
Again and again.
Until you’re all the way overstimulated, and tears start to drip as if from a faucet. “I th-think m’done, Toji.” As if he already didn’t know - you’re pushing at his clammy head. “My orgasm’s over, I wanna try taking your cock now-”
“And you’re sure?”
He wasn’t asking to be nice. He was asking to make you turn your head and balk at the way his impossible size had only seemed to grow even bigger. Your lips wobbling, “Y-yes.”
“Oho?” Dark brows raising, he stops his ministrations and moves both hands to now grip at your waist. “Well, you did tell me to put my ‘thick, looooong cock inside of your cunt’-”
“So shut up and do it.” Huffing in embarrassment, you pound at his muscular chest - and he could barely even feel it, like kitten kisses on his bulky body. It’s enough for Toji’s cock to jolt with need, and for his attractive face to break out into a grin.
“Atta girl.”
And with that final compliment, Toji’s making to grab onto your waist and lift you off of his face—with the loudest smooch! It’s ringing out like the prettiest melody in both your eardrums, and Toji just barely manages to disconnect himself with your sweet pussy.
Just barely breaks his lips from your tender folds, all slickly glossed.
Just barely wrenches you off with ease, and takes one nice look at your hole - when you’re realizing that Toji Fushiguro suddenly stops. His nostrils suddenly flare. He suddenly stutters-
“O-oh, sweet girl. I don’t think you even realize-” Toji gawks up at your cunt. And you’re feeling somewhat shy when he filthily leans his features in and takes a good, long sniff at your cunt. As you’re looking up at him in confusion, “-you’re in heat.”
“In heat?” He sets you down near his rugged v-line, and you’re animalistically grinding your cunt down on his thickened length. You look up at him for answers, “What do you mean? Shiu said I’ve already finished my heat-”
“Fuck what Shiu says, silly girl.” Lightly spanking your pussy, Toji rolls his sage eyes. His pupils were all blown-out and bleary with lust, only darkening the more he takes in your buttery pheromones.
Oh, you smelled like the sweetest freshly-whipped cream - and that only made his mouth water as much as his swollen cock was. Drenching the cute innards of your thighs n’ your pussy mound with his sap, he grins. “I can smell it.” He parts his scarred lips, a thin line of saliva trickling down one side. “I can fucking- taste it-”
“Oh—” You’re gyratin’ back against his plummy cock tip, oh-so-lewdly. And you take another sniff of yourself, reaching up to feel that your scent glands have swollen up. “I g-guess you’re right-”
“Sugar, I am right.”
Before you know it, the world’s a blur around you- and suddenly you find your back against the soft hay. Your head being cushioned by one of Toji’s rugged palms, Toji’s large body hovering over you. Pressing you down-
“And this pretty pussy’s tellin’ me that this is yer first heat with a bull, hm?” Sliding his thumb between your glossy crevice, he listens for the squelches. “Awww, how cute—so m’your first, sweet girl?”
“Yes- yes.” And when he places his fleshy cock between your legs, at that sweet spot where you wanted him the most, you can’t help but realize that oh- he’d been stretching you out for so long for a good reason.
Because Toji’s hybrid cock looked absolutely ginormous between your legs, especially with the way he’d thickened up in size while eating you out. His cockhead was as red as a huge strawberry, and multiple times bigger. Bull hybrids, famed for the shaft length - now slipping n’ sliding between your pussylips.
Just kissing at your geysering orifice- “Oh- fuck.”
“And you know having you on top would be the easiest for her…” That said, he’s swatting his rough fingertips down on the nub of your clit. He’s spitting. He growls, and it’s enough to send shivers down your spine- “But m’still gonna have her in a mating press.” Throwing your legs over his shoulders, folding you damn in half. “Because you also forget one- fuck-” Just feeling you clench around nothing, enough to make him reach up and grab at a wooden beam. “-thing, sweetness.”
“And what’s that, Toji?”
“I’m in-” Hard enough that the wooden beam breaks—“-rut.”
Fourth rule, remember?
Because you didn’t think that he’d go this easy on you when he’s in fuckin’ rut, did you? You didn’t think that he was going to fuck you nicely, did you? You didn’t think that he wasn’t going to act like a damn animal, did you?
In a sudden motion, Toji’s plugging your hole up with his thick cockhead- and shoving it deep into your deepest insides. Long. Hard.
You’re yelping, nails finding purchase on his deltoids and clawing on for dear life because- “A virgin, are ya?” He tuts, “Don’t think m’gonna go easy on ya.”
“Oh my goodness-” Thighs curling around his toned waist, hips attempting to buck away. “Holy fuck-”
“Easy, easy.” It was just so cute the way you were struggling - especially when you were talking so big about wanting him. “Breathe in, girl- there ya go.” You’re following as he instructs, “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in—” And suddenly there’s a sodden spank at your pussy, “-you, too, pretty pussy.”
Something that catches you off-guard, and makes you swallow him up an inch deeper. Your eyes rolling all the way to the back of your skull, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- I’ve never felt like this. You’re so big- hold on, Toji, you’re so-”
“Hold on?”
“What-”
“Hold on?”
He’s then spitting out into your open mouth, and slapping your pussy so hard that you’re seeing stars. Instantly, you’re set on edge by the way that his rugged cock suddenly slams- “You’re telling me to h-hold on?”
And was that a stutter in his sentence?
A laugh?
Toji Fushiguro sounded like he was fucking losing it by merely hearing your whining questions- “You seriously want me to…” Clawing down in front of your body, one of his rude hands press down on your stomach as he’s sinking iiiiiiin. It makes you feel every ridge n’ vein, every inch, every bit of his thick shaft intruding in. “-hold on?”
“It’s just- I just didn’t think you’d be so big-” He was barely even halfway in and you could already feel Toji at your throat, gushing out sticky wads of slick. With your feet planted on the hay-littered ground, you’re trying to arch your back nearly away from—
“Oi- who said you could tap out?” Before you know it, Toji’s hand lifts from your thigh to grab onto your tail - one pulling you in by the tail, his right hand still feeling for that tummy bulge he was fucking into you.
You can’t get away by the way he’s manhandling you back down into his hips, skidding straight across the barnyard floor. “Tch- ya need ta be herded or what, silly girl?” Grazing his dark happy trail against your front, the curly tufts of it scratch your clit. “Come back t’me- rule number one, remember?”
“Fuck-” Throwing your head back in tears, your legs were limp from the sheer pressure being put on your lower half. “-I can feel you reaching in so deep-”
“And you wanted me to hold on?”
He was never going to let that go - he was never going to give you even the slightest second to get used to his incredible length.
Palm pressing down on the cylindrical outline makin’ itself known on your tummy - just that big. Pelvis moving in a rapid, urgent half-thrusts-
Toji isn’t even waiting for your cunt to take it all, his red cockhead probin’ just inwards. Inwards and inwards and inwards. He can feel the tight resistance of your pussy, your sweet body unable to take him whole right now- and it only makes him groan.
With his head thrown back, he’s letting go of your tail to smear apart your pussylips. “M’in fucking rut and you wanted me to hold on-” He’s hissing, pushing your snug folds so far apart that you have no choice but to take his hammers. “Been teasing me with that s-sweet scent ever since I fucking got here and you want me to hold on-” Pulling you to him. Dragging you to him.
Toji breaks every single second that he’s not fully sheathed inside of you, and he’s just pummeling his hips deeper- “Hold on, hold on, hold on.” After each mention of his mantra, he’s rutting in. “You want me to h-hold on and-” Harder. “-and you know what-” Deeper. “-I want to do, sweet girl?”
“What-” You’re gasping out through your tears, sticking to both of your cheeks by now. “What do you want, Toji?”
“I want to- fuck! Well, first I want to fucking fit-” He’s whispering underneath his breath, darkened eyes narrowed as he takes it in. “Fit- fit- fit-” Before you know it, he’s spitting down once more on your cunt and shoving his cockhead inside. “-fucking fit-”
Blinking away the tears in your eyes, “And- hah, and what else did you want?” By the heightening of his pheromones, you already knew that it was something about to ruin you.
“I want…” He was teasing you now, just lightly grazin’ that blushing hot tip against the roof of your cunt. You could feel him filling up every sneaky orifice, and Toji was fucking you like he’d just gone feral- “I want to-”
“Oh, fuck!”
With a final, lewd thrust- Toji Fushiguro bottoms out.
“-breed ya, sugar.”
And he meant it. The massive bull hybrid was drilling into you like a madman- his cattle nose ring clanging with each rut. “I’ve been wanting to breed you since the moment I stepped foot here.” Toji growls, the red crown of his shaft directly heading towards your cervix now. Bruising. “I want to fuck- fuck you through every day of your heat- my rut.” And he was emptying out such long strings of precum into your womb, “Try to get you pregnant every single day of my rut.”
“You’re going to get me…” Your pupils are swirlin’ in comical circles within the whites of your eyes, and just the mere notion makes your tastebuds sizzle with saliva. You hadn’t spent your heat properly with a bull- let alone found yourself mated by one.
Bred by one.
“Fucking pregnant.” Toji finishes off with a snicker, pushing against that cute lil’ tummy bulge that he was pounding into you.
“Oh, please-” You’re throwing your head back with a mewl, “But I’ve never been m-mated to anyone before. Are we sure it’s going to take, Toji-”
“I’ll make it take.”
His jackhammers were so hard by this point, enough so that your sap splatters out of you in puddles. It glistens right down the inner parts of your thighs, and Toji swipes his thumb down from your pussy to glaze it in the syrup. To reach up to his scarred maw and suck on it.
And when he feels your spit-slicked lips start to wobble out more concerns, he’s pushing that very thumb between your own lips.
“Shut it, silly girl. Ya really think that when I hah- when I fuck you like this—in this mating press.” As if on cue, his manhandling strength seems to be folding you even deeper in half. “With this pretty pussy-” Dragging out a few more slurps with his thrusts, “-and my rut- you’re not gonna be walking outta this barn stupidly pregnant?”
“I-I don’t-”
“Silly, silly girl.” It’s a rude thwack! of his curvaceous ball sack after each slam, and you can feel your body grow more restless after each of his spat-out words. So mean. “Silly lil’ hybrid thinks she’s gonna make it outta here- hah, without bearing my calves.”
You’re shivering, your body so limply fucked by this point- that Toji’s tail has to wrap around one of your thighs. Holding you up. Interlocking your ankles around his neck with that silky tail- “Well, since m’inexperienced-”
“And m’gonna give you the experience of yer life- heh, I already am.”
He was - he really was. Just making you see stars every time Toji’s overlarge, plump cockhead dug into your g-spot. Somehow he’d managed to map the insides of your walls, and each thrust grazed his length against your sweet bundle of nerves.
Probing and probing a bruise exactly the size of his round circumference- “M’gonna corrupt you, sweet lil’ thing.” A sleazy smile spreads across Toji’s handsome, perspired face. “M’gonna fill you up with so much of my cum that- hah, they’re gonna be milkin’ it out of you for months afterwards, sweet girl.”
“Fuck, I’d like that-”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’d like that s-shoooo much, Toji.”
“Bet you’d like it even more after I fill you up with my calves, hm?” He titters, pheromones slowly growing saturated enough to mingle with your own. “After I fuck this pretty pussy pregnant ‘nough times that she remembers how it feels when I fill you up? After I breed you until we can- hah, fill this whole damn farm with them? After I make a momma out of you and no other bull can ever even think of touching you-”
You squeal, “Yes- yes yes yes yes-”
His tail tightens around your ankles, horns charging as if he was only growing more n’ more excited. Throbbing with more need. “And you better fuckin’ know that these are promises, sweetness. That no fucking farmer can ever break.” Toji stares you deep in your heart-shaped eyes as he says, “I will get you pregnant.”
“Oh, I’d fucking hope so.” You glide your hands down your front, “I wanna feel you right h-here, Toji.” Down where your womb was.
Fuck…you were dangerous for a bull in heat.
And his entire body feels feverish with need, the burning sensation of his rut overtaking Toji completely.
As his hips only grow sloppier, you’re grazing your sweaty palms further down his body. Starting from his shoulders, before ultimately you end up squeezing Toji’s massive milky pecs.
Even for a bull, they were just so plush. And you can’t help but twiddle your thumbs ‘round the golden rings that he had pierced through his pinkish nipples, lecherously.
He shivers at the sensitive sensation, “O-oh? Look at you.” Snapping his head down, you swear you could see a rouge flush take over his cheekbones. “You’re corrupted already.” And both of Toji’s own hands end up removing from your stomach and your pussy, ending up- oh, you could’ve already guessed.
Both of Toji’s hands end up on your tits.
Squeezing.
Kneading.
Before you can say a word, he’s already growling out- “And as any momma would- we’re gonna hafta make sure you’re making enough milk, huh, sweetcheeks?” That last bit of his sentence ends up drowned between the valley of your chest.
Toji’s gaping his maw wide open and sucking on your right tit, his left hand pinching the nipples of your left tit.
“I don’t think anything’s gonna come out just yet-” Your tail swishes in arousal as you watch him hollow out his attractive cheeks, thoroughly sucking on your tit like his favorite lolly. Sucking like he was trying to make milk come out—“I never did produce…much…milk…”
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you’re being proved wrong. Because with a gushing sensation, you can feel your hardened nipples stream out something straight into Toji’s open mouth. “You were saying?”
Pure white milk.
And he was such a messy eater, your ivory syrup dripping down his lips. It glosses them and created the sweetest lacquer that Toji himself was addicted to- “Mmm, so much, sweet thing—fuck.” He’s pinching at your left tit, too, a splashin’ puddle of milk that he immediately plops his mouth over to gulp up. “Ya really are a sweet thing-”
“I’ve never made this much even for the farmer-” You’re gasping, and your milk cascades down Toji’s chin like a waterfall. Constant. Sloppy “How did you even…”
“Because you’re in heat.” He says- choppy, through the way that he barely wanted to speak, barely wanted to remove himself from the sweet fountains of your spurting milk. “Because m’in rut.” Toji’s hips smack into yours so hard that you see white for a second, and his happy trail perfectly carnally itches at your clit. “And tonight- we’re gonna make a fucking baby, sweet mama.”
“O-oh—” With your voice cracking, you’re reaching your high. It comes instantaneously, and you arch into Toji’s glissading muscles as you ride through it.
As you’re fucked through it.
“Cumming again?” Toji’s marvelling, his words thick - he had his mouth full, after all. Smelling the saccharine sweetness of your orgasm in your pheromones, he’s marking each peak of your high with a bang! of his reddened cockhead.
Slowly opening up your womb even more, your g-spot felt so red-hot and raw from the inside as he just kept on thumpin’ away there. Again and again and again. “Of course, ya are- fuck. Just like thaaaat, fuck back into me- third rule. They say the momma needs to cum good if we wanna get you pregnant after all-”
“And what about you?” Still in the throes of your bliss, you feel absolutely no inhibitions in babbling away. Drunk on the thick, veiny size of him fucking you through your high—“Aren’t you gonna?”
“Gonna what?”
“Fuck…”
“Rule number six-” Toji pipes up, a mean glint in his eyes. “-is to use those words like the big girl you are.”
And you best believe that he was fucking you like he was trying to push the very words up to your throat, his veins massaging your sweet spots and making you shiver, his pearly white teeth back to sucking on your milk. “I want- hah!” You wince when his right hand slithers down to pinch your clit, “-you to cum- fuck.” You moan when his left keeps toyin’ with your nipples, streaming out dairy for Toji to swallow up. “-inside my cunt, Toji.”
And there—his eyes slightly widen in interest, “You really said it.” A proud smile gracing his face, “You really, really…oh.”
With a few more lewd thrusts, he’s emptying out his heavy balls.
They tighten as they spurt out the creamiest wads of cum waaaaaay back into your spongy womb, suckin’ up each pearly droplet as Toji fucks them inside you. Splashing out. Pooling out. That bawling divot in the middle of his shaft just leaves a murky mess behind, ribbons of ivory that glue your walls together.
“Oh fuck-” He’s clenching his canines, you swear he’s holding back tears—“And you’re gonna take it-” Toji snarls, fighting against the urge to throw his head back - simply because he wanted to look at you as he stuffed you till you were overspilling. “-take every single last drop-”
The hulking bull hybrid shakes as you clench your velvety walls. “Oh, yes.” You’re shivering once he smacks! your clit once more, swirlin’ those sultry webs of seed with his fingertips.
Toji’s pushing them inwards, again and again. “And yer gonna keep it, aren’t you?” Fucking you, again and again.
He hums, gluing the edges of his fingers inside your channel, so that not a single gumdrop can leak out of you. “Second rule, sweetness, squeeze those pretty legs. S’gonna tell that pussy to keep my cum inside- give me a lil’ calf, heh.”
“Shit- keep talking and I’ll…”
It’s too late for you. You’re so far gone on his pummeling length that with a few more strokes, you’re reaching your high once more.
White-hot.
Toes curling.
Back arching.
You can’t even control yourself, it’s the most powerfully sinful sensation you’ve felt in your entire life. And this time, not only are you overspilling in Toji’s glutinous white cum - you’re also spraying out your own slick. Translucent splashes of sweetness, so powerful that your entire body shakes.
Your high was being dragged out of you.
Squirting. You can’t believe you squirted during your first heat with a mate, your first heat mounted.
And as he instinctively bucks his hips through it, your new mate swears- “Fuck- fuck, don’t tell me you’re- oh. You are. Turns out I milked you dry, hm?” Something in him oh-so-triggered by the way you just kept on drippin’ from that pretty cunt, it’s as if the hybrid part of him knew that he had to do something to stop you from losing so much of it. “Rule number four, my sweet mate.”
But no bracing in the world could prepare you for what you felt in that very moment - because suddenly you’re feeling a strength so incredible that it’s as if you’re being split apart. “Your- your knot?”
“Damn right.”
You just had to see this for yourself. Chin hitting your chest as you watch Toji push n’ push the incredibly swollen base of his cock inside you. It was so round n’ red, about four times his actual circumference.
It sinks in with a lecherous sluuuuuurp—and Toji empties out a few more streaks of cum just from the sheer sensation of having his sensitive hilt sheathed inside of you. Isn’t that every bull’s dream? To have a mate as pretty as you, choking and overstimulated around his knot? Ready to take all of him until you’re pregnant-
“We’re mates now.” You’re still shivering from the shockwaves of your multiple highs, so overstimulated that you don’t hear his murmurs. Sobbing, you’re tugging cutely at his nipple piercings to garner his attention. “Wh-what was that, Toji?”
“I said–” Roughly, he pulls off from your lactating tits. Your milk drivels down either side of his greedy maw, “-that you know a bull’s rut lasts days, right, sweetcheeks?”
“Oh.”
“Guess we have a lot to learn…h-heh.”
.
.
.
Shiu was halfway through his drive to Tokyo.
Halfway through his window cracked down halfway, his dark hair playing in the breeze, head nodding in time with the beat of some early 2010’s pop hit that’d surprisingly managed to calm him down during his drive.
Sure, Kusakabe had completely ruined his plans and forced him to leave you unattended on the farm - but Shiu can’t help but almost feel grateful towards his friend.
After all, it’s not every day that he gets to go out like this - the life of a farmer sure was a busy one. And it was such a nice day out, driving along smooth and silent in his truck like this was almost therapeutic. He’s almost considering getting an apprentice or two so that he’d be able to do this more often. He really thinks he could find inner peace like this, maybe all those self-help magazines he grimaced at in convenience stores were onto something. A man needs time for himself, too, y’know?
Yeah, time for himself. Time to just wind back, enjoy the highway, just appreciate the beauty of the world, y’know?
Halfway through a drive of peace and quiet, when he suddenly realizes-
And Shiu’s stepping so hard on the brakes that he wouldn’t have been surprised if about five other cars smashed into him from behind right about now. And he wouldn’t have noticed, either—”I left the gate of the bull in rut fucking unlocked-”
Immediately after he remembered, Shiu had gone and done a (likely illegal, most definitely illegal) U-turn right then and there. Heading right back where he came from, he’d cut off multiple cars, almost run over some unsuspecting old lady in his haste to get back to his farm - Kusakabe be damned, his best friend could rot in Tokyo until the end of time for all he cared. After all, he was the one that caused all this!
Shiu made it back home in less than half the time it took him to halfway down his journey to Tokyo (he’s sure he ran a few red lights).
And he’s fumbling with the keys of his gates, forgetting his truck and sprinting right up to where his cattle hybrids were. All cooped up inside the pen, they hadn’t gone into the barn still - and yet, with one sweeping glance, Shiu can’t really find any missing.
So he almost dares to breathe a sigh of relief- before his eyes catch the placement where Kusakabe’s bull had resided. Where Toji resided.
And Shiu’s heart drops at the same time as his jaw.
It was empty.
Quickly, he’s suspecting just why the cows and bulls outside weren’t going inside the barn, and Shiu takes another look at his herd—fuck!! Fuck, fuck, fuck - there was one missing.
And he knew exactly who it was.
In urgent, jerky motions, Shiu’s throwing open the gate to the pen (this time double-checking to lock it behind him) and heading straight towards the barn.
The barn where he can hear the rustling of hay, where he can smell the saturated sweetness of hybrid pheromones, where he can see—oh, you on your hands and knees, with your pretty ass raised high in the air for Toji’s cock to plough into, his powerful body. You’re all sprawled out on the hay, saliva and milk splashing out of you at a constant pace. You mewled as he stretched out your cunt so mercilessly, again and again and again. The plump knot ‘round his base hitting your pussylips with almost painful thwacks!
And by the ribbons of miry cum that clung onto both your lower halves, Shiu was safe to assume that this certainly wasn’t the first round…
Shiu’s nostrils flare, and he’s realizing that this wasn’t just the heady scent of Toji’s rut - it was your heat, too. That luscious creamy smell that made his mouth water, and his cock twitch in his pants as he took in the sight-
BZZZZZZZZ—!
Thank god his phone was on silent mode- Shiu hastens to pick it up before either of you can hear. Though, he doesn’t think he’s very successful with it.
Because just as Shiu places the crackling phone against his ear, whispering out a quiet- “H-hello?” He sees that Toji’s smug, handsome head turns in the direction of the barn door. And he’s smirking straight at the other man as he claims every inch inside of you, Toji’s honed tip pinpointing into every tiny nook and cranny.
And if that wasn’t enough, he’s leaning down to grab onto your leaky tits- and squeeeeeze out a pure white stream of your milk. Much more than Shiu’s ever been able to tease out of you during milking sessions.
He was making his mate known.
Slowly, Shiu backs out of the barn without you noticing (though, you were so deep in the waves of your carnal pleasure, that he thinks it would’ve been impossible to get your attention anyways).
Only once he’s out of the headiness of the barn does Shiu finally manage to register the other man’s voice-
“Hello? Helloooooo? Man, where are you now-”
“Hey, Kusakabe.” Shiu speaks, still slightly dazed. Still slightly staring through the barn doors from afar - all because of a fucking gate. “Take the next train here from Tokyo- no, don’t worry about your truck, you can pick it up later. No, you don’t need the cattle trailer anymore.”
Kusakabe sputters, “Huh? But why?” At the other man’s silence, one could almost hear the moment that understanding sets in. “Oh man- oh wait, don’t tell me that Toji and that sweet cow hybrid of yours has-”
“Yeah.” Shiu grits, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unrelated, but would you happen to know any good names for calves?”
A/N. YOU ASK AND DADDY PROVIDES (not child support tho-) YES I SAW Y’ALL IN THE COMMENTS-
summary! choso's always had strong feelings for you, his sweet, impossibly cute roommate. after dropping out of college and introducing you to his band mate suguru, things take a turn for the worst when the man starts to take an interest in you. drummer!choso becomes increasingly more jealous and agitated with each fucked up thing geto puts you through, and he finally snaps. his quiet jealousy turns dark, messy, and impossible to ignore. (jealousy, slight angst, messyyy, toxic relationships (suguru –> reader) comfort, fluff, smut.)
choso hated when geto was over.
“suguru! fuck! it’s too much— i can’t— i can’t!”
“shut up—god—and take it.”
your muffled moans and the creak of the bedposts drifted through the thin plastered wall of choso’s room. the one you’d shared since signing the lease over two years ago, back when you were just strangers hunting for a nice apartment during your freshman year.
back then, things had been simpler.
you'd gotten close to the mysterious boy in only a few weeks. just you and choso, figuring out school and life together, finding comfort in each other’s company.
he had been one of the kindest, coolest people you’d ever met, someone who listened to your fucked-up problems without judgment, who cleaned up after himself, who held you on the couch when winter felt too crisp.
the perfect roommate, in every sense.
“you’d make a good boyfriend, cho,” you’d teased once, stroking his hair lightly.
“hmm, you think so?” he’d grinned, lazy and carefree.
but things were different now.
choso had dropped out to focus on his band, 'exorcize'—gojo on vocals, geto on guitar, toji on bass, and him on drums.
the band had taken off, and after being personally invited to one of their gigs, a small introduction from choso had suguru immediately hooked.
that had been the moment everything shifted.
quiet nights of spectated drum practice while you studied or long meaningful conversations were gone, replaced by surprise visits from geto and sleepless evenings that left choso restless and uneasy.
deep down, in that hazy, stoned part of his mind, he knew he felt something for you. something raw, unacknowledged, and unrelenting.
“god, sugu—i seriously can’t! —oh my god!”
he heard your cries, felt his stomach twist with a mix of disgust, anger, and jealousy. he couldn’t endure another sober second of listening to you plead.
his hand found a pre-rolled blunt in his dresser, lighting it with a red lighter you'd gifted him months ago, the smoke curling around him like a protective shield.
“c’mon, you can do it, just a few more—fuck!—seconds!”
he hated him. but more than that, he hated the way suguru spoke to you.
the subtle degradation, the possessive control masked by perfect composure. choso knew you noticed it too. the way your fingers curled around anything you could grab when suguru got too close, too possessive. the way you'd shy away from him rather than leaning into him lovingly. and yet, you stayed.
it tore something inside choso, some raw, unpolished piece of himself that had never stopped wanting you.
“just a little longer, y/n, fuck—you can do that for me, can’t you?”
he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the only thing that could dull the constant back-and-forth inside his head when it came to you. the only thing that dulled the voice in his head, from when you used to talk to him like he was the only man in the world. his addiction, his only vice.
~
morning
the brunette boy sat slumped on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other stretched across the coffee table. sunlight crept through the blinds, painting uneven lines across his face. his hoodie hung half-off his shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a blunt tucked behind his ear like muscle memory.
he looked fucking wrecked.
you padded out from the hallway, wrapped in a big t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. it hung too low on your thighs, smelled faintly like suguru’s cologne, and that made something twist in your stomach when you noticed choso glance at it once, then away with a twitch of his eye.
“good morning, cho” you said, trying to sound casual, cheerful, like nothing weird had happened last night.
he didn’t look at you right away. his thumb was tapping against the armrest, slow and rhythmic. “yo.”
you bit your lip, moving to the kitchen counter. the silence pressed between you like humidity. it felt different now, awkward, thick.
you’d never had awkward silence with him before.
“uh, you sleep okay?” you tried again, voice soft, careful.
he finally turned to look at you. dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his tone came out flat. “where’s geto?”
your stomach dropped. “huh?”
“suguru,” he said again, leaning back into the couch. “where’d he go?”
you blinked, your throat suddenly dry. “oh. um. he—uh—left early, he doesn't really stay the night...he sorta just comes at night whenever he wants and leaves when we're done.”
choso didn’t say anything, just nodded slowly, eyes still half-lidded. but you knew that look—his patience hanging by a thread, the faint twitch of his jaw, that lazy exterior covering something sharper underneath.
“choso,” you said quietly, walking over a bit. “did you… uhm— hear us?”
his eyes flicked up to yours. “mhm.”
the word hit heavier than it should’ve. you looked down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “oh my god. i thought you were asleep. i didn’t mean for you to—”
“s’alright,” he said, cutting you off, voice rough. “walls are thin, y’know, i get it.”
you winced. “was it—was it bad?”
he let out a low, humorless chuckle, the memory of his band mates grunts and your pretty gasps still fresh in his mind. “mhm. heard it all.”
you felt heat crawl up your neck, mortified. “shit, choso, i’m so sorry. i really didn’t think—”
“don’t worry 'bout it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “i’ll just sleep the morning away, got the gig tonight anyway, so it should be fine.”
you hesitated, wanting to say something to make it better, to make him better, but his tone was a closed door.
so you offered the only thing that came to mind. “let me make you breakfast? as an apology?”
he looked up, studying you for a second before nodding. “right... sure.”
you exhaled in quiet relief and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing eggs and bread from the fridge.
you weren’t sure what he liked this early. he usually slept until noon, leaving trails of smoke and half-empty cereal bowls behind, but it felt right to do something. the clinking of pans filled the silence.
behind you, choso leaned his head back on the couch, eyes half open, watching the light catch in your hair as you moved. he wanted to stay annoyed, to keep that boundary up. but the sight of you—bare legs, hair messy, humming softly under your breath while cooking in the kitchen—hit him in that dull, sore spot inside his chest.
“you should come to the gig tonight, if geto didn't already invite ya',” he said suddenly, voice low.
you glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “yeah, you want me to come?”
“i do.” he stretched, reaching for the blunt on the table but not lighting it yet. “you haven’t seen us play in a while.”
you smiled a little, flipping a piece of toast. “yeah, sure. i’ll come.”
he grunted something like approval, pretending not to notice how your eyes softened when you said it, the way your face lit up as you moved your hands.
you’d seen clips online—crowds packed tight in dark venues, neon lights washing over exorcize as they played.
they weren’t just another college band anymore. they were it. the band everyone wanted to fuck, to be, to orbit around.
gojo with his wild white hair and stupidly perfect grin, toji’s quiet menace on bass, suguru’s calm confidence, and choso behind the drums, silent but magnetic, his hair sticking to his face, eyes half-lidded, lost in rhythm.
they all had that look, that raw, sexy allure that made people crave them like meth.
and you’d been there at the start of it. before the crowds, before the smoke machines and the afterparties. when it was just choso, hunched over a kit in the living room, half stoned, tapping out rhythms while you studied on the couch.
the smell of butter and coffee filled the apartment. you plated up the food—scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado—and brought it over to him.
“here,” you said softly, setting the plate in front of him. “a really shitty peace offering.”
he gave a small smile, lazy but real. “yum.”
you sat down next to him, tucking your legs under you. the couch dipped between you, and the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp this time. he picked at his food for a while, eating slow.
“seriously though, cho,” you said after a minute, eyes on your plate, “i’m really sorry about last night.”
he shrugged, chewing. “told you, s' fine.”
“it’s not fine,” you insisted, voice quiet. “that must’ve been… weird for you. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
choso let out a low snort, setting his fork down. “y/n. you were horny. you got dicked down. shit happens.”
you froze, staring at him with wide eyes, face flushing deep. “ew,”
he smirked a little, leaning back. “what? just sayin’. it's no big deal.”
“yuck, don't talk to me like i'm one of your little junkie friends!”
“why not? we're not friends now?” he asked, in a tone that was so laid back and careless it made you anger, “what are we then? don’t get all shy now, i'm tryna lighten the shitty mood.”
you swatted his hand away, embarrassed but smiling despite yourself. “stop it, we're just friends... it's just— just shut up.”
“yeah,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “heard that before.”
you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. for a moment, it felt like old times again.
easy, unspoken comfort settling back between you. but under it all, he felt that same ache still there, low and constant.
the thought of geto touching you, of your voice on the other side of the wall, it looped in his head like a bad song he couldn’t skip.
he finished his plate, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
“thanks for breakfast, it was real good, y/n. you'd make a good housewife y'know,” he said.
“god just shut up,” you said with an all too dramatic eyeroll.
the quiet lingered again, softer this time.
~
the studio reeked of ash and stale beer. gojo was already shirtless, sprawled across the leather couch, strumming suguru’s guitar with no real purpose.
“bro, put that down before you break a string,” suguru said, tone bored but edged.
“relax, i’m blessing it,” gojo said, flashing him a grin.
toji sat off to the side, bass in hand, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the day. he didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to, his presence was enough to keep the room balanced.
gojo noticed the slight tire in getos purple eyes and decided to pry. “so,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “you look fucked, man. late night?”
suguru stretched his arms overhead, dark hair falling into his face. he smirked like he couldn’t help it. “mmm, something like that.”
“oh, come on,” gojo said, grinning. “you can’t just say ‘something like that.’ i need details, you fuck some chick, or?"
toji gave a quiet snort but didn’t look up from his tuning. “you gossip more than a fucking teenager, huh?”
“yeah, keeps me in shape.” gojo’s grin widened. “so? do tell.”
suguru’s smirk deepened, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “you know, just y/n.”
“shit,” gojo said, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “again? chosos little roommate? thought she was too sweet for you or whatever shitty excuse you made last time you slept with her and dipped.”
suguru shrugged. “sweet doesn’t mean boring.” he spoke like he was discussing a setlist, casual, detached. “can't stop going over to her place man. she's a great fuck, obedient, y'know? and tight as hell.”
gojo laughed under his breath. “oh yeah? she's sexy, sure, but i didn't know she had all of that going for her. you mind if i..."
“yeah, i do,” suguru said, unbothered. he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “she's only sucking my cock right now and i wanna keep it that way.”
gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “fair enough. so does she know about all the other pussy you get or?..." he teases.
"no. and she's not gonna. thinks i'm some fucking saint."
the way he said it made the air go strange—like they were both too comfortable talking about someone so badly who wasn’t even there.
toji glanced at them, expression flat.
“so what’s the deal then?” gojo asked, voice dropping just slightly. “you two dating?”
suguru’s tone turned dry. “not exactly. it’s just casual, a bit messy.”
“that mean she thinks you are and you don’t?”
little did the guys know, choso was standing in the hallway outside the studio, leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, hoodie drawn over his head. the door was slightly ajar.
at first he just wanted to pass, maybe pop in later when they started playing. but then he heard it—
“she’s a little too attached. wants to talk about everything. i don’t do clingy bitches,” suguru said, voice casual, almost bored.
choso froze.
“it’s fine. she knows what this is, if she gets hurt, that’s not on me.”
choso’s jaw tightened under the hoodie. his hands curled into fists, then unclenched. the smoke haze that usually clouded his head felt sharper now, stinging like cold air.
"does choso care? i mean, he's pretty much always high off his face so i doubt he'd even notice, but still. you can't be quite even if you tried." gojo added.
"nah, choso doesn't give a fuck about anything, i'm sure he doesn't care."
gojo just rolled his eyes and nodded along, clearly geto didn't know shit about his supposed friend.
choso was classical stoned, sure, but he was a deep thinker. although the never really voiced his opinions doesn't mean he doesn't have any. and the assumption that he doesn't care about you, the one girl he can actually feel himself around, feel comfortable with? it's a punch to the gut.
“plus, maybe he’s some sick cuck, maybe i’m doing him a favor fucking y/n loud enough for him to hear,” suguru said next, the words like a punchline to the room.
gojo laughed, oblivious, egging him on. toji’s bass sat idle, a quiet observer.
choso’s stomach twisted, sour and heavy, but his face stayed blank. he’d heard enough. everything he’d felt last night—the jealousy, the heat, the ache—coiled into a tighter knot in his chest.
and yet. he didn’t react. didn’t slam the door open or yell, he was too level headed for that. he just let the words hang there, let the laughter roll over him. the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat became his anchor.
then, like he always did, he slipped into his usual mask. the hoodie covered his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt.
he pushed the door open, just enough to enter, and let his presence announce him.
“’bout time,” gojo said, lounging back on the couch, grinning like nothing was off, like he wasn't just talking questionably about him. “thought you were skipping rehearsal.”
“nah,” choso said, voice low, clipped, casual. “traffic was slow.”
suguru glanced up, immediately switching to his usual calm, lazy composure. “afternoon,” he said evenly.
choso gave a small nod, dropped his bag, and moved to the drum kit, adjusting cymbals without looking at anyone else.
but under the surface, the coiled anger, hurt, and frustration hummed. every tap of the drumsticks later would carry some of that weight, silent, restrained, but there.
gojo, pretending to be oblivious, grinned at him. “you good, man? look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“didn’t,” choso said, tone clipped.
gojo whistled, dragging the notion. “what, neighbor’s dog barking again?”
“something like that.” choso gave suguru a quick side glance before settling in further.
suguru’s hand stilled for a second on the fretboard. he didn’t look up, but he could feel choso’s eyes flick toward him.
toji caught the tension first, his gaze shifting between them. “you two done?” he asked dryly. “we practicing or what?”
choso exhaled, sitting down behind the kit. “yeah. let’s get it.”
the first few hits were slow, a warm-up rhythm, but every strike landed with more force than usual. the echo bounced around the room, sharp and deliberate, filling the silence that had started to suffocate the space.
gojo laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “guess that’s a yes.” he adjusted his mic stand. “alright boys, from the top.”
the noise erupted again, guitar, bass, drums, the controlled chaos of sound. it filled every corner of the studio, pushing back whatever words had hung there before.
suguru played clean, precise, every note in place, but his mind wasn’t entirely in it. he could feel the weight of choso’s rhythm behind him, each beat heavy, almost personal.
choso kept his head down, sticks moving fast, steady. he wasn’t thinking about the music. he was thinking about voices in thin-walled apartments, about laughter that sounded just like this. about how easily people could talk about something that still sat raw in his chest.
gojo sang through the chorus, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed. toji’s bass lines held everything together. and choso, he hit the drums like he was trying to keep from saying something out loud.
when the song ended, there was a moment of quiet, the kind that comes right after noise when everyone’s heart is still beating too fast.
“tight,” gojo said, wiping sweat off his face. “we’re gonna kill it tonight.”
“yeah,” toji said simply, setting his bass down.
choso nodded once, not looking at anyone.
suguru adjusted his guitar strap, clearing his throat. “we’ll meet back here at eight,” he said, tone easy. “venue’s expecting us by nine.”
choso started packing up his sticks. the others were still talking, voices fading into background noise. he kept his head low, eyes on the drum kit.
“yo, cho,” gojo said suddenly. “you bringing anyone tonight?”
choso hesitated. “y/n said she'd show.”
“ahh, she better,” gojo grinned. “need a familiar face in the crowd.”
suguru’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his strap.
choso zipped his bag and stood. “mhm. see you later.”
no one stopped him. the door shut quietly behind him, the sound echoing longer than it should have.
for a second, the three of them just stood there. gojo hummed, breaking the silence. “yeah, i think he heard you, and he definitely does care.”
suguru didn’t answer. he just stared at the door for a long moment before setting his guitar down, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.
toji rolled his shoulders and muttered, “doesn’t matter now. just shut up and focus on tonight's gig."
~
choso pushes the door to your apartment at around 7.p.m, his skateboard bumping against the wall as he toes his sneakers off. he decided to hit the skate park after the studio, and was just getting back now.
the apartment’s dark. not quiet-dark —off dark. no soft indie playlist humming from your room, no yellow light spilling down the hallway, no half-finished tea on the counter. just the faint hum of the fridge and the lingering scent of your coconut shampoo that always hangs in the air.
he squints toward the living room. nothing.
“yo, y/n?” his voice echoes a little. it sounds lazy, but underneath it’s got that edge, confused, half-worried. “you home, babe?”
nothing.
he pauses, drumming his fingers against his thigh. normally he wouldn’t think much of it, you liked to take long showers, disappear for coffee runs, but the place feels weird tonight. the kind of quiet that sits heavy.
“yo, for real, where the fuck are you?” he calls again, walking toward the kitchen, his hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from washing it after practice. the smell of weed clings to him, mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of cologne he must’ve borrowed from gojo.
he flicks on the hallway light, flinches a little at how harsh it is. the walls glow pale and flat. still no answer.
“y/n,” he mutters, a little louder now, “don’t fuckin’ do this horror movie shit.”
he checks the balcony. empty. checks the bathroom, light off, door cracked. nothing. his chest tightens even though he keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, that you’re probably fine, that he’s overreacting like some clingy idiot.
then he hears faint music. a muffled bassline leaking through your bedroom door.
he exhales, tension leaving his shoulders all at once, muttering, “jesus, fuckin’—you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
he knocks lightly, then pushes the door open without waiting.
and freezes.
you’re standing in front of your mirror, airpods in, the faint shimmer of your lip gloss catching the lamplight. you’re half-dressed, black skirt, sheer tights, tiny top, and your hair sits perfectly like you didn’t even try. your room smells like warmth and perfume and clean skin.
for a second, choso forgets how to breathe.
“shit,” he says under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
you pull an airpod out and turn toward him, surprised. “oh my god, you scared me.”
he blinks slowly, eyes dragging up from your legs to your mouth, then back down again. “yeah, uh—my bad. place was dark. thought you got kidnapped or somethin’.”
you laugh softly, shaking your head. “kidnapped? really?”
he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “could happen. you never know. world’s fucked.”
you roll your eyes but smile. “well, i’m fine. just getting ready for the gig.”
“yeah, i can see that.” his voice dips lower without meaning to. “you look…” he pauses, tongue running over his teeth, trying to sound casual but it comes out rough. “fuck, you look hot as hell.”
you blink, heat crawling up your neck. “you think so?”
he nods, still rubbing his neck, eyes locked on you. “yeah. like, real talk, y/n, you’re gonna make it hard to focus tonight. literally everyone’s gonna be staring.”
you laugh, a little flustered. “you’re just saying that.”
“nah,” he says, finally walking into your room. “not just sayin’. like—you look fuckin’ insane. good insane.”
you smile, glancing back at your reflection, fixing your earring. “thanks, cho.”
he drops down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “you mind if i chill here? watch the whole… transformation process?”
“be my guest,” you say, turning back to your mirror.
he leans back on his hands, watching you move. your drawers open, mascara wand twirling between your fingers, your skirt swishing when you shift. the music in your airpods leaks just enough for him to catch the rhythm.
he tries to stay cool, keeps that lazy look on his face, but his heart’s still pounding from the moment he saw you. his head’s full of too many things, practice, suguru’s voice, your laugh, the sound of his name coming from you.
after a minute, he says, “we gotta leave in, like, an hour. gojo’s picking up suguru and toji, you wanna ride with me or get there yourself?”
you turn around, surprised. “oh, i can come with you?”
“course,” he says, shrugging. “beats paying for parking. you'll be abit early is all.”
you grin. “then yeah, i’ll come with you, doesn't matter to me, cho.”
“aight,” he says, stretching his legs out, smirking just a little. “sweet.”
he’s quiet for a while after that. you keep getting ready, music still faintly playing, the smell of your perfume thick in the air. he fiddles with the ring on his thumb, his mind replaying suguru’s words like static.
she’s a great fuck, obedient and tight as hell.
she thinks i’m some fuckin’ saint.
maybe he’s some sick cuck.
the words crawl under his skin. he can’t stop hearing them, can’t stop imagining the look on your face if you knew.
he shifts, sits up straighter. “hey,” he says suddenly.
you hum in response, focused on your eyeliner.
“can i ask you somethin’?”
“sure.”
“what’s the deal with you and geto?”
you pause mid-stroke. “what do you mean?”
he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “just… what are you two, exactly? like, are you dating or is it just some hookup thing?”
you blink at his reflection in the mirror, half-smiling. “why, you gonna make fun of me again for last night?”
he shakes his head. “nah. i’m serious.”
something about his tone makes you turn fully, leaning against your dresser. “oh. um…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i don’t know. i mean, i like him a lot. we hang out, we… yeah. i guess we’re dating? hes never actually said it, but it sure feels like it.”
he stares at you for a long moment, his chest tightening.
“you guess?”
“yeah.” you laugh softly, awkward. “he’s not, like, big on labels, i think. but we spend time together. he’s nice to me. i like being with him.”
choso nods slowly, but his face doesn’t change. “right. 'nice to you.'”
you frown, studying him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he looks away, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. “nothin’. just… didn’t figure him for the relationship type.”
“why not?” you ask, voice soft but curious.
he shrugs again, lazy like always, though his voice is heavier now. “he’s just… not the kinda guy who stays still, y’know? always got somethin’ else goin’ on. kinda hard to picture him with one person.”
you tilt your head. “you sound like you know him better than i do.”
“maybe i do,” he mutters.
“then tell me,” you say quietly. “should i be worried?”
his jaw tightens. he doesn’t answer right away. he wants to tell you, wants to let it spill out, the whole disgusting thing he heard at practice, the way suguru laughed about you like you were nothing but a story to pass around. it’s right there, sitting heavy on his tongue.
but when he looks at you, soft eyes, hopeful little smile, the way you look at him like he’s safe, he feels sick.
you’re too good for it. too sweet. too fucking naive to see how much he’s playing you, and he can’t stand the idea of being the one to shatter it.
“cho?” you ask gently.
he blinks. “yeah.”
“what were you gonna say?”
he opens his mouth, ready to just do it—to tell you everything, to ruin whatever fantasy you’ve built around suguru—but then your phone lights up on the dresser.
suguru calling.
you both look at it.
your heart jumps a little, that reflexive smile pulling at your lips. you grab the phone, swiping to answer. “hey.”
choso watches you, expression unreadable. your voice softens instantly, your tone sweet and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.
“yeah, i’m just getting ready,” you say, turning slightly away from him. “mhm… yeah, i’ll see you there, choso's driving me.”
his fingers drum against his knee. your voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. he can’t hear the words, only the tone—light, careful, like you’re trying not to say the wrong thing.
you laugh at something he says, that little laugh that used to be his favorite sound in the world.
and something in choso deflates.
he stands slowly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. your perfume still hangs in the air, heavy and warm.
“hey,” you say, glancing at him mid-call, mouthing, one sec, before turning back.
he nods, grabbing his keys from your desk where he’d dropped them.
you’re still talking, giggling now, saying something about how you’ll be there soon. he heads for the door.
“yeah,” you murmur into the phone. “love you too.”
his steps falter for half a second, then keep going.
the door clicks shut behind him, quiet.
you love him? god, how could he tell you after hearing that...
~
the venue’s already packed when you and choso pull up. neon bleeds across the cracked pavement, the sound of bass leaking through the concrete.
you can feel the pull of the crazy fans even from the street. drunk laughter, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke, someone yelling over someone else.
choso kills the engine and leans back in the driver’s seat for a second, watching people shuffle in through the side door. the light outside hits his face in flashes. pale, pink, blue, he’s fading between moods.
“you ready?” he asks, voice low, lazy, but you can hear something else under it.
“yeah,” you say, adjusting your skirt, checking your lip gloss in the visor mirror.
he glances over, eyes flicking briefly down your legs before turning away again. “lookin’ like that, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ riot, man.”
you laugh softly. “you said that earlier.”
“yeah, and i meant it both times.”
you shake your head, smilin despite yourself.
inside, it’s chaos. the place smells like sweat and beer, lights flashing in dizzy loops, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. gojo’s voice echoes somewhere backstage, already hyping people up. you follow choso through the narrow hallway, your hand brushing his arm as someone shoves past. since when was he so muscular?
“sorry,” you say automatically.
he glances back. “nah, you’re good.”
he holds the side door open, letting you through first.
the band’s gear is scattered everywhere. amps, cables, beer cans, half-empty water bottles. suguru’s there, tuning his guitar, cigarette hanging from his mouth.
when he looks up and sees you, his expression softens into that easy smile that always used to make your stomach twist.
“hey, pretty thing,” he says, walking over.
choso looks away, jaw tight.
“hey,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him. his hand slips to your waist, the kiss short but a little too public, a little too look-at-me.
“you made it,” he murmurs.
“told you i would.”
behind you, gojo’s laugh cuts through the noise. “yo, choso, you finally dragged n/n outta her cave!”
choso smirks. “yeah, figured she could use a little culture.”
“culture, huh?” gojo grins at you. “hope you’re ready for noise complaints and groupies.”
“i’ll manage,” you say, smiling.
toji doesn’t look up from his bass, just gives a small nod in greeting. the whole room buzzes with the kind of pre-show tension you can feel in your teeth.
everyone’s running on nerves and caffeine and whatever else they’ve put in their systems.
choso tosses his hoodie onto a crate, rolling up his sleeves. he looks good like that—focused, hair half-tied, a strand falling over his cheek. he’s calm but sharp now, a different kind of energy from the stoned version of him you’re used to. the one who drifts through mornings in smoke.
“five minutes,” someone calls out from the stage manager’s booth.
you hover near the wall, watching them all get into place. gojo bounces on his heels, suguru spins his pick between his fingers, toji stays silent. choso’s behind his kit, tapping his sticks against the snare like he’s talking to it.
the crowd roars as the lights dim.
you press closer to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating through your shoes.
gojo’s voice hits the mic, smooth and arrogant. “we’re exorcize. don’t fucking blink.”
the first chord screams through the room, and everything shifts.
the sound is huge. overwhelming. suguru’s guitar cuts clean through the noise, toji’s bass a low pulse under it all, and then choso—he owns the rhythm. every hit lands deep, every movement controlled but raw, like he’s drumming out something that’s been living under his skin for years.
you can’t take your eyes off him.
he’s sweat-slick already, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. the lights flash white, then red, then blue across his face. every motion is deliberate, steady, like he’s trying to stay anchored in something only he can hear.
and even though the crowd’s losing their minds, it feels like it’s just him and the sound.
you glance at suguru. he looks good too—cool, collected, confident. but next to choso, he feels staged. rehearsed.
your chest tightens. you look back at choso.
there’s something different in the way he plays tonight. sharper. more aggressive. like he’s exorcising something, no pun intended. every strike on the snare is heavier, almost angry. you wonder if it’s just adrenaline or if something happened earlier.
when the first song ends, the crowd screams. gojo throws his head back, grinning, shouting into the mic. “holy shit! you guys showed up tonight!”
choso stays quiet, twirling his sticks, taking a long drink of water. his eyes flick toward the side of the stage, toward you.
you smile.
he doesn’t. just nods once, small, subtle, before looking away. the next song starts before you can think about it too long.
you dance a little, lost in it, letting the music carry you. but somewhere in the back of your head, you can feel his stare again. quick glances between beats, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks back down.
and for the first time, you realize you’re not sure which one of you it’s harder for.
by the time the set ends, you’re breathless from the noise, your voice hoarse from shouting. the band leaves the stage to cheers, sweat-soaked and buzzing. gojo’s the first to collapse backstage, laughing.
“we killed that shit,” he says, half-yelling.
“yeah, not bad,” toji mutters, towel over his head.
suguru grins, walking straight toward you. “told you we’d put on a good show.”
you nod, heart still racing. “you were amazing.”
he leans in to kiss you again, and you let him, even though your eyes flick over his shoulder for a second—to choso. he’s wiping sweat from his forehead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.
suguru pulls back, arm still around your waist. “so, you coming to the afterparty?”
you hesitate. “uh, yeah, i think so.”
“good.” he kisses your temple, then turns toward gojo to talk about something.
you stand there for a second, unsure of what to do with your hands. the noise of the room fills the space between you and choso. he finally looks up, trying to push aside the guilt he still felt for not being able to man up and tell you about suguru.
you smile, small and tired. “you were insane up there.”
he laughs, strong yet humorless, the phrase 'love you too' still haunting his every thought. “yeah? thanks.”
“no, really. i couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “yeah, well… guess i did my job.”
you step closer, voice soft. “you okay?”
he nods, eyes flicking briefly toward suguru, then back at you. “yeah. just… beat.”
you nod too, not sure what else to say. gojo yells something about shots, suguru laughs, and the night keeps moving around you.
but in the middle of all of it, you and choso stand there for a second, caught between the noise and the silence. like the whole night’s holding its breath, waiting to see which one of you breaks first.
~
the afterparty’s at some half-finished warehouse space two blocks from the venue, the kind of place that smells like spilled beer, sweat, and old amps. led lights are strung along exposed pipes, blinking unevenly. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out.
you walk in first, suguru’s hand laced with yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. you look good under the dim light—like you belong there, like you’re glowing even in the noise and haze.
choso follows behind, slower, his hoodie unzipped and hair sticking slightly to his forehead. he already smells of weed; he’d lit up the second they left the venue.
people yell greetings, offer shots, hugs, congratulations. gojo’s already got his arm around two people he definitely doesn’t know, yelling about how they fucking killed it tonight. toji’s slouched near a speaker, scrolling through his phone like none of this matters.
suguru doesn’t let go of you. not once. he keeps you close, leaning down every so often to murmur something in your ear that makes you laugh. he’s magnetic in these settings. composed, charming, eyes sharp enough to make anyone feel seen.
choso sits on a couch near the edge of the room, elbow draped over the back, watching through half-lidded eyes.
you look happy.
and for a minute, that’s enough.
he takes a drag, holds it, exhales slow. watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. you’re laughing at something suguru said, your head tipped back, eyes bright.
he can almost convince himself it’s fine.
you’re happy. maybe that’s all that matters.
but he can’t stop remembering the way suguru talked earlier at the studio, voice low, that half-smirk twisting his mouth as he said your name like it was something to toss away. you lean up and kiss suguru’s cheek, whisper something. he nods, still holding your waist.
“gonna go fix my makeup,” you say, smiling. “don’t move.”
he smirks. “not going anywhere, princess.”
you squeeze his hand and disappear down the hallway. choso takes another drag. exhales through his nose, slow. for a few seconds, suguru just stands there. then, like someone flipped a switch, his attention shifts.
choso notices it instantly, the way suguru’s gaze catches on someone across the room. tall girl. dark hair. red lipstick. she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some guy with a drink in her hand.
choso knows her. everyone does. she used to hang around the studio all the time. suguru’s old fling. the one he’d bragged about, laughed about, talked about like she was a good story, just like you. his shoulders tense.
suguru drifts over. slowly. easy. one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for a drink as he greets her.
she smiles like she’s been waiting.
he says something that makes her laugh, that same half-grin sliding across his face, the same one he used when he looked at you five minutes ago. choso stares at them, heartbeat starting to pick up, jaw tightening around the joint.
he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. he can read the body language, the subtle lean-in, the flirtatious tilt of her head, suguru’s slow smile.
the same old act.
he feels something stir in his chest, something dark and heavy. he looks toward the hallway, half expecting you to come back. you don’t.
he looks at suguru again, and his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.
“yo.”
his voice cuts through the music, quiet but sharp.
suguru glances over his shoulder. “hmm?”
choso’s still on the couch, but his tone’s different—lower, edged. “you maybe wanna get your shit in order before she gets back?”
the girl blinks, looks between them, then takes a step back.
suguru raises an eyebrow. “huh?”
choso leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his fingers. “you heard me.”
the room feels quieter even though the music’s still playing.
suguru laughs once, soft, incredulous. “you serious right now?”
“deadass.”
he looks away for a second, shakes his head like he’s amused. “you’re high, choso.”
“not that high.” choso stands up, slow and deliberate. “i just don’t like watching you act like a fuckin’ idiot when she’s not even gone five minutes.”
suguru’s jaw tightens, that calm exterior starting to crack just a little. “what’s it to you?”
“what’s it to me?” choso echoes, stepping closer. “she’s my roommate, dumbass. i actually give a shit if she gets hurt.”
“roommate,” suguru repeats, his smirk returning. “that what we’re calling it?”
“yeah,” choso says flatly. “that’s what we’re calling it.”
suguru laughs again, but it’s sharper this time. “come on, man. don’t tell me you’re getting protective. that’s cute.”
choso doesn’t smile. doesn’t blink. “just don’t be the asshole i know you can be, yeah?”
for a second, something flickers behind suguru’s eyes. annoyance, maybe. guilt. or nothing at all. he looks away, taking a sip of his drink. “you don’t know what you think you know, choso.”
“nah,” choso says quietly. “i know exactly what i heard.”
suguru’s gaze snaps back to him. “what?”
“the studio,” choso says, voice steady. “you should watch what you say when you think nobody’s listening to you talk shit.”
suguru freezes, for a long moment, neither of them move.
then suguru laughs again—soft, controlled. “you think you know what that was about.”
“don’t need to think,” choso says. “you said it clear as day.”
“she’s a big girl,” suguru says after a pause, voice low. “she can handle herself.”
choso’s eyes narrow. “you mean she trusts you. that’s not the same thing.” suguru doesn’t respond.
choso takes another step forward, close enough now that the smell of smoke and alcohol mixes between them. “if you don’t give a fuck about her, fine. just don’t stand here pretending you do.”
he steps back, drops the joint into an empty cup, and turns toward the hallway, he almost bumps into you.
you’re back, smiling, oblivious, still glowing from the night. “hey, what’d i miss?”
both men go still.
suguru’s mask snaps back on instantly, smile smooth and easy. “nothing, babe. just talking band shit.” you nod, glancing between them. choso’s eyes are hard to read. too calm, too quiet. you loop your arm through suguru’s. “oh! okay. drinks?”
“yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “let’s get you one.” he leads you toward the kitchen, the two of you slipping back into the party’s pulse.
choso stays where he is, arms crossed, jaw tight. from across the room, he watches as suguru hands you a drink, laughs at something you say, leans in close like nothing happened.
and for the first time in a long time, choso feels the kind of anger that doesn’t burn out, it just settles. slow, deep, and quiet.
he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his lighter, flicks it once, twice. the flame dances for a second before he shuts it off.
he takes a breath.
then another.
the music swells again, the noise swallowing everything.
and still, all he can hear is suguru’s laugh and the echo of his own restraint cracking, one hairline fracture at a time.
.
a few hours later
choso doesn’t mean to, really.
but the tight, burning knot in his chest, the one suguru’s smirk planted there, the one that grew watching him flirt with that old girl, the one that pulsed every time he saw your smile linger on suguru instead of him. fuck, it’s unbearable.
he’s been quiet, slow, keeping that lazy, half-asleep stoner mask on, puffing on his joint like everything’s fine. but it isn’t. it never has been.
he promised. always promised. no pills, no hardcore shit. just weed. the band worried enough about him already, addiction has always been a shadow he could never quite shake, and they knew if he went deeper, it’d swallow him.
but now, standing in the pulsing warehouse light, the noise vibrating up through his shoes, the alcohol and smoke thick in the air, he’s feeling something foreign. anger. jealousy. raw heat that makes his chest ache and stomach twist.
“yo, kamo,” he hears a guy drop down next to him, some old friend from college, he's leaning in. “nice to see you man. it's been ages."
choso just nods along, letting the guy talk about whatever he thinks is so important, his ears only really peeking up when the guy says, "you look like you need somethin’ a lil stronger.”
choso looks at him, slow. “mm, like what.”
the guy holds out a small baggie. pills, little white caps. “just some party shit. everyone here's doing it."
choso stares. his promise to the band, to you, floats somewhere in the back of his head , only weed, nothing heavier.
you'd all told him how addictive he could get, how dipping his feet into any sort of hardcore drugs wouldn't turn out great for him.
he takes the bag anyway. too pissed if to give a shit about anything other than numbing what he's feeling. "yeah, alright.”
“sweet,” the guy says, handing him a drink to wash it down.
the high hit him slow at first, a gentle fog wrapping itself around his chest, legs, fingers. choso felt the kind of calm that usually made him drift through a morning on the couch, hoodie loose, blunt tucked behind his ear.
but tonight, it was different. it hit like a wave he couldn’t ride without tumbling. and the warehouse, sticky, crowded, glowing in neon and sweat, was the perfect storm for it.
he wandered through the party, each step lazy, like he was moving through molasses, yet every sense screamed sharper than usual. the bassline rattled his chest, people’s voices blurred into a constant hum, the smell of booze, perfume, and sweat mixing into a heady cloud.
he took another long drag from his joint, holding the smoke, letting it curl around him, thinking it might shield him from the gnawing coil in his stomach, but it didn’t. not really.
“hey, choso,” a familiar voice broke through the haze. a fan, a girl maybe nineteen or twenty, pressed forward with wide eyes and a camera phone. “can we… like, take a pic? i love your band, dude, you’re insane on drums..
choso blinked slowly, the effects of the drug tangling with his words. “ahh, yeah… fuckin’ yeah, for sure.” he motioned lazily to the spot, half-smile tugging at his mouth. he let the girl snap a few pictures, asked her dumb little questions, about the band, gigs, where they got the idea for that last song—and he answered, voice drawling and thick, slurring words just slightly.
every few minutes, though, his gaze flicked back to you. and every time, there you were. pressed against suguru, who had that impossible grin plastered on his face, thumb brushing your hip while making conversation with someone else. choso’s stomach twisted. you weren’t tense. you laughed at something suguru said, head tilted back—but his jaw clenched.
and then he noticed it. suguru’s eyes, dark and dirty, sweeping across the room, lingering on every passing girl with a flash of that smug, possessive look. choso felt something sour bloom inside him, anger. jealousy. something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something sharp and alien.
he sucked in a long drag of his joint, letting it burn down slowly, but the warmth didn’t soothe him. the high pressed against the raw edges of his chest, amplifying the foreign heat that bubbled with every glance suguru threw.
the way his lips curved slightly at you, and yet his eyes traveled over the figure of every passer by, made choso’s fingers itch to smash something, anything.
and then it happened. a girl, tall, laughing, hair loose over her shoulders, crossed the warehouse floor, and suguru’s gaze latched onto her, heavier than he had been doing.
just like that, he leaned down slightly to you, whispered something, and before choso could register it, suguru excused himself.
"gonna step out for a bit,” he said smoothly, voice low, eyes catching choso’s once before he disappeared through the side door.
you watched him go, smiling like it was nothing. like you didn’t notice the tension he left behind.
choso’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time tonight, he felt some clarity in the chaos—the haze, the crowd, the thrum of the bass—all of it funneled into one magnetic point: you.
he made his way through the crowd, knees a little wobbly, mind thick and messy with high thoughts, each step pulling him closer to you.
when he reached you, he leaned against the wall beside the couch, blinking slowly, trying to anchor himself despite his brain telling him to just spout nonsense.
“yo,” he said, voice low, a lazy drawl that was already fraying at the edges. “hey… hey you- you look… fuck, you look like— like somethin’ really fuckin’ hot. like, goddamn, don’t even—don’t even talk, just stand there, yeah?”
you looked at him, frowning slightly. his eyes were glassy, unfocused, but they held a sharp, almost wild intensity.
“cho… did you..? what did you take?” you asked carefully, voice low, hands resting lightly on the couch back. “you’re really high right now, aren’t you?”
he blinked slowly, shaking his head, hair falling into his face. “nah… nah, it’s… just… the whole place… it’s like—fuck, it’s like the world’s spinning.”
he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to you, then back toward the doorway where suguru had disappeared. “man, I swear, every time I look… he’s lookin’… like—fuck, like he’s owning somethin’ that’s mine. not yours, mine.”
you frowned, stepping closer. “cho… slow down. breathe. you’re not making sense.”
“sense? ha!” he laughed, sharp and hoarse. “fuck sense, you’re… you’re standin’ there, and I’m… I’m—shit, I’m like, all these fuckin’ feelings,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you, voice cracking a little with the intensity.
“cho,” you said softly, moving to grab his arm, trying to steady him. “look at me. what did you take?”
he shook his head violently, sitting down on the edge of the couch, hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “nah… nah, can’t… fuck, can’t tell. you'll be mad at me. but you… you’re like… god, you’re fuckin’ everywhere in my head.”
you bit your lip, exhaling through your nose, letting a faint groan of frustration escape. “hey… listen to me. you’re too high. you’re spiraling. it’s not healthy. come on… we’re going home.”
he blinked up at you, expression softening slightly, but the haze still clouded his gaze. “home?” he muttered, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “fuck… home. yeah, yeah, you… you’re home.”
you knelt beside him, voice gentle but firm. “yeah. c’mon, we’re leaving, you're fucking soaring.”
he blinked at you, then laughed softly, a little shaky. “you… you’re fuckin’ bossy, y’know that? like… goddamn, bossy as hell… I fuckin' like it. I like it a lot.”
you shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “yeah, well, bossy is gonna save your ass tonight. now get up.” you extended a hand. he took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, gripping tightly for a moment.
as you led him through the crowd, you leaned slightly toward gojo, speaking over your shoulder. “hey, tell geto I’m leaving for the night. also tell him not to come over later.”
gojo’s grin faltered slightly, but he raised a hand in mock salute. “yeah, yeah. whatever.”
you didn’t answer, just kept walking, guiding choso toward the side door. the night air hit him like a splash, sharp and cold, clearing some of the fog from his mind. he shivered, pulling the hoodie tighter around himself, looking at you with wide, almost pleading eyes.
“fuck, it’s… it’s cold out here,” he muttered, voice rough. “but… yeah, fuck… you smell, like… everything good.”
you rolled your eyes, smiling, tugging gently on his arm. “c'mon, get in the car you big baby.”
he followed, shuffling along beside you, shoulders hunched, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. he let you guide him into the passenger seat of his sleek black mercedes, heat and regret and longing pressing together as you let go of his arm.
“yo… you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough, “I… I like you. fuckin’… like… goddamn, like really, really… yeah.”
you glanced at him, surprised, hand resting lightly on his arm. “cho… you don't know what you're saying,” you said softly, voice steady. “now let’s just get you home before you do anything stupid.”
he grinned, shaky but wide, and leaned slightly into you as you guided him along the sidewalk. “yeah… yeah, okay… home… yeah… but fuck, I swear… I swear, I’m like… all my feelings… all of ‘em… you’re fuckin’… yeah, you’re it.”
you laughed softly, shaking your head. you were starting to get really anxious. he's ever like this, never so open, never so talkative. “you're high. i don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, okay?”
~
you open the door to your apartment with a slightly more sober choso trailing behind you. normally, it was warm here, soft, your little refuge from the chaos of the outside world. tonight it was cold, unfamiliar, as if every object, the counter, the fridge, the chipped mug in the sink, was holding its breath.
choso was already inside, leaning against the kitchen bench, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.
normally, even high, he was lazy, drifting. tonight he was… heavier. darker. like every beat of his pulse carried some of the tension from the warehouse, every breath filled with something raw, sharp, desperate.
“cho?” your voice was soft, tentative, as you stepped closer. the door clicked shut behind you and the sound seemed louder than it should have been. he didn’t answer at first, just watched you, eyes glassy but unblinking, half-shadowed in the dim light.
then he moved. suddenly, decisively. one long step forward, and he was close enough that you felt the heat from him, smelled the faint mix of weed, sweat, and his cologne. before you could react, he caught your wrist and guided you toward the counter, pressing you lightly against it.
“hey,” he murmured, low, rough, voice shaking just slightly. “don’t… don’t move. just… just listen.”
you froze, pulse jumping. normally he was lazy, teasing, stoner-lazy. not like this—not intense, not… commanding in that way that made your lower stomach tighten.
“choso—” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance, his eyes flicking up to yours, desperate, pleading.
“i… i’ve been keeping something from you,” he said, voice tight. “something stupid. something i should’ve… fuck, should’ve told you about a long time ago.”
you swallowed, your heart picking up. “hmm?… what is it?”
he exhaled slowly, hands brushing against the edge of the counter near your hips, close but not overbearing, just there enough that you felt trapped in the tension he carried.
“it’s… it’s about… suguru,” he said, jaw tightening. his voice caught in his throat for a second, then he pushed through. “about all the… shit he’s said. about you, y/n.”
your stomach dropped. what the hell was he talking about? he was clearly fucked out of his mind, slurring his words as his jaw twitched. you wanted to put him to sleep, tell him to calm down, but he looked too controlling, like he'd explode if he didn't get this out.
“suguru, he… he talks about you like you’re nothing,” choso continued, hands tightening around the edge of the counter as if he needed the anchor. “like… like he’s the only one with a right to… to even fucking look at you. he… he laughed, y/n. we were at the studio, and... he said—he said such shitty things about you."
your breath caught as he leaned in closer. "l-like what?..."
"shit... he said that he likes you because you’re obedient, you're 'tight as hell', a good fuck, like you’re… like you’re just… I don’t even know, a thing for him to screw. and then—”
he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, dark eyes flicking to yours. “—then, tonight, while you were in the bathroom, doing your makeup, he went straight to his old fling, the girl he used to bang and brag about, just… just to… to prove something. he looked me dead in the eye. like he was… like he’s proud of it.”
you felt your throat tighten. your hands gripped the counter instinctively. “oh choso... i'm sorry you had to hear all of that… i—”
“no, no,” he cut you off, urgency flashing. “don’t you fucking start apologizing. don’t. you didn’t do anything. it’s all him. it’s… it’s just… i hate him. i fucking hate him, y/n.”
his voice was raw, breaking a little on the last word.
the smoke curling around him made him look sharper somehow, the dim light accentuating the edges of his face, the dark lines under his eyes. you’d never seen him like this. vulnerable, angry, but also… unflinchingly honest.
“choso... he's your band mate, i know what he did to me was shitty, but don't let that ruin your relationship with him... cmon…” your voice was quiet, unsure. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to comfort him or run. your chest hurt at the honesty in his voice.
“no. i don't care, y/n... and that’s not the worst part,” he said, leaning just a little closer, hands still on the counter, gaze locked on yours.
“the worst part is… i can’t—i can’t stop thinking about it. about him touching you, talking about you, laughing at the way he’s—fuck, i don’t even know. it makes me… it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind. like my chest is… i don’t know, ripping in two.”
your lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. his usual lazy, stoner-laden grin was gone. this was… desperate. needy. almost like he couldn’t stand not saying it out loud.
he was slurring his words, looking frantic.
“and i… i want to—” he paused, swallowed, voice rough, low. “i want to tell you… that i’d never… i’d never do that. not to you. not like him. not even close. you… you’re too good, too… i don’t… fuck. you’re not like that. and i… i like you, y/n.”
the words hit harder than you expected. you’d thought he was joking before, rambling high, maybe even teasing. but this… this was different. he was standing close, breathing uneven, heart thudding in his chest, eyes pleading, and you realised, he meant it.
“choso…” you whispered. you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tight. “you… you mean that?”
“yeah,” he said, a harsh exhale of smoke escaping his lips. “i mean it. i’ve liked you for so long, and i… fuck, i just… kept it buried. kept it lazy, kept it… i don’t know, hidden. i didn’t wanna make it weird, or fuck things up. but tonight… tonight i saw everything. you with him. and i couldn’t hold it anymore.”
he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his hand lingered, trembling slightly. “you're... you're really special to me, y’know? not like… possessive or some shit. just… like… i need you. i need you to know i don’t want anyone else doing what he did. talking about you like that. looking at you like that. not ever."
you bit your lip, heart racing, conflicted. the intensity of his confession, the anger at suguru, the neediness, it was… a lot.
you didn’t know how to feel. your body was leaning slightly into him, the pull of him against you magnetic, but your mind was spinning. suguru. choso. confusion and lust and relief all knotted together.
"why are you just telling me this now...?" you ask, shyly as he inches closer, grabbing your jaw and holding it loose.
"because i'm off my fucking face, y/n."
it was sudden, and you even giggled. because he was right. sober choso, stoned choso, he'd never been this open, never this vulnerable.
"... i don't know what to say, this is all so— fuck— it's so sudden. what am i supposed to do about suguru..." you ask, he closes his eyes and responds with his forehead pressed to yours.
"if i had it my way... you'd block his ass, never speak to the mother fucker again, and spend your nights wrapped up in my bed, instead of his. letting me take care of things, keeping you close so you'd know i was yours, asking you out like a proper fucking guy. not using you like some sort of pocket pussy."
that hit. because that's all you'd ever really wanted from someone. companionship, love, the kind of respect you just didn't feel from suguru no matter how many times you'd try make yourself think you did.
he finally let go of your face and stepped back, rubbing his hands down his own thighs like he needed the grounding. “c’mon,” he muttered, voice rough, low. “bed. i… i just wanna… be near you. just… lie down, okay?”
you nodded, still unsure, heart pounding, but the pull was magnetic. his bed was just down the hall, soft, slightly messy, with a blanket he probably hadn’t folded in days.
normally he was too stoner-lazy to care about anything resembling organization, but tonight the bed felt like a sanctuary. he moved ahead of you, swaying a little, still fumbling with his hoodie, and you followed, careful not to trip over the rug in the hallway.
once inside, he lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan that was half frustration, half relief. he patted the space beside him, a small, awkward gesture but charged with meaning. “get in here,” he said, voice soft now, almost pleading. “just… be here. with me.”
you perched at the edge for a moment, looking down at him. he looked vulnerable in the way you hadn’t seen before—high and open, yet completely raw. then, slowly, you slid in beside him.
he shifted slightly, making room, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. your head rested lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heat of his skin beneath your cheek.
“fuck… you feel good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “like… like everything i’ve been waiting for, all at once. i… i don’t want to move,"
you exhaled softly, heart hammering. “i’m here,” you whispered. “i won’t go anywhere.”
he pressed his face into your hair, a quiet groan escaping him, not sexual, not demanding, just… relief. he was holding onto you like no one's business, like proximity to you was the only thing keeping him tethered.
“i… i fucked up tonight,” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “i know… i was all over the place. off my face. but… you gotta know… i meant everything i said. every word. you’re the only one i want to be… like… close to. like this.”
you shifted a little, looking up at him. the sharp, high tension in his face had softened, replaced by a mixture of haze, exhaustion, and longing. “cho… i get it,” you murmured. “you don’t have to explain anymore. just… be here.”
you let yourself sink against him, chest pressed to his, but your mind was a storm. part of you was still sharp, aching with betrayal. the thought of suguru’s words, his casual cruelty, it stung, too fresh to be jumping into anything emotionally taxing as of now.
it left a sour taste, a tight knot in your stomach. you hated that you’d ever tried to make excuses for him, that you’d tried to convince yourself his calm exterior meant anything other than manipulation.
and yet, lying here with choso, pressed close to him, his warmth and his raw honesty wrapping around you, it felt like a shield. the tension, the anger, the hurt—they softened at the edges, dulled by the simple fact that he was here. that he wasn’t pretending. he wasn’t playing games. he didn’t want to own you—he just wanted you near, wanted to take care of you in the quietest, simplest way.
your chest warmed despite the lingering anger, the betrayal still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. and yet, in this space, tangled together, pressed close in the dim glow of his bedroom, you could let yourself be content. content with the one person who’d always been honest with you, who’d finally shown you exactly how much he cared.
for now, that was all you needed.
~
the weeks had slipped past since you’d messaged geto to fuck off. you hadn’t spoken to him since that curt text, and honestly, it was quieter than you’d expected. no drama, no confrontations, just the dull ache of his absence.
the apartment felt calmer for it, too. you and choso hadn’t talked about that night, about the confession, the intensity, the things he’d admitted, but it hovered in the space between you like a low hum, unspoken but insistent.
and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm emerged. mornings were quiet, coffee mugs and peeling toast and sleepy smiles. afternoons slipped by on the couch, half-watching a show, half-dozing, your knees brushing against his.
evenings smelled like takeout and weed, music humming in the background as he sprawled lazily on the carpet, drumsticks idly tapping against his legs.
there were moments where it almost tipped, where the electricity between you made your fingers tremble and your stomach twist. a brush of hands in the kitchen, a shared laugh over something dumb on your phone, and for a heartbeat it felt like you could collapse into each other right then and there.
but choso was careful. patient. giving you space to breathe, letting the sting of geto fade, even as his gaze lingered longer than it probably should. he still wanted you close, but he held himself back, letting you set the pace. only on your own terms would he get close, letting you slip into his bed when you got lonely, letting him rub your back when things got stressful. the little things.
the band had its own tension.
practices had become sharper, more pointed, the edges of old frustrations showing. suguru’s sulking was more obvious these days, jaw tight, fingers always on his guitar strings like he was ready to snap at any moment.
he hadn’t forgiven you, or himself, for the way you’d just ended things. toji sighed more than usual, muttering about drama infecting the rhythm of the band.
gojo, predictably, had made it his life’s mission to tease both suguru and choso mercilessly. apparently, choso had spilled every detail from that night to him, and gojo’s sharp, smug grin had never left since.
“yo, cho,” gojo called during a rehearsal break, plopping onto the bass amp with a lazy flop. “have you swooped her up yet? any new updates on your little scheme to make her your play thing?"
choso’s eyes flicked up from the drumkit, one stick lazily twirling in his fingers. “shut the fuck up, gojo. that's not what i'm doing,” he said, voice flat but amused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
he was back to his usual rhythm now. easy, teasing, present, but the underlying tension in the studio hung there anyway, like the air before a storm.
suguru scowled from the corner, tuning his guitar obsessively. “idiots,” he muttered, voice sharp. “both of you.”
toji snorted. “cho’s chillin’, you're the only one sulkin' man.”
the drums hit again, slow and steady, choso’s stick tapping a rhythm into the carpeted floor.
back at the apartment, it was quieter. the city hummed outside the windows while you and choso settled into something gentle, unspoken, almost tender.
one night, he was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, and you were perched at the edge, flipping through a magazine. your hands brushed, his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary as he gazed into your eyes like a man starved, the pull was undeniable.
“choso… we shouldn't just…ignore it.” you started, heart hammering.
he cut you off with a soft hum, eyes still hidden beneath the hood. “i know. but i’m… i’m trying… letting you breathe. letting you… heal first.”
your chest tightened. “it’s… it’s still weird. still raw. geto… he—”
“fuck geto,” he interrupted softly, voice low but firm. “he’s out. he’s done. i’m… here. for you. not asking for more than you can give.”
and that was enough. the rest of the night passed in quiet, soft laughter over dumb shows, slow music, the faint drumbeat from his sticks echoing against the walls.
no confessions, no admissions, just presence and the weight of his calm, steady warmth.
practices were intense now. the band had a gig coming up, the biggest they’d ever do. every session was longer, every riff tighter, every cymbal crash deliberate.
choso’s drumming drove the rhythm, his usual lazy charisma replaced by a quiet focus, punctuated by moments of laziness where he’d just lean into the kick drum and let the beat flow through him.
and through it all, you were there with choso. kitchen chats between sessions, lounging on the couch while he absentmindedly tapped his sticks on your coffee table, brushing against your knees when you passed by.
the apartment was your sanctuary and your battlefield, tension and warmth coexisting, your bodies close but boundaries carefully observed as you'd talk about everything.
"so, will i see you at the gig?"
"duh. i'll be front row screaming your name."
god, he wishes you would scream his.
~
the venue pulsed with energy. bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.
you could feel the bass thumping through the soles of your boots before the band even came on. a low chant started somewhere in the crowd—ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize—and spread fast, a heartbeat made of strangers.
you were front and center, caught in the current of people, hands gripping the barricade. your chest was tight, a knot of nerves and excitement wound together. this was their biggest gig yet—bigger venue, bigger crowd, the kind of show that could push them up a tier.
the lights went low. a hush fell. and then gojo’s voice hit the mic, clear and cocky, dripping with that smug grin you knew even without seeing it.
“alright, alright, you sexy motherfuckers,” he drawled, drawing out every syllable. “we’re exorcize, and we came to make your night filthy.”
the crowd erupted. lights flashed red, then white, smoke rolling over the stage. suguru stepped up first, guitar slung low, hair slicked back, jaw set tight.
toji followed, head down, fingers flexing around the neck of his bass.
choso came last, sliding onto the stool behind his drumkit, sticks already spinning between his fingers. the moment he sat, everything in the room seemed to lock into rhythm.
you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
the set kicked off hard; gojo’s voice raw and teasing, suguru’s guitar slicing through the noise, toji’s bass thick and grounding. but choso… god, choso was something else entirely.
his body moved with the rhythm like he was the rhythm. sweat already glistened at his temples, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned into each beat. his arms flexed with every strike, the muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his tee, drumsticks flashing in the lights.
it was hypnotic. enticing. you felt it low in your stomach, that steady pulse syncing with his.
geto was there, of course. you’d spotted him near the sound booth, head low, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. the sight of him twisted something sharp in you at first, but it faded fast, burned away by the heat rising from the stage.
because when choso hit that first solo, nothing else mattered. not the press of bodies, not the alcohol hiring your tounge, and definitely not suguru geto.
he tilted his head back slightly, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hands blurred.
you’d seen him play before, countless times —but this was different. this was him, stripped down, alive. raw talent and rhythm and restraint all breaking loose in front of a crowd that screamed his name.
and you were screaming it too.
every cymbal crash sent a jolt through you. every roll of his shoulders, every flick of his wrist made your breath hitch. your fingers gripped the barricade harder as heat coiled low in your belly. you couldn’t stop watching him. didn’t want to.
gojo grinned into the mic between songs, sweat dripping down his jaw. “give it up for the best damn drummer in tokyo—my guy choso!”
the crowd roared, and you swore you saw choso’s mouth twitch into the faintest, shyest grin. his gaze swept across the crowd for a fleeting second, and when it landed on you, your stomach dropped. he saw you. he felt you.
the rest of the set blurred together, grinding guitars, crashing percussion, gojo’s voice splitting the air like lightning. when they closed out with exile mind, their heaviest song, the crowd went feral.
choso drove the final beat like he was trying to break through the floor, and when the last note hit, he threw his sticks high into the crowd. one disappeared into the sea of hands; the other bounced off the barricade and landed right in front of you.
you picked it up, clutching it tight.
the lights faded. the crowd’s roar slowly dissolved into chatter and laughter, the sound of the night spilling back into the open air. the band vanished backstage, swallowed by cables.
you slipped through the press of bodies, heart still pounding, the drumstick warm in your hand. a couple of drinks from the merch table had loosened your nerves, and you could feel a confident heat rolling low in your belly, pressing against the restraint you’d been holding onto all night.
when you found him outside—behind the venue, near the alley where the smoke from the back door curled upward—he was leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, head tipped back, still catching his breath.
“you were…” your voice caught, breath slightly slurred and warm from the drinks, “holy shit, choso, you were incredible.”
his lips quirked, soft and tired. “yeah?”
“yeah.” you stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, deliberately letting your hand linger a second longer on his chest. “i couldn’t look away. like… i don’t even have words. you sounded—” you lowered your voice, letting the warmth of the drinks give you boldness, “you sounded so good. so fucking good.”
his gaze flicked to yours, something dark and quiet sparking in it. the pull between you was immediate, electric, and you let your fingers brush his hoodie again, teasing, deliberate.
“you think so?” he asked softly, voice rougher, more ragged than usual.
you nodded, stepping closer until your body nearly pressed against his. “yeah. you made me feel it. every beat.” your lips curved into a half-smile, half-grin, letting the alcohol fuel a boldness you usually didn’t give yourself.
after weeks of pretending like there was nothing going on between you, this was definitely the breaking point.
"i couldn’t stop thinking about you, how i'm so lucky to have such a talented friend.”
he swallowed, shoulders rising, that lazy grin cracking just slightly as he stepped a fraction closer.
for a second, the air felt so thick you could barely breathe.
the back door swung open then, and gojo’s voice cut through the air.
“yo, you two!” he shouted, grinning under the streetlights. “afterparty at mine. everyone’s invited. you better show up, cho—you owe me a joint and a round of beer for that call out, man.”
choso didn’t even glance back. his gaze stayed on you, dark and intense.
you tilted your head, voice soft but teasing, letting the boldness roll over your words. “maybe skip it,” you said, hand still lightly resting against his chest. “the last afterparty didn’t go so well for you, remember?”
his laugh was low, slightly hungry, genuine. “yeah,” he murmured. “fair point.”
“come home,” you said, your body brushing against his side as you spoke, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “come home. with me.”
he hesitated a heartbeat, then exhaled, eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“yeah. home sounds really good.”
.
as soon as the door clicked shut, the air between you ignited. his hand found the small of your back before you could even react, pulling you flush against him. your body pressed to his chest, heart hammering, pulse racing, every nerve alight with anticipation.
“fuck,” he breathed, forehead leaning to yours, voice low and rough, vibrating in your chest. “i can't take this anymore. i can't keep ignoring this.”
you swallowed, breath hitching, hands braced against his shoulders. “cho—”
he cut you off with a growl, lips brushing against your jaw as his hands slid down to grip your hips firmly, anchoring you to him. “no. fuck that. i mean it. i… i’ve been holding back everything. every word, every look, every feeling.”
your stomach fluttered, heat pooling between your thighs, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down your spine. he tilted your chin up, eyes dark, heavy with desire and something softer, something raw and unguarded. “i can’t… can’t stand it anymore, y/n. that night, everything i said… everything i’ve wanted… i need you so badly.”
“choso…” your voice was breathless, half warning, half pleading, but your body betrayed you, leaning in closer, the tension unbearable.
he laughed, low, rough, almost a growl. “jesus, look at you. you're so fucking beautiful… i want you all to myself, all of the time. i don't know how i control myself most of the time, y/n.” his hands roamed lower, teasing the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft line of your hips.
“i need you. i’ve wanted you… every lazy, fucking long day i’ve spent here in your vicinity, it's like i can't breathe properly without you.”
your chest tightened, mind spinning, everything he’d said that night pooling back into focus—his confession, the anger at suguru, the raw truth. you’d thought it was a high, a ramble, but now… seeing him, feeling him, you knew it was real.
“ i—” you started, voice trembling, then cut yourself off as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours.
the kiss hit first soft, lips delicately meeting for the first time, then it grew demanding. a low growl vibrating from his chest, hands gripping your hips tighter, rolling you against him like it was the only natural motion in the universe.
you gasped, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, feeling the press of his hardness against you, the undeniable weight of him. your body arched instinctively, pressed to his, heart hammering, chest rising and falling in sync.
“tell me,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, low. “tell me you want me… all of this… me.”
your eyes fluttered open, heart in your throat, and you met his gaze. you looked him up and down and pulled him in tight, letting your lips do the talking.
"does that answer your question?"
he groaned, a sharp, feral sound that made your stomach clench, and pressed harder, pinning you against the door like it was his god-given right. “good,” he breathed, tilting his head as his lips sought yours again, slower now, tasting, teasing, claiming. “i need to… i need to ask, too.”
“ask?” you whispered, breathless.
he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. “be… mine, y/n. completely. no games, no half-assed shit. i want you. all of you.”
your chest tightened, eyes swimming with heat, desire, and relief. “yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, letting everything spill out.
that was all he needed. his grin cracked wide, teeth grazing your lips, and he dove back into your mouth, hands wandering over every inch he could reach, lips and tongue claiming, teeth grazing just enough to draw gasps from you.
you pressed into him, hands clawing at his back, hips grinding, the friction of his body against yours setting you alight. each kiss was sharper, heavier, demanding, full of need and want and something that had been simmering for years.
he backed you into the hallway, every step making the tension coil tighter, until finally he spun you gently, but with no less force, toward the bedroom. the air was thick, your breaths ragged, hands clutching at each other’s clothing, trying to close the distance you both had held back for too long.
“god, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you shivered violently. “i’ve needed this… wanted you… for so long.”
you couldn’t hold back anymore. “me too, cho. so badly.”
he groaned, a deep, rough sound vibrating through your chest, hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer as you crossed the threshold into the bedroom. the door shut behind you with a definitive click, muffling the city outside, leaving only the sound of your hearts, your breaths, and the magnetic pull between your bodies.
and then… he kissed you again, slow and searing, full of hunger and want and heat, pressing you onto the bed as your legs tangled together, bodies seeking, finding, consuming.
he’s all teeth and tongue, biting, sucking, nipping at your neck, shoulder, jaw, dragging low, urgent groans from deep in his chest that make you ache and melt at the same time.
your nails rake down his back, pulling him closer, and he leans in, grinding, pressing, heat and hunger radiating from him in waves that make your knees weak.
“fuck, choso—” you gasp, but he swats your hands away gently, lips still devouring yours, teeth grazing, tongue probing, tugging, tasting.
every touch, every snap of his hips as he grinds his clothed cock against you, makes your clit pulse with anticipation.
his fingers slip under your shirt, pressing and pinching at your hardened nipples, trailing down your sides slowly, dragging heat across your skin.
your hands clutch at him, tugging his hoodie off of his body, anything to get more of him, more contact, more friction. he responds with a low, guttural growl, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips snapping hard, testing, teasing, driving you insane with want as he tears off his shirt.
you catch a glimpse of the body you'd see on the daily, a perfect chiseled masterpiece, only this time, it was all yours.
he doesn’t just kiss you, he devours you. hands roaming over your pretty body, he slips your skirt off next, and slides his big, veiny hand down, down, until the thick pads of his fingers tease and prod at your wet bundle of nerves. you hiss in reply.
"fuck! choso— that feels— so good!"
he smirks at your confession and slowly pushes his thick digits inside, scissoring them back and forth, driving you up the wall as you let out pretty, breathless moans.
"ch-choso!"
his mouth drifts lower, teasing the swell of your breasts, biting just enough to make you arch and cry out.
after working you open, he kisses your lips tenderly before pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. his rock hard cock springs free, and, wow. just wow.
"th-that's not gonna fit..."
"we'll make it fit, baby."
and fit it did. he slowly pushed his fat tip past your puffy lips, whispering reassuring praise as you squeezed your eyes shut from the streeeetch.
"aww— you can do it, ma. you're doing so good for me. that's it, just keep breathing baby."
his hips jerked forward, letting the last few inches fully stretch you out, earning a porn star worthy moan rip from your throat.
"holy fuck— holly shit! choso, you're so big!"
he groaned in satisfaction, your cunt swallowing him whole as he slapped his hips back and forth over and over again, cursing and moaning deeply into your ear.
his pace turns brutal, like all of his emotions were being poured into fucking you nice and deep, the way you deserved.
he dips his face down impossibly close to your face to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. he smirks against your skin, letting lewd comments tumble out of his smirking lips.
"you moan so prettily for me baby— shit— nothing— hah— gets me harder than hearing you whine like a slut while i fuck you fast."
you arch, grinding against him without thinking, letting the friction and his raw heat take over, body trembling beneath him. he groans into your neck, claws digging into your thighs, holding you open, guiding, punishing, claiming.
he’s insatiable. every roll of his hips, every snap, every deep press of him against you makes your body combust, trembling, gasping, aching for more. your moans, ragged and loud, fuel him, and he leans in, tongue and teeth and lips all at once, relentless, like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.
you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything but ride the fire, hips rolling into him, chest pressing into his, skin slick and shivering. he drives you higher, deeper, grinding with unrelenting intensity, low growls vibrating through his chest, vibrating through you.
"fuck! baby— gonna cum— gonna fill y' up, shit!"
you locked your legs around his torso as his thrusts become more and more feverish, the sheer pace making your face squeeze tight in ecstasy.
he's breathing heavy, holding your hips against him so hard you're sure his hands will leave bruises, your cunt being relentlessly pounded as he finally lets go.
"fuck— y/n! fuck i love you, i love you so much!"
you gasp at his words and blurt out a response like it was muscle memory, like it was the most perfect irrevocable truth.
"i love you too, choso— hah!—,"
when he finally drives the both of you over the edge, it’s explosive. he pants and collapses immediately, groaning into your chest as he caresses your hair, speaking soft praise into your ear.
"god, that was so good. you did so well f'me... holy shit, y/n. you're so perfect, so good... you took me like a fucking champ."
you were too busy coming down to fully comprehend, but you cradled his head against your chest all the same.
he doesn’t pull away. just holds you, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your forehead, arms tight around you, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling, pulse still wild. the tension hasn’t left, it’s just simmering now, a coiled heat between you two that promises this is only the beginning.
you’re still gasping, shivering, trembling in the aftermath, but it’s… thrilling, dark, messy, and perfect. he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once more, teeth grazing, murmuring something low and rough that makes your stomach knot again.
"i love you, y/n. you're mine. i don't fuck and dip, this is a forever thing now, okay? i promise, i'm never letting you get away from me."
the world outside is gone. it’s just the two of you, tangled, fevered, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.
you reply through breathless speech, looking deep into his beautiful, tired eyes.
"i know, cho. and that's all i've ever really needed."
2. 'I didn't account for the rotation of the planet and how that affects the constalations while my characters stargazed at different times of year, I have failed as a writer, and this entire thing is trash'
A/N: this took an imense amount of work. please enjoy it. i spent a LOT of time on this.
warnings: long ( over 10kwords). pls give this a chance. smut, PROTECTED smut. slight violence, soulmate AU, shibuya happens, angst with a very happy ending (no one dies).
You know those mornings where the gods themselves seem to wake up and decide: Yes. You. You specifically. You’re fucked.
Yeah. That was you today.
Picture it: your alarm didn’t go off (because you, in your hubris, trusted “vibrate only” mode like a fool). Chairman Meow, furious about the move to Tokyo and his new food bowls (“peasant-tier,” you imagine him saying in his tiny feline Shakespearean brain), had decided the only appropriate revenge was to piss—piss with intention—on your fresh laundry pile.
So instead of ironing a cute fit for your very first day at Jujutsu High, you were spritzing Febreze on a shirt and muttering, “This is how people become alcoholics, Chairman.”
You’re late.
Not just, “oops, forgot my umbrella and need to hustle” late. No. This is the first day at your brand-new grown-up job teaching sorcerers how not to get eaten by curses late. Which is different. It’s cosmically, monumentally, “the gods are laughing at you while they eat their stupid ambrosia on Olympus” kind of late.
And of course, the culprit is none other than Chairman Meow. Your fluffy tyrant of a cat who, upon being relocated from the countryside to your cute, candle-filled, cute-ass apartment, decided to piss on the only pair of pants that both:
Make your ass look good, and
Don’t make you feel like a stuffed sausage after one onigiri.
So now you’re in your emergency pants. The ones with a button so loose it could pop off and murder a man in cold blood.
“Don’t wait up for me,” you hiss at Chairman Meow, who has perched himself on the table, watching you suffer. He blinks. Slowly. Condescendingly. Bastard.
*-*
The Tokyo metro is your last chance at salvation.
You make it. By the skin of your teeth, by the grace of every benevolent spirit that decided not to trip you as you sprinted down the stairs in shoes that squeak like dying mice. The train shudders, the doors beep, and you slip inside with the athleticism of someone whose entire career depends on not fucking this up.
You’re safe. You’re sweaty. You smell faintly of stress and cat pee. But you’re safe.
Until you’re not.
The train halts at your stop. You fling yourself towards the doors, bag bouncing against your thigh, hair sticking to your face, when—
WHAM.
Something collides with you. No, someone. Tall. Broad. Solid in the way brick walls are solid. He mutters an apology, deep-voiced and clipped, but he’s already moving past you, already stepping onto the train while you stagger on the platform like a drunk toddler.
And then—
Oh.
Oh.
There it is. That feeling. That stupid, ridiculous, heart-bursting tidal wave of oh fuck.
It hits you square in the chest, radiating outwards like some lovesick nuclear bomb. You feel everything, all at once—joy so bright it hurts, relief so deep you could drown in it, this euphoria that has you clutching at your emergency pants like they might anchor you to reality.
Sharp and sudden, yet devastatingly gentle. The kind of moment that doesn't just knock the air out of your lungs, but steals something far more vital.
The contact was brief. Shoulder to chest. Hands grazing like the accident they were never meant to be. But in that one second, the entire universe collapsed into a pinpoint of quiet between you. Time fractured. You blinked up at him—and felt it. The pull. The ache. A magnetic hum that thrummed down to the marrow. His eyes widened, shocked, like he’d just remembered a name he hadn’t known he’d forgotten.
Your soulmate.
The word alone makes your knees buckle. Because that’s what this is. What it has to be. You’ve read about it, heard about it, mocked people for getting all mushy about it—and now? Now you’re standing slack-jawed on a metro platform while your heart composes sonnets in real time.
And him. The man. The soulmate.
Blond hair, sharp suit, jawline that could probably cut glass. He’s inside the car, the doors sliding shut between you like some bad soap opera, and he’s staring right at you. Wide-eyed. Silent. Like maybe—maybe—he feels it too.
The door alarms chimed. The world resumed.
And the metro closed its silver jaws around him and took him away.
The train pulls away.
And there you stood. On the platform. Staring at the blur of steel and light, as if it had just stolen the rest of your life. As if the bone-deep rightness you had felt in his touch—terrifying and tender and inevitable—had been something sacred, and now, ripped away. You didn’t even know his name, but it didn’t matter. Your soul already did.
And you’re left on the platform, vibrating like a tuning fork that just got whacked by God’s own hammer.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”
You yell it. Out loud. To the heavens, to the commuters pretending not to hear you, to the pigeons who are already judging you from above. Your soulmate. Your once-in-a-lifetime, cosmically assigned other half. And he just—got on the train.
Didn’t even hesitate. Just zoom, gone, off to whatever Very Important Business Meeting awaits a man who looks like he eats spreadsheets for breakfast.
*-*
You check your phone.
You are so, so late.
There are two options here.
Option one: chase after the train, spend the rest of the day in a lovesick, sweaty haze, maybe get arrested for causing a scene.
Option two: go to your first day of work, pretend like you didn’t just get bitch-slapped by fate, and hope to god your soulmate isn’t the type of man who forgets the most life-changing experience of both your lives in the span of three metro stops.
You clutch your bag tighter, muttering to yourself as you sprint for the school gates.
“Great. Fantastic. Love this for me. First day of work, soulmate’s already ghosted me via public transportation, cat’s a piss gremlin, and my pants are seconds from committing manslaughter. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Somewhere in the distance, Chairman Meow sneezes.
And you think—maybe, just maybe—you’ll strangle him when you get home.
*-*
Nanami Kento is a man of structure. Order. Precision. A man who wakes up, eats a simple breakfast, ties his tie with the exact same tension each morning, and gets on with the business of keeping the world from collapsing under curses and chaos.
And yet.
When he makes it into his office after his little incident at the metro, he sits down at his desk, opens his laptop, and immediately thinks:
What the actual fuck just happened.
Because, really, what the fuck did just happen?
The absolute clusterfuck that slammed into him at the metro station that morning had him… unwell.
Not physically. Physically he was fine. Beige suit unwrinkled. Hair immaculate, not a single strand out of place. Outwardly: perfect picture of a man on his way to a finance job he secretly loathed.
Internally? Part of his brain was throwing it back like a stripper on rent day.
Booty shorts, ass clapping, confetti cannon.
Because apparently, he had just run headfirst into his soulmate.
He was still replaying the exact moment when he slammed into you like the world’s most polite battering ram.
The other half? Oh, that half is, as stated earlier, currently dropping it low, twerking in his subconscious, because holy hell—the bond. The bond is real. The weight of it, the shimmer of it, the way it clings to his ribcage like a second set of lungs.
He can feel it tugging at him. Always there. Persistent. A reminder that his soulmate exists somewhere in this city, breathing, cursing, living.
Which, yes, is beautiful and profound and poetic. It’s also so fucking inconvenient.
He has work.
Numbers to file, meetings to attend, sorcerer-related bureaucracy to tolerate without stabbing someone in the throat. But no—his brain has decided to instead spend the day writing emotional fanfiction about your eyes (were they… actually glowing? or was he just delirious from lack of caffeine?) and the way your mouth opened in shock.
Nanami: I have to focus on the budget report.
Also Nanami: But what if she likes cats? What if she doesn’t? What if she hates cats? What does this mean for our future??
He pressed his fingers to his temple and exhaled, deep and slow.
He was not a man prone to dramatics. But today, he had to accept one simple fact:
The universe had just bent him over and spanked him with destiny.
The entire workday was ruined. Every time he tried to focus on numbers, that rush of euphoria replayed. Her face replayed. The shock in her eyes replayed. The doors closing replayed.
Nanami wanted to scream into his tie. Instead, he sat stoically through meetings, nodded at quarterly reports, and occasionally thought: I need to bash my head into a fax machine.
*-*
The day drags like a wounded dog.
Emails blur. Spreadsheets look like Egyptian hieroglyphs. His patience, never abundant to begin with, is shaved down to the thickness of a communion wafer.
By the time his shift ends, Nanami feels like he’s lived three lifetimes in the span of eight hours, all of them full of existential dread and an alarming number of thoughts about your hair. He adjusts his tie, grabs his briefcase, and trudges back toward the metro like a man marching to execution.
The entire way, he keeps asking himself the same thing:
How the hell am I supposed to find her again?
Tokyo is vast. Millions of people. The odds of bumping into you twice are laughable, astronomical. He’s not the kind of man who indulges in romantic fate-driven optimism. He’s practical. Which makes the bond—the constant pull of it—almost cruel.
Still. He steps up to the platform. The metro screeches to a stop. The doors slide open.
And just as he goes to step inside—
Someone grabs him.
“HEY. HEY YOU. STOP. BLONDIE. DON’T MOVE.”
You.
Y o u.
Dragging him back onto the platform with the feral strength of a woman who has had enough of today’s bullshit.
The doors beep-beep-beep, then close. The train leaves without him. He stares down at you. You stare back up at him.
It’s awkward. It’s overwhelming. It’s— oh and you're talking:
“Oh my god,” you blurt, “hi. It’s you. Again. Jesus Christ, okay. Sorry. Um. Hi.”
Nanami blinks. Slowly. He feels like someone just unplugged his brain and forgot to turn it back on.
You, however, are not afflicted with silence. No. You are afflicted with word vomit.
“So! Um! This is crazy, right? Wild. Ha-ha-ha. Totally normal. Just two people slamming into each other on the metro, no big deal, except—” you gesture violently at the space between you, “—there’s like this thing. This bond. This absolute cosmic fuckery. Which, um, I’m guessing you felt? You did feel it, right? Otherwise, wow, this would be mortifying.”
Nanami's brain was buffering. His processing.exe has stopped working
You on the other hand, had an absolutely unhinged infodump mode engaged
“I’m—uh—me. Hi. New in Tokyo. I just started a new job! Biology teacher. Yep. Definitely just biology, nothing suspicious there, ha-ha, why would there be. Anyway, first day was a train wreck, but—oh, speaking of trains, look at that, yours is gone, sorry about that, ha-ha.”
You are sweating. Talking too fast. Pulling out your bag like a magician about to reveal a rabbit. Instead, you yank out a post-it note, scribble furiously, and slap it into his hand.
“That’s my number. In case, you know, you want to—uh—talk. Or, like, coordinate. Or, I don’t know, soulbond activities? Whatever people do in these situations. I’m not good at this. Clearly. But there you go.”
You step back, huffing. Waiting. Watching his expression like he’s about to announce whether or not you’ll be executed by guillotine.
And Nanami—poor Nanami—just stands there. Staring at the post-it like it’s the Rosetta Stone. His mouth opens. Closes. His brow furrows.
You, naturally, assume the worst.
“Oh my god,” you groan, clutching your forehead, realising he might be disappointed, maybe he's part of one of those weird families that don't believe in being with soulmates, maybe he's already in a relationship, maybe— “You’re disappointed. Aren’t you? Amazing. Fate really said, fuck this man in particular.”
Nanami finally speaks. Low, deliberate, like he’s wading through molasses.
“…Kento. Nanami Kento.”
And just like that—oh.
The tension in your chest fizzles. Not gone. Not really. But lighter. Because even if he’s slow, even if he’s processing like a Windows 98 computer, he didn’t run. He didn’t vanish. He gave you his name.
And somehow, that feels like the beginning of something.
*-*
The metro rattles away without you, taking Blond Tall Stoic Soulmate with it, and you’re left standing on the platform like an idiot. Heart pounding. Brain buzzing. Hand sweaty around a pen that definitely wasn’t designed for such high-stakes scribbling.
You did it. You actually did it.
You gave him your number. Which means you are now technically in possession of a soulmate, which is a win. Even if he was staring at you like you were a raccoon who wandered into a bakery. Even if you word-vomited like you were auditioning for the Guinness World Record of Oversharing.
Still. A win.
You step out of the station, take in the Tokyo evening air, and whisper to yourself:
“God. I’m so fucking good at this.”
*-*
Home. At last. Your little apartment greets you like a Studio Ghibli hug—soft lamplight, potted plants trying their best, incense faintly burnt out. It smells like fresh tatami and your lavender room spray. It is home.
And more importantly—
Chairman Meow has NOT pissed on anything.
Not the couch.
Not the laundry basket.
Not even the decorative throw pillow you thrifted and loved with your whole chest.
It was a miracle. A literal miracle.
“VICTORY!” you roar, dropping your bag dramatically in the doorway. Chairman Meow blinks at you from his throne on the couch, tail flicking like a metronome of disdain. His expression said: You fool. I piss when I want. Today I chose mercy.
You collapse beside him, grab his fluffy cheeks, and shout, “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY FUCKING LIFE.”
He meows. Noncommittally. Probably asking when dinner is.
But no, this is your time. You are radiant. You are glowing. You are practically Disney-princess-twirling through your living room.
*-*
The universe really has no business being this ironic.
Because listen: after the chaos of The Train Incident™ (capital T, capital I, don’t ask questions), you should’ve gone home to a puddle of cat urine, cried into your cursed Febreze shirt, and maybe eaten cup ramen in the dark while whispering, I am unlovable like a weird creature of the dark.
But no.
So life was great, you were overjoyed. You spun in a circle like a ballerina, chanting, “No piss, no piss, no piss—” before collapsing onto your couch with the exhaustion of someone who had sprinted through Tokyo traffic, locked eyes with her literal soulmate, and survived to tell the tale.
“Guess who met her soulmate today? That’s right, baby, it’s me. Your mother. Who is now cosmically shackled to a six-foot-tall tax accountant-looking man with the jawline of a Grecian god. Do you know what that means?”
Chairman Meow: licks paw, ignores you
“It means I am no longer a single, tragic, spinster cat-mom! No more crying over burnt curry at midnight while you watch me with judgmental little raccoon eyes. No more praying to Inari for companionship! The universe delivered!”
Chairman Meow: tries to bite your hand
“Violence will not dim my joy!”
That’s when your laptop pinged.
An email. From your new employers at Jujutsu High. Subject line: Welcome to the Team!
You cracked open the laptop with the grace of a raccoon unwrapping fast food. The email was cheerful, formal, and vaguely threatening in that way institutions always are. You skimmed.
Blah blah blah, you’re the new curse studies specialist, blah blah blah, here’s your faculty handbook, blah blah blah, attached please find a file introducing our currently active sorcerers in Tokyo.
Attached: some document with way too many pages, detailing the active sorcerers in Tokyo, their specialties, their assignments, their blood types, shoe sizes, probably what they had for breakfast this morning.
You saw the attachment.
You ignored the attachment.
Why? Because, Chairman Meow didn’t piss on your sheets, and for once, your life wasn’t on fire. You deserved a moment of peace.
Instead, you launched into a one-woman play starring: You, Your Cat, and Your Soulmate Who May or May Not Hate You. Which meant repeating a step by step of what happened in the morning.
“Okay, Chairman. Listen.” You scooped him up, ignoring his offended yowl. “So this morning was hell, right? Like, you literally pissed on my laundry, and I thought my students were gonna smell the Febreze cloud radiating off me. BUT. But. Do you know what else happened? Do you know what the fuck else happened, Chairman?”
Chairman stared, eyes narrowing.
You gasped dramatically. “I met my soulmate. My soulmate. The cosmic other half. The peanut butter to my jelly. The Romeo to my Juliet—except without the double suicide because that’s fucking stupid. The man. The myth. The very beige legend.”
Chairman Meow sneezed in your face.
You carried on, unhinged.
“He’s hot. Like… unfairly hot. Tall, blond, broad-shouldered. Wears a suit like he’s about to fire you and then rail you against a filing cabinet. I swear, Chairman, when he looked at me, my ovaries tried to unionize. Do you understand the severity?”
You plopped him back on the couch, raking your hands through your hair.
“He didn’t say much, though. Just… processing. Which, fine, yeah, same. But like. What if he is disappointed? What if he wanted, I don’t know, a ballerina supermodel chef who never sweats? And instead he got me, a biology teacher whose defining personality trait is ‘cat owner with seasonal depression.’”
Your phone buzzed.
You stared at it.
Nothing. Not him. Just spam: “Congratulations, you’ve won a cruise to Okinawa.”
“Cool,” you muttered. “The only thing I’ve ever won is diarrhea.”
Chairman stretched luxuriously.
You flopped back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s not a sorcerer. That’s… that’s gonna be an issue. My life is curses, his life is spreadsheets. We’re doomed. Destined to a tragic love affair where I die dramatically in his arms after being skewered by a centipede demon while he weeps in his beige suit.”
You sighed.
“Fuck, that’s hot though.”
Across the room, your laptop dinged again. The sorcerer dossier sat unopened, glowing innocently on your desktop.
Inside, waiting patiently, was a neatly formatted profile picture of one: Kento Nanami, Grade 1 Sorcerer.
But you didn’t open it.
Because you were too busy telling your cat how good his fur felt and celebrating the fact that—for once—your life didn’t feel like a piss-soaked fever dream.
*-*
Nanami is spiraling.
No, not outwardly—outwardly he looks the same as always: a pressed shirt, a calm jawline, the kind of man you’d trust to deliver a quarterly report without ever blinking. But internally? His brain is throwing an unholy rave.
Because here’s the thing about soulmates that no one really tells you until it’s too late: you can’t fucking ignore them.
Like, literally. People have tried. People have gone, “Oh, haha, I’m too busy to meet my soulmate, what’s the worst that could happen?” And then they just… wasted away. Became like those old sotries from the Victorian women who fainted all the time and coughed blood into lace handkerchiefs. Fate is mean like that.
And Nanami Kento? Nanami Kento is not about to let himself wither like a wilting rose in some melodramatic Russian novel.
But still.
He rubs his temples, pacing his immaculate apartment. His tie is discarded on the counter. His sleeves are rolled up. And the thoughts spiral on repeat, like an angry washing machine:
She’s normal. She has to be normal. She probably goes to bed at ten and wakes up at seven and waters her plants and doesn’t know curses exist. What the hell am I supposed to tell her? That I stay out until three in the morning fighting the kinds of monsters she doesn’t even believe in? That sometimes I come home covered in blood that isn’t mine? That I file expense reports for holy water?
What am I supposed to say? “Sorry, darling, can’t come over tonight, a cursed fetus is trying to kill my boss”?
He sinks onto the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fate, the cruel mistress, has handed him a soulmate who will never understand.
Unless…
Unless he quits.
The thought is so blasphemous he almost laughs.
Nanami, who gave up finance because the corporate world was worse than death, now considering giving up sorcery just to keep from breaking his soulmate’s heart.
Ridiculous.
Insane. But also—he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop imagining it: a normal job, a normal life, dinner at a decent hour, mornings spent in a kitchen that smells like coffee and toasted bread, her laughter somewhere in the background.
He runs a hand down his face. “This is already out of hand.”
Because here’s the other thing about soulmates: the feelings don’t build slowly. No. They come in like a goddamn tsunami. He’s known you for less than twenty-four hours and already his chest aches when he thinks of you. Already he wants to know everything—what your favorite tea is, whether you like dogs, if you’ve ever been to the seaside in winter. He wants. And Nanami doesn’t want easily.
It’s terrifying.
And then there’s the phone.
The post-it with your number is tucked into his wallet like a fragile treasure. His phone sits heavy in his hand. He knows he has to text you. Knows that if he doesn’t, this thing between you will curdle into something sharp and unbearable.
But what the hell does one say to their soulmate?
He scrolls through the drafts he’s typed and deleted:
“Hello. This is Nanami.” = Too cold. Sounds like a ransom note.
“It was nice meeting you.” = Too nice. Too eager. He is not nice.
“Do you like cats?” = Too weird. Soulmate or not, he can’t lead with cats.
“Would you like to meet again?” = Too forward. She might think he’s unhinged.
Nanami exhales sharply. “Ridiculous.”
Finally, after far too long, he types:
Nanami Kento: This is Nanami. Thank you for giving me your number. I hope your day went well.
Simple. Polite. Balanced. Not too open, not too closed. A perfect Nanami message.
He stares at it for another five minutes before hitting send.
Somewhere across town, you are lying in bed, babbling to your cat about how your soulmate is probably the kind of man who eats miso soup very quietly, when your phone buzzes. You screech loud enough to terrify Chairman Meow off the bed. Poor cat tripples in size.
But Nanami doesn’t know that.
Nanami only knows that he has crossed some invisible line now. He’s in it. Inescapably, inexorably in it.
And here’s the kicker: if Nanami had opened his inbox earlier, he would have seen a cheerful email from Jujutsu High:
Inside, right there on page one, your smiling face. The new curse biology teacher. His soulmate.
But Nanami, ever the fool, didn’t open it.
So instead, he sits in his immaculate apartment, already considering life-altering career changes, completely oblivious to the fact that you already live in the same cursed world he does.
*-*
The weeks blur into something almost pleasant.
You and Nanami text.
Not obsessively—he’s not that kind of man. No, it’s more like these small, steady drops of water in the desert. Reliable. Grounding. His style is… minimalistic. Polite. A man who has never once in his life typed “lmao” without meaning it.
Nanami Kento: Good morning.
You: good morning king, chairman meow just tried to climb into my teapot. do you accept custody of this war criminal?
Nanami Kento: No.
You: 😔 coward
You sent him photos of Chairman Meow in increasingly bizarre positions (Chairman sleeping inside your laundry basket; Chairman glaring at you from atop the fridge; Chairman Meow mid-yowl with the caption: screm). Nanami, in return, sent you blurry, solemn pictures of random street cats.
He never fails to answer, though.
He even sends you the occasional cat photo, which you know must have been a harrowing process, because it was all very tame, very civilized. Nanami texted like a man drafting formal correspondence with the Queen:
Good morning. I hope your class goes well today.
I encountered a calico cat near my office. It reminded me of Chairman Meow.
Remember to eat lunch.
Does he bend down in his expensive suit just to capture some stray tabby on his commute? You like to think so. You save them all in a folder labeled “Evidence That Nanami Has a Heart.”
You run into each other on the metro a couple of times. Each time it’s the same thing: brief, intense eye contact. The bond singing between you like a taut violin string. And then beep-beep-beep, the doors close, and off you go. It’s maddening. A romantic comedy with the world’s worst timing.
Still. It’s something.
*-*
And then.
Oh, and then.
The day comes when fate decides to dropkick subtlety straight into hell.
Because the universe is a sick little freak, it decided the next time you actually met in person would be mid-apocalypse.
It hit downtown—fast, vicious, ugly. A grade-two that escalated into several grade-twos, multiplying like cockroaches. Civilians screaming, buildings cracking, and every sorcerer in a twenty-mile radius was called.
There’s a curse. A big one.
The kind of big where your phone is buzzing like it’s being possessed, every available sorcerer being called in. You’re not an attacker—you’re defense, support, the one who makes sure your colleagues don’t get obliterated in the first two minutes.
Your job is shields, barriers, keeping flesh attached to bones. And keep the flesh conscious and breathing please.
You arrive on the scene, curses roiling like smoke in the air, buildings groaning under the weight of it all. Sorcerers everywhere, clashing, shouting, running. The night is lit up with cursed energy like someone dropped fireworks into a hurricane.
And there—front and center—is Nanami.
Mr. Beige Efficiency in person.
You almost don’t recognize him at first. Not in his neat suit, no metro briefcase. Here he’s all lines and sharpness, curse energy crackling down his blade. Cold, efficient, devastating. He’s terrifyingly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes you want to throw up and cry at the same time.
You don’t have time to marvel, though, because the fight goes bad. The curse lashes out, a massive arm like a wrecking ball, and—
WHAM.
Nanami is launched through a concrete wall like a human cannonball.
“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE—”
You sprint. Shield flaring, lungs burning, heart in your throat. You scramble over debris and smoke until—there. A crumpled blond salaryman in a pile of rubble.
“Hey! Hey, stay with me!” You drop to your knees, shaking his shoulder. His eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused.
“…Am I hallucinating?” he rasps, squinting at you like you’re a mirage in the desert.
Nanami just stares at you. Stares like you’re an escaped convict who has inexplicably wandered into his workplace.
“Oh, thank God. You’re a sorcerer. Do you know how relieved I am right now? I thought I was cosmically shackled to some civilian tax accountant. I was already drafting the lies in my head. ‘Sorry, babe, gotta work late’—but actually I’m covered in blood. That would’ve been a nightmare.”
He blinks. “You’re… a sorcerer.”
You grin. “Surprise, motherfucker.”
Around you, the battle rages. The ground shakes. Someone screams. A sorcerer yells for backup. But in this moment, it’s just you and him. His disbelief. Your relief. The bond humming so loud it drowns out the chaos.
“Look, I know this is a lot, and you probably have a concussion, but holy shit, Nanami, this is a win for us. Like, cosmic jackpot. Soulmate synergy. I can shield your ass while you chop curses in half. It’s like marriage but with more gore.”
Nanami, hoarse: “This is… absurd.”
“Welcome to my TED Talk. Now get up before that thing eats both of us.”
You haul him to his feet, shield flaring around you both as another cursed blast tears through the air. He steadies himself, blade at the ready, still staring at you like he’s trying to reconcile the you he saw on the metro with the you currently holding a shimmering barrier over his head.
And then, finally, finally—something cracks. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Nanami Kento doesn’t smile. But maybe the ghost of one.
“…I suppose,” he mutters, “this makes things less complicated.”
You laugh, manic, giddy, alive. “Nanami, this makes things so much more complicated.”
You throw up another shield. He slices a curse in half. The battlefield roars around you, but for the first time since you met him, you’re fighting side by side.
And it feels inevitable. Like this is what fate had in mind all along.
*-*
The curse is dead. Finally.
Its body collapses into sludge, the air still humming with that sour, electric taste of cursed energy dissipating. Your shield flickers out around you, leaving nothing but raw night and smoke and the faint ringing in your ears.
Nanami is alive. Bruised, bloodied, covered in equal parts human and monster goo, but standing. Sword at his side, chest heaving, eyes locked on yours like you’ve just rewritten the laws of physics.
And you—
You launch yourself at him.
Like full throttle, Olympic long-jump, straight into his chest. He grunts, staggered, and before he can even say “what the hell are you doing,” you’re kissing him.
Now, Nanami knew.
Everyone knows.
Everyone’s heard the stories: that first kiss between soulmates isn’t just a kiss, it’s a goddamn detonation. It’s like plugging your soul into a socket that was carved out for it since the dawn of time. It’s supposed to be euphoric. Overwhelming. Unbearable.
But “knowing” and feeling are two very different things.
The second your lips crash against his, it happens.
The bond, which had been this quiet, persistent hum, explodes into a full orchestra. It’s everything—light, sound, touch. Fireworks behind his eyes, heat coiling through his veins, every wound he’s ever carried momentarily soothed by this impossible, consuming rush of you.
It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle. It’s total.
He clutches your waist, stunned, drowning. It’s like breathing for the first time after years of holding his breath. Like warmth after endless winters. Like home.
And you feel it too. That first, exquisite filling. The hollow part of your soul, the part you’d always tried to laugh off, suddenly gone. Replaced by something whole, infinite, electric. You’re giddy, trembling, alive in a way you never knew you weren’t.
The kiss ends because, frankly, both of you need oxygen. You pull back, foreheads pressed together, gasping, cheeks wet with sweat and maybe tears, and you blurt out the only thing your unhinged brain can manage:
“Sorry I just, like, attacked you.”
Nanami, still reeling, still clutching your waist like you might vanish: “…It’s fine.”
Nanami, after a long pause, the ghost of a laugh in his throat.
“It’s more than fine. I’ve never felt—” he exhales hard, searching for words, “—anything like this.”
You grin, delirious. “So you’re saying you liked it.”
“…Yes.”
“Cool, cool. Just checking. Because otherwise that would’ve been embarrassing.”
The battlefield is still smoldering around you, colleagues shouting, sirens in the distance. And there you are, clinging to each other, sweat-slick, blood-streaked, glowing from the inside out. It’s not the most romantic setting. But somehow it is. Because for the first time, you both know. No more doubt. No more what-ifs.
“I want to see you,” Nanami says suddenly, the words ripped straight from the tidal wave inside him. “Outside of this.”
You blink. “Like…?”
“A date,” he clarifies. His voice is steadier now, but his hands still tremble slightly where they rest on your waist. “A proper one. We deserve that much.”
You beam. “Hell yeah we do.”
*-*
Hours later, when you finally stumble back into your apartment, bandaged, bruised, but very much alive, you collapse onto the couch with a ridiculous smile plastered across your face.
“Chairman Meow!” you shout, voice cracking with joy. “Your mother is in love!”
Chairman, unamused, flicks his tail and stalks away.
You’re too giddy to care. You dance around your tiny living room, replaying the kiss in your head, the feel of his hands, the raw awe in his eyes. You flop down at your desk, open your laptop, and—oh. That stupid email. The one from weeks ago. The one you ignored.
Curiosity piqued, you click it open.
Faculty profiles. A whole list. And there, staring back at you in black and white:
Nanami Kento.
Grade 1 Jujutsu Sorcerer.
You freeze.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
You slap the desk. Chairman Meow bolts.
“This whole time—this WHOLE goddamn time—I thought I was cosmically shackled to a tax accountant, and he’s been a sorcerer all along?!”
You throw your head back, laughing like a lunatic. “WEEKS. WEEKS of agony, of mental gymnastics, of worrying about lying to my poor sweet normal soulmate, and it was RIGHT HERE in the goddamn PDF. I hate myself. I hate this school. I hate bureaucracy!”
You cackle until your sides hurt.
*-*
Meanwhile, across town, Nanami sits at his desk. He’s showered, bandaged, exhausted, still humming with the ghost of that kiss. He powers on his computer to submit a report, and—oh. An unread email. From weeks ago.
He clicks it. Faculty profiles. And there, plain as day:
[Your Name].
Curse Biology Specialist.
Nanami stares. Long. Silent.
And then, against all odds, Nanami Kento laughs. Just once. Short, sharp, incredulous.
“Fate really has it out for me,” he mutters.
But he’s smiling.
*-*
Here’s the thing about Nanami: man could fight curses bigger than apartment complexes, watch his colleagues (and his taxes) burn, and still keep his shirt crisp.
But somehow, somehow, the simple act of preparing for a first date with his soulmate has him spiraling like a maiden about to faint into a chaise lounge.
Not because he thinks you’ll reject him.
No.
Nanami’s practical enough to know you won’t—he felt the bond as violently as you did. It’s more that this is real. Tangible. For the first time, Nanami’s life isn’t all paper reports, curse guts, and disappointment.
There’s you. You’re not a maybe, not a whisper of fate. You’re here, alive, waiting for him.
And Nanami Kento? He hadn’t thought he’d get this. Not because he didn’t want it—he wanted it badly (disgustingly badly, in fact, like “googling first date etiquette” badly)—but because his life was a thousand percent incompatible with happiness. Pragmatically, rationally, statistically incompatible. He never thought he’d have this at all. That he’d deserve this.
Not in a mopey, “boohoo, the world is cruel to me” way, but in a cold, accountant-like analysis of his own life: being a sorcerer ages you like milk, makes you disposable, makes you broken before you’re thirty-five. Who builds a future out of that?
Yet here he is. And here you are. And fate—annoying, hilarious, bureaucratic fate—has decided he gets this after all.
And yet.
He dresses the way Nanami Kento dresses: suit, but not stiff. No tie. First couple buttons undone like a scandalous Regency gentleman. Sleeves rolled up just enough that you’ll probably want to lick his forearms. He checks himself in the mirror once, twice, three times before muttering:
“Pathetic.”
Then, very softly: “This will do.”
Nanami is nervous.
Which is funny, because Nanami does not do nervous. He does schedules. He does clean lines. He does calculating cursed techniques mid-battle while covered in blood and eldritch goo. But the concept of taking his soulmate—his soulmate—on a first date? Yeah. That’s the thing that has his stomach tied in neat little origami cranes.
He had, against all sense, gone on forums for “what to do on a first date.” Terrible idea. Half the posts were “I proposed the first night and we have seven kids now,” and the other half were “she ghosted me after we went to Costco.” Both horrifying in equal measure.
So: café. With cats. Rescue cats. Elderly cats, disabled cats, cats who’ve seen some shit. Nanami relates.
*-*
The café is small, tucked into a quiet corner street. A cat café, but not the sanitized, cutesy Instagram kind. This one is soft-lit, smells faintly of coffee and paw pads, filled with old shelter cats, HIV+ cats, one-eyed goblins, and retirees in fur coats. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re inside a Studio Ghibli film, except the extras are all resentful tabbies.
Of course he’s early. Of course he picks a table tucked in the back, where a massive three-legged Maine Coon has already claimed the tabletop as his throne.
When he gets closer, he realises said Maine Coon is the size of a Subaru.One eye. Radiating contempt.
“Please don’t move her. She’ll leave when she feels like it.” Says an employee.
“Understood.”
And honestly? He doesn’t mind.
Something about this battle-scarred beast resonates with him. They sit together in silence, man and cat, two weary veterans of a war no one else understands. The cat looks at him with a dead ancient eye, and Nanami thinks, yes. Same.
Then you arrive.
Oh, you.
You do not walk into the café. No. You make an entrance. Every two steps you stop to greet a cat. Cooing, bowing, showering them in poetic affection like they’re emperors on tiny velvet thrones.
Nanami watches. Nanami contemplates proposing. Nanami tells himself to stop being fucking weird.
By the time you finally reach his table, you’re already carrying a cloud of cat hair and joy around you like an aura. Of course Nanami is about three seconds away from proposing marriage on the spot. Do not be weird, he tells himself. Do not be that person. Control yourself.
“Hi,” you grin, eyes catching on the Maine Coon. “Oh my god, look at her. She’s magnificent.”
Nanami, gravely: “She is.”
“She’s bigger than my landlord.”
“…Possibly.”
“Do you think she pays taxes?”
“Unlikely.”
You beam at him like he’s just told the funniest joke you’ve ever heard, and he feels his heart rupture cleanly in his chest.
Nanami wants to marry you again. Stop it, control yourself.
The Maine Coon eventually hauls herself off to terrorize another table, leaving the two of you to talk. And talk you do.
About work. About curse biology. About students who eat cursed bugs on a dare. About curse techniques that go “boom” versus curse techniques that go “bonk.” About Chairman Meow and his piss vendettas. About Nanami’s job, his routines, his quiet, dull fondness for bakery sandwiches.
You order coffee. He orders tea. You both get pastries shaped like cat paws. At one point you hold up your paw pastry and whisper, “Behold, beans.” Nanami nearly chokes trying not to laugh.
The date feels like… ease.
It’s not that it’s flashy, or dramatic. It’s not even especially romantic. It’s just… alive. Like breathing fresh air after years underground. Nanami has never felt so aware of his own pulse, his own worth, his own body not as a weapon, but as a place where something good resides.
He feels alive. Not the bare minimum, “yes, my heart is technically beating” alive he’s been used to. But alive alive. Like there’s more oxygen in the room because you’re in it. Like he isn’t just enduring his own existence, but inhabiting it. For the first time in years, he feels worthy of being here.
Which is terrifying. And intoxicating. And maybe he should propose. No. Stop. Don’t be weird.
He watches you speak, and the thought flashes again a couple minutes later, unbidden, I could marry her.
Nanami clenches his jaw, forces himself to focus on his tea. Self-control. He needs self-control.
*-*
The evening winds down, cats are yawning, and Nanami insists on walking you back to the metro. You accept, happily, because of course you do.
It’s calm, a soft night. He walks beside you, hands in his pockets, listening as you ramble about a student who swore he saw a cursed raccoon playing pachinko. You’re laughing, hair bouncing, eyes lit up. Nanami is… well.
He’s doomed.
And then you reach the platform.
And then you look at him.
And then—you’re kissing again.
Except this time, it’s not the battlefield, not blood and fear and adrenaline. This is slower, deeper, sweeter. And yet somehow hotter, filthier, more. His hands grip your waist. Yours curl into his shirt. You press against him shamelessly, and he—he’s kissing you like he’s been starving his entire life and finally, finally gets to eat.
It is, without exaggeration, indecent.
People are staring. A salaryman coughs loudly. Someone mutters, “Get a room.” Nanami ignores them all.
“Oh my god, are we seriously making out in a train station right now?”
Nanami, breathless: “…Yes.”
“Public indecency speedrun. Incredible.”
Nanami kisses you again just to shut you up.
You giggle—no, cackle—and kiss him again, because if public indecency is a crime, you’re going down swinging.
The train screeches into the station, cruel, interrupting, the embodiment of the word cockblock. The doors open, your train, and you groan into his mouth. A shrill beep-beep-beep, telling you to board.
You both freeze.
“Do I… do I just leave? After that?”
“…Unfortunately, yes.”
“This is sick and twisted. Ugh. Fine. Goodbye, my beloved.”
“You’re acting like we’ll never see each other again,” Nanami says, exasperated, though he refuses to let go of your waist.
“Dramatics are my coping mechanism!” you hiss, before finally peeling yourself off him and skipping toward the open doors.
Nanami watches you go, chest still heaving, lips still tingling, and thinks—no, knows—that he’s completely, catastrophically, irrevocably in love.
For the first time in his life, he does not feel tired. He feels—worthy. Alive. Loved.
*-*
The weeks before Shibuya? Heaven. Literal heaven.
The kind of heaven where angels don’t just strum harps—they do your taxes, hand you fresh melon pan, and personally iron your shirts.
Revolting, really. Nanami—Nanami, motherfucking Kento—is walking around like someone swapped out his blood with champagne. He doesn’t skip to work, because he has dignity, but if anyone looked too closely they might notice the tiniest, imperceptible pep in his step. A lightness. Like gravity decided to let him off the hook.
There is a pep in his step so aggressive it could qualify as a cursed technique.
Why? Because you exist. Because your bond exists. Because dates exist. Little ones, big ones, ones where you drag him into bookstores and monologue about cursed bugs for forty-five minutes, ones where he takes you to ramen shops where the broth could kill a man from sodium overdose.
It’s all absurd. It’s all wonderful. He’s alive in a way he never thought possible.
*-*
And then: Shibuya.
Shibuya is a nightmare.
A human meat grinder. Screaming civilians, curses pouring from every shadow, blood like water on the streets. Nanami is steady, calm, cutting through it all with precision. But inside, he’s tired. He’s so tired.
And then Mahito comes.
Mahito, smug, giggling, eyes glittering with sadism. Nanami blocks, dodges, strikes—but Mahito is slippery, unpredictable. He feints, he lunges, he slips under Nanami’s guard.
And Nanami knows.
He knows he won’t dodge in time. He knows the touch will come, the transfiguration will seize his flesh, and he’ll die screaming. He knows this is the end.
And fury—raw, bitter fury—swallows him whole.
That boyish, nightmare grin of Mahito will be his last sight.
Nanami knows. He knows. The angle is wrong, his guard is broken, and Mahito’s grotesque hand is already lunging for him. Contact. Just one touch, and he’s finished.
Nanami isn’t afraid of dying. He’s furious.
Furious he barely had time with you.
Furious that fate dangled you in front of him only to yank you away.
Furious that you’ll wake up alone, tethered to an absence, your soul buzzing with the wrongness of his death.
Furious he won’t get to meet Chairman Meow properly, won’t get to argue over who makes breakfast, won’t get to live the boring, beautiful, messy life he’s craved all along.
For one burning second, he thinks: At least she’ll survive this. At least she’ll live. Because in this world? The death of a soulmate can be enough to kill the other.
He’s furious he barely had time with you. Furious that his death will carve you hollow. Furious he never got to see you sleepy in the morning, never got to propose to you in some idiotic way like he’s been secretly planning since the cat café.
His death is inevitable. And then—
BLAM.
Mahito’s face smacks against something invisible. Full cartoon sound effect. Bonk. Nose squished. Expression mangled.
Nose first. Thunk.
Nanami stares, stunned. Mahito blinks, rubs his nose, hisses.
Nanami blinks.
Mahito blinks.
And then you’re there.
*-*
"Keep your fucking hands off my boyfriend, you uncanny valley skank.”
An invisible barrier shimmers around Nanami, your curse technique humming with violent glee. You step forward, hair flying, eyes blazing, shielding him with all the wrath of a goddess who just found someone insulting her favorite poet.
Nanami’s heart, already thundering from near-death, goes feral.
“Did you seriously think you’d get to touch him? With those hands? Bitch, please.”
Mahito recoils, snarls, tests the barrier again, but it holds. He can’t touch Nanami. He can’t touch anyone you shield.
Nanami, rasping: “You—”
You, without looking back: “Later, Ken. Focus on breathing.”
Ken. You called him Ken. Nanami almost collapses right there.
Then you add towards Mahito:
“Get fucked, you discount Tim Burton extra!”
The battle rages on. With you there, the tides turn. The shield makes Mahito sloppy, desperate. He lunges at others, but you’re quick, throwing walls between him and his prey. Nanami strikes when you open gaps, precision killing intent in every swing.
And then, as you both fight like twin storms, Kenjaku arrives. And Mahito—smug, infuriating Mahito—is devoured.
Nanami survives.
*-*
Later, Nanami is in his apartment.
The adrenaline has worn off. The silence is thick. He sits on the edge of his bed, suit torn, bandages tight, and realizes—he almost died. He really, truly almost died.
And he’s in shock. He doesn’t know what to do with the enormity of it, the weight of that one second where he was certain he’d never see you again.
The next day, you call.
“Hi. I didn’t call last night because I figured you needed space to process your near-death experience, but now I’m calling because I need you to process it in my apartment, thanks.”
“…Alright.”
Your apartment is cozy chaos. Maximalism. Stacks of books. A tea set. Plants leaning dramatically toward sunlight. And Chairman Meow, perched on the arm of the couch like a tiny emperor ready to pass judgment.
Nanami enters cautiously. He meets Chairman Meow’s golden eyes.
Chairman: mrrrp.
Nanami bows, gravely.
“Chairman.”
The cat flicks his tail, grants him permission to exist, and jumps down.
“Well. You passed the test.”
“I had no doubt.”
You make him tea. He sits, watching you bustle around the kitchen like you’re preparing a royal banquet instead of boiling water. He feels like he’s intruding on something sacred. He feels like he’s exactly where he belongs.
You sit together, tea steaming between you. You talk. About Shibuya. About fear. About life, and death, and how absurdly fragile everything is. About how much you mean to each other already, despite the little time you’ve had.
It’s heavy. It’s soft. It’s everything.
*-*
And then the talking stops.
And the kissing starts.
It escalates quickly. Too quickly. You’re straddling his lap on your couch, tea forgotten, Chairman Meow glaring from the windowsill like a disappointed chaperone. His hands are on your waist, your shirt is riding up, your mouth is everywhere. It’s messy and desperate and hungry.
“We’re about to fuck, aren’t we?”
Nanami, breathless: “It seems that way.”
And then—
Ding.
You both freeze.
Nanami pulls back, reaches for his phone. Calmly, like he didn’t just have his tongue in your mouth thirty seconds ago.
“The sushi’s here.”
“…The what?”
“Sushi.”
“You ordered sushi? To my apartment?”
Nanami shrugs. “I assumed we’d get hungry, I didn't want to impose you to cook.”
“Oh my god?? You planned for post-sex sushi?”
Nanami, entirely unbothered: “Well in this circumstance it would be 'pre-coital sushi'”
“…I’ve never been more attracted to you in my life.”
So you both eat sushi. Still flushed, still buzzing, still grinning like idiots. The near-death, the shock, the weight of it all—it’s still there. But so is this. So is you.
Nanami doesn’t say it out loud, not yet. But in his head, the words ring clear:
I’m going to live. For this. For you.
*-*
It starts with a documentary.
Of course it does.
Nanami, stoic and devastating in casual wear, is sitting with you on your couch, tea in one hand, remote in the other, watching a documentary.
Said documentary is about octopuses. Because apparently, according to you, “octopuses are the perfect metaphor for the human condition, also they’re freaky little guys, look at how they solve puzzles, Ken, look at him GO!”
And Nanami—this man, this grade-one sorcerer, this perfectly pressed tax consultant of a human being—is actually watching. Nodding. Serious. Like, “Yes. That octopus really is a freaky little guy.”
But here’s the thing: you’re not watching the octopus anymore. Oh no. You’re watching him.
At first, it’s innocent. A little squeeze at his arm. Fingers brushing his chest. Your head on his shoulder. Nanami tells himself you’re just comfortable. He tells himself to breathe evenly. He tells himself focus on octopus, not her hand.
And then—
“Oop,” you whisper like a fucking menace, and his shirt is off.
Nanami glances down at you. Raises one elegant brow. Doesn’t say a word.
“What?”
“…You’re not paying attention to the documentary.”
You, climbing fully onto his lap: “Oh, I am. But in the spirit of the octopus, I’m about to solve a puzzle with my mouth.”
You’re on his lap now, straddling him like a throne, your lips finding his. The kiss is urgent, messy, all tongue and heat, pulling groans from his chest that he’s not sure he’s ever let out before. Your shirt? Gone. Somewhere. Chairman Meow is glaring from the windowsill like a furious nun, but you don’t care.
“Sorry, Chairman. Close your eyes.”
Chairman: mrrrp.
Nanami, between kisses: “We should—”
“Shut up.”
He does.
The soulmate bond hums in the air between you, crackling with every touch, every gasp, every desperate little press of lips to skin. Being near him has always been good—warm, grounding, euphoric—but this? This is like mainlining divinity.
Here’s the thing about being in close proximity to your soulmate: it’s already euphoric. Even brushing against each other feels like champagne bubbles under the skin. But sex? With your soulmate?
It’s not sex. It’s… annihilation.
The moment Nanami’s mouth finds your throat, your chest, your stomach—you’re undone. When he finally settles between your thighs, you realize something terrible and glorious: this man knows exactly what he’s doing.
And not in a “vague idea, let’s poke around and hope for the best” way.
No.
Nanami knows. He knows anatomy, pressure, rhythm, patience. He knows the clit is not a myth. He knows how to use his hands in tandem with his mouth. He knows how to keep you on the edge until you’re begging, sobbing, clawing at his hair.
His mouth is devastating. His tongue precise, deliberate, unhurried, like he’s savoring the act of worship itself.
Your hands clutch at his hair, your thighs trembling, every nerve in your body singing. And the bond? The bond is making it insane. Every flick of his tongue reverberates through your chest, through your soul. You’re weeping and laughing and gasping his name like it’s scripture.
“Oh my god—Ken—holy shit—”
You’re not just seeing stars. You’re seeing galaxies, collapsing suns, the goddamn heat death of the universe. When you come, it’s not just physical—it’s soul-deep, the bond lighting up like it’s about to electrocute both of you into another dimension.
You collapse back, trembling. He licks his lips, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up at you like a man seeing salvation.
“Was that—”
“Good? Sir, I think I just ascended.”
*-*
And then.
The dick reveal.
You’ve imagined it, obviously. You’ve speculated. But when he frees himself from his pants, you have to pause, breathe, recalibrate your entire worldview.
Nanami’s cock? Gorgeous. Unreasonably gorgeous. Polite, even. Not aggressive, not obscene—just perfectly thick, perfectly shaped, flushed prettily at the tip like it knows it’s about to change your life.
“Oh my god.”
“…Is that good or bad?”
“That’s art. Put it in the Louvre. Put it on currency. Put it in me now. That’s a very… polite-looking dick.”
“Polite?”
“Yes. Respectful. Well-proportioned. Not scary, not aggressive. Just. Polite. Very handsome. Hello, sir.”
And then he does the unthinkable. The hottest thing yet.
From his wallet, smooth as anything, he pulls out—
A condom.
“Are you kidding me?” you gasp. “You’re responsible? You brought a condom to my apartment like a gentleman?”
Nanami shrugs, entirely too calm for the situation. “It seemed practical.”
You, clutching your chest: “Hot. So fucking hot.”
And then he’s inside you, and it’s… oh. Oh, it’s insane.
Normal sex is great. Fine. Fantastic, even.
But soulmate sex? Soulmate sex is nuclear. It’s your souls colliding like meteors, every nerve ending hijacked, every kiss a detonation. It’s an out-of-body experience where you swear you can feel his emotions pulsing through you: his awe, his devotion, his need.
You cling to him, nails digging into his back, his name spilling from your lips over and over. Nanami holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, movements steady but desperate, like if he doesn’t keep moving he’ll explode.
Nanami is controlled, precise, but he’s also ruined. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged as if he’s afraid to let go. You hold him tight, nails dragging, whispering filth and poetry in equal measure.
“Ken—Ken, you feel so—oh my god—you’re killing me.”
“You’re… perfect. Too much. You’re—”He whispered in a strangled voice.
He breaks on a groan, burying his face against your neck, like the weight of this bond, this heat, this love, is too much to bear.
You come again. He follows, clutching you like a lifeline, shaking with it, both of you swallowed whole by the bond until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
After, you’re both sprawled out, a sweaty mess, your souls humming like struck bells.
“That was… nuclear. That was illegal. We should be arrested.” You mumbled hoarsly.
Nanami, exhausted but smiling faintly: “You talk too much.”
“And you love it.”
Nanami, pressed a kiss to your temple. “…Yes.”
Chairman Meow jumps onto the couch, tail flicking, and curls up at Nanami’s feet like he’s been accepted into the family.
And Nanami? For the first time, maybe ever—he feels like he’s home.
*-*
The evening after nuclear soulmate sex, you two retreat to bed like weary soldiers after battle—except the only thing conquered is your dignity (long gone, RIP) and the mattress beneath you. It’s soft, warm, the sheets smell faintly of lavender and whatever fabric softener you panic-bought at the store.
He slides into bed beside you, immediately stiff as a board, like the concept of casual cuddling is a foreign policy issue he’s not yet briefed on. But you fix that fast—tossing yourself across him, anchoring your limbs to his like you’re Velcro. He exhales, finally, the tension bleeding out of him as his arm wraps around you, and there it is: the melt. Nanami Kento, world’s most uptight man, melting into you like butter on hot toast.
Chairman Meow? Oh, he’s there too.
In fact, he’s attacking Nanami’s foot under the blanket, claws out, tail wagging in the way only cats who plan violence wag their tails. Nanami takes it like a man, because apparently even cats are allowed to abuse him.
“He likes you.”
Nanami, bleeding: “That’s… one interpretation.”
*-*
Later, much later, Nanami wakes up.
He’s a light sleeper—occupational hazard, you don’t live long as a sorcerer otherwise. Beside him, you’re dead to the world, mouth slightly open, drooling on his chest like a goddamn cherub of chaos. Chairman Meow is curled into the crook of his knee like a warm, furry landmine.
And it hits him.
This life—this ridiculous, messy, beautiful life—is his.
For so long, Nanami told himself he wasn’t meant for it. He was too much sorcerer for the civilians, too much civilian for the sorcerers. He was built for utility, not joy. He knew his future: work, curses, an early death, a quiet funeral. He thought love was something he’d forfeited before he ever had the chance to try.
He loves you so much it feels like grief. Like punishment. Like fate finally decided to give him something beautiful and is just biding its time before snatching it away. He presses his face into your hair, silently begging the universe not to take this from him.
But now, here he is. In your bed. With your chaos. With your love.
And it hurts, in that terrifying way only happiness can hurt. Because what if he loses it? What if this is ripped away? He brushes a thumb across your cheek, careful not to wake you, memorizing every line of your face. He thinks about how your laughter has already rooted itself into his bones, how your touch feels less like skin and more like salvation, how Chairman Meow—goddamn it—even the cat is in his heart now.
And he realizes—he is so completely, devastatingly in love with you that it feels like drowning and breathing at the same time.
*-*
Months later things are very different.
You and Nanami find an apartment together.
It’s not extravagant, not huge, but it’s perfect. Hardwood floors, tall windows, just enough space for Chairman Meow to commit his war crimes in peace.
The first week? Chairman Meow pees on everything. Your shoes. Nanami’s briefcase. The curtains. You catch Nanami—stoic, deadly, efficient sorcerer—kneeling on the floor with Chairman Meow in his hands, voice low and serious:
“Chairman. This cannot continue. You’re better than this.”
A meow.
“This is unacceptable behavior.”
Chairman: stares, unrepentant.
“Are you scolding him like he’s one of your subordinates?”
Nanami, without missing a beat: “He needs structure.”
And the worst part? Chairman Meow listens. (Mostly.)
*-*
Living with Nanami is an experience. You wake up to breakfast that looks like it belongs in a Michelin-star restaurant, plated with precision. Poached eggs. Freshly ground coffee. Toast that is somehow toasted evenly on all sides.
He flips eggs with the precision of a goddamn surgeon. You’re in his shirt, sitting on the counter like a slut in a romcom.
“It’s just breakfast.”
“It’s a religious experience.”
*-*
Sometimes you watch him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from his shower, veins in his forearms flexing as he whisks eggs, and you think—how the fuck did I scam my way into this?
Other times, he rails you into the mattress so hard you see god, same man who then puts on glasses to read the paper. Whiplash. Incredible. Five stars.. And then makes you tea. Balance.
But the best part? Nanami is serious about you. Not in the “flowers and poetry” way—though he’s surprisingly good at both—but in the “this is my partner, this is my future, I am building a life with her brick by brick” way.
Every time he looks at you, it’s there in his eyes. That quiet, unshakable devotion.
“Kento, stop staring, you’re creeping me out.”
“…You’re beautiful.”
“Gross. Kiss me.”
And he does. Every time.
So yeah.
You’ve got a hot man in your bed, a hot man making you breakfast, a hot man scolding your cat like a middle manager, a hot man railing you into oblivion and then fixing your blanket after because responsible.
How fucking nice is that?
A/N: sorry this took forever, i got so carried away haha, hope you enjoyed. i'll be making more soulmate AU's just bc i think they're very fun, and actually some of the first fics i ever read.
summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.
word count. 18.2k (i need help)
content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk
author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE
Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.
The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.
Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”
There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.
The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”
“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”
“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.
And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.
“Sorry I’m late.”
The room stills.
You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.
Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.
He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.
The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”
You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”
Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.
“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.
He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”
Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.
He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.
-
It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.
Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.
He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.
He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.
Then you look up.
He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”
He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”
“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”
He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”
You smile. “Sure it is.”
He wants to melt into the carpet.
You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.
-
You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.
You glance up. He’s there.
Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.
You blink. He panics.
“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.
You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”
There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”
You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”
“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”
You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”
“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”
There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”
“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”
You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”
You pause, then finally tell him.
He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”
You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”
He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”
“You choked on air.”
He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”
Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”
“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”
You snort. “No you didn’t.”
“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.
Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”
You roll your eyes. “Barely.”
“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”
You blink. “That’s random.”
“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”
You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”
“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”
You pause. Okay. That was smooth.
You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.
“You’re annoying,” you mutter.
He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”
You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.
You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.
Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.
And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”
You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.
But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.
And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.
-
You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.
It doesn’t.
Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.
The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.
Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.
“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”
She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”
He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.
And you are. You so are.
Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?
You look away instantly.
You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.
So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.
Gojo looks like you just proposed.
-
Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.
He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—
“So…”
You turn.
Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.
“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”
You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”
He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”
“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”
There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”
“What girls?”
“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”
You give him a look. “Helpless?”
“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.
You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”
“She recovered.”
“You sent her a fruit basket.”
“See? I care.”
You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.
You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.
He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.
You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”
He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”
“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”
“I was brooding. It’s different.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”
“I’m a sensitive soul!”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”
You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—
“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”
You turn slightly. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”
-
He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.
He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.
You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.
He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.
Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.
He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated.
You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.
“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.
And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:
“You’re sweet.”
You blink. “Huh?”
He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”
Smooth. So smooth.
You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.
You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.
"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"
You almost choke. "What?"
He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”
"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.
And that’s it. That’s his victory.
He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”
"I'm not."
“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.
You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.
"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."
You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”
He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.
“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.
He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”
You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.
Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”
He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”
“Okay, stop.”
“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”
You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.
He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”
And that shuts you up for a beat.
You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.
And just like that, he lights up all over again.
-
You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.
“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”
His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”
You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”
He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”
You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”
“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.
You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”
And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.
“…No I won’t.”
-
You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.
You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."
So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”
You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.
Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.
You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—
“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”
Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.
You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—
“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”
Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.
“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.
“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.
-
You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.
“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”
You snort. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”
You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”
You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”
“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”
You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”
“No promises,” he grins.
And you hate how you laugh at that.
-
You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.
And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.
You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”
He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”
You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”
Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”
You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.
He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”
You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”
Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”
You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”
He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”
You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”
He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”
You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”
“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.
You don’t believe that for a second.
He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.
You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”
Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”
You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”
He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”
“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”
“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”
You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”
He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”
“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”
That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”
His jaw drops.
You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.
He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”
-
[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey
[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right
[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff
[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.
[gojo]: just checking 😇
[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone
[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?
[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful
[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀
[you]: [sends location]
[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed
[gojo]: what kind of snacks
[you]: surprise me
[gojo]: …
[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done
[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks
[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???
[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.
[you]: i’m sure you are.
[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had.
[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this
[gojo]: …yes
-
You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.
“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.
You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”
Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.
“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch.
He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”
You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”
He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”
You swat his arm. “Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.
As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.
“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.
He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”
“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”
You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”
Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”
He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”
“Top marks,” you echo.
When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.
You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.
Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”
“No, seriously, take it.”
“I insist.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.
You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”
There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.
Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.
You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”
He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.
Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."
He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."
You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."
"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."
You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.
"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.
"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.
He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."
Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."
He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.
The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."
He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.
"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."
You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
-
You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.
"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.
"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.
You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."
He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.
You give him a look. "Subtle."
He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."
You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.
You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.
You notice. You just pretend not to.
Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.
You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."
Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."
"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."
He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."
You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."
He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"
You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"
"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"
His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.
You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"
"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.
You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him.
He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.
Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."
The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"
You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."
He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.
You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.
-
You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.
It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?
You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.
A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.
You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.
Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.
Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.
[gojo 💙]: here <3
[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok
You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.
You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.
You almost don't recognize him at first.
Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.
And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.
"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.
"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."
You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"
You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.
He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."
You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.
You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.
When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.
You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.
Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.
But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.
-
You recognize the place immediately.
It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, weeks ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.
The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.
Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.
"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."
Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.
"It’s perfect," you say quietly.
And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.
He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.
"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.
"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.
You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.
Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.
Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.
You bite your lip to hold back a grin.
"Lead the way, Romeo."
And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.
Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.
For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.
He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.
There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.
"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.
"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."
You nearly choke on your water.
Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.
He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.
And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.
"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"
He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.
"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.
You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.
The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.
There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.
You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.
He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.
"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."
It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.
-
The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.
Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.
Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.
He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.
"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.
You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.
The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.
So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.
Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.
You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"
Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.
And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.
Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."
-
You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.
[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.
You nearly drop your phone.
Oh. Oh.
Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:
[you]: is that a threat, satoru?
The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:
[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.
You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.
Baby. God, you’re so done for.
And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:
[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty
You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:
[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.
And a few seconds later:
[gojo 💙]: too late.
[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.
You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:
[gojo 💙]: desperate?
[gojo 💙]: for you? always.
And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:
[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.
[gojo 💙]: dream of me.
[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)
You scream into your pillow.
Your hands tremble as you type your final text:
[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3
[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)
And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)
[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.
-
Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.
maybe next time you won’t have to just dream
He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.
"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.
He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)
"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.
But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.
You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.
He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.
You’re driving him insane.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.
It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.
He can’t help it.
You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.
His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.
And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.
His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.
He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.
He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.
-
The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.
Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.
When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.
He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”
But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.
He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.
He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:
[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!
He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.
Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.
He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.
Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:
[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)
He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.
“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”
The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—
He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.
When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:
[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.
And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.
He’s so down bad it's physically painful.
-
You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.
Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.
Sure, Satoru. Sure.
You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.
And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:
[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)
You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.
And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:
[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3
There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.
You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.
First, from Satoru:
[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.
And then another, right after:
[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.
You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.
Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.
You tap out your reply, heart light:
[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.
-
It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.
Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.
You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.
Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.
And looking at you like you hung the moon.
"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."
You blink at him.
He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."
Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.
"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.
"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.
You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.
"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."
"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)
You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.
For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.
And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.
You freeze for a second, heart skipping.
He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"
You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."
"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.
You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.
And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"
You almost spill your coffee.
He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.
"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"
You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."
"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."
Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.
Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.
Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.
That’s all he needs.
Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.
When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.
You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.
You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.
It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.
He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.
When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"
You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."
He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.
"Not a chance," he says happily.
You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.
Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.
Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.
A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.
His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.
And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.
"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.
Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.
If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.
He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.
But then his phone buzzes.
He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.
He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.
"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.
"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.
You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"
"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."
You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.
He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.
"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"
He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.
You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.
It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.
And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.
"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.
And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."
You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.
-
Class feels different today.
You’re hyper-aware of everything.
The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.
It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.
You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.
By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.
"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."
You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.
"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"
You blink, startled. "Your place?"
He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"
The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.
"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"
He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."
You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."
"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.
"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."
He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."
You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.
-
You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.
The texting starts innocent enough.
[you]: what should I bring?
[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.
[you]: be serious
[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol
You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:
[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty
[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around
You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.
Before you can even react, a third text follows:
[toru 💙]: here’s my address
A pinned location pops up. Followed by—
[toru 💙]: hurry over please
You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).
You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.
But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.
-
You barely knock once before the door swings open.
And there he is.
Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.
You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.
Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.
“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."
You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.
"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"
You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.
"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."
"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.
"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.
Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."
You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.
"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."
"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.
He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.
"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."
You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.
You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."
You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."
You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"
Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.
Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.
Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.
"...Is that—" you start, pointing.
"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.
You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."
You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Gojo Satoru... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."
"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"
"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.
He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."
You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.
"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.
Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"
You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.
God. You are so screwed.
You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.
"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."
You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."
"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.
You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.
But then it happens again. And again.
And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.
You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.
But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.
"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.
He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:
"You make it hard to."
His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.
You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.
And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.
For you.
The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.
"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.
His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."
God help you — you do.
You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.
You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.
He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.
"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."
And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.
Your breath catches.
He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.
You don’t. You can’t.
You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.
His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.
"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.
You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.
And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.
Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.
He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.
"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.
But you don’t. You can't.
Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.
He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.
"You’re killing me," he whispers.
You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.
But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.
He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.
It’s agony. It’s perfect.
You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.
It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.
He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—
And that’s when you snap out of it.
At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.
His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.
You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.
"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."
The sheer betrayal on his face.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"
You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.
He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.
You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."
He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.
"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."
You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."
He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.
"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.
You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."
His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.
You're absolutely thriving.
You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.
And then—
"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.
You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"
"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."
You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.
He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.
"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."
You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"
He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."
You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.
"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.
"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."
He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.
You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.
And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.
Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.
"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.
"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.
You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.
The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.
When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.
"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."
You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"
"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."
And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.
-
You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."
Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."
You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.
And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.
Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.
You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"
He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.
"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.
"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.
You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.
"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."
You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.
When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.
You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.
You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."
And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.
The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.
At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.
And just like that, the kiss deepens.
His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.
God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.
You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.
Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.
It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.
And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.
Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.
You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.
You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.
Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”
There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.
Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.
Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.
He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”
His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.
When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.
He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.
And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.
No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.
His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.
It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.
And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.
His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”
Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.
He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”
“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.
But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.
He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.
His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.
The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.
He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.
You shiver.
His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.
You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.
“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”
You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.
And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.
You nod.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”
Your breath catches—your whole body burns.
“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”
He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.
“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.
“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”
Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.
He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.
The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.
“Off,” you hiss against his lips.
He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.
You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.
“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”
He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.
You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.
“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”
“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”
His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.
“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.
He swallows thickly. “Every night.”
And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.
He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.
He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.
“Oh fuck—”
You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.
He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.
“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.
And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.
You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.
You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.
“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”
You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed.
You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.
He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”
You blink. “Oh?”
Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.
“Satoru—”
“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”
He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,
“You got to have your fun.”
Then he pulls you down.
His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”
You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.
He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.
Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.
You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.
He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.
And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”
You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.
He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.
Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.
And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.
He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.
When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,
“You okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”
He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”
You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.
But then his hand slides down your back.
You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.
“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.
You blink. “I… thought we were.”
He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.
“Not even close.”
Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.
“You okay like this?” he murmurs.
You nod.
“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”
He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.
Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.
“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.
You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.
He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.
A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”
Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”
He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”
You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.
“…You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”
There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”
He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.
Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.
He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.
“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.
You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”
He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.
The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.
And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.
You jolt. “Satoru—!”
“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.
“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”
Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.
The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—
And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.
Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.
“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.
You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.
He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.
He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.
No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.
You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.
“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.
He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”
You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.
He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.
You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.
You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.
Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”
And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.
It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.
Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.
“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.
He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.
You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”
You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”
You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.
By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”
You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”
You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”
“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”
You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.
Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.
You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.
“Never.” He grins.
You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.
Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.
He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”
You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”
He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”
There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.
“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”
He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”
You snort. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”
You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.
“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”
He hums, content. “That’s fair.”
So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.
Perfect.
author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child
please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! caught fucking and neither of you stop, sugar baby!reader, ceo au, light exhibitionism, light voyeurism, degradation/praise, impact play with a belt, choking with a belt, handjob, face fucking, satoru stick his thumb in your ass, cream pie, pain kink, collar and leash (they make one with the belt)
𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧! Ceo!satoru gets caught fucking his sugar baby at work but he doesn't stop
The heavy door of Satoru’s office automatically slides open with a small click. On the other side is a beautiful man in a black suit with angular dark brown eyes and long black hair.
His smooth, gentle voice contrasts his cocky smirk. “Thought I drop by for a surprise visit, didn't expect to be the one surprised.”Walking into Satoru’s office, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. “Suguru Geto.” Standing in front of you giving you an eyeful of the outline of his thick cock.
Your pussy sinfully clenches, you want them both. Looking up at Suguru pleading with Satoru, “Don’t stop! Don't stop! Nnn feels ‘s fuckin’ good.” Your messy cunt lewdly squelches, fluttering around Satoru.
Satoru’s long, veiny cock is making a mess out of your cunt. You’re dripping down your thighs as he wrecks your cunt with quick hard thrusts. Filling you with intense body-tingling pleasure making your knees weak.
It’s hot the way Satoru grunts, “Fuckin’ cumslut,” Clenching Satoru, biting your lip when he needy whines. “Her cunt got wetter, you like it when he watch huh?” Sharply smacking your ass, making your cheek jiggle. You cry as sweet hot pain spreads from your cheeks to your needy cunt. -
Suguru unbuckles and tugs on his black leather belt. Biting your lip when he loops it, holding it out to Satoru. “Use my belt on her slutty ass. We can see how long it takes for her cheeks red.” You fondle Suguru’s hard cock through his pants. His cock is so heavy and thick, his balls are large.
Satoru slowly drags the leather belt along your cheek. Anticipation builds, “Best pussy sleeve I’ve paid for. Don’t fuck her mouth yet, I wanna hear her crying.” Gliding his cock out.
Smack! Smack! Smack! The desk keeps you from running away from the fourth.
Satoru groans, “Stupid whores like you get their asses spanked for being dirty cock loving sluts, say it!.” Jerking forward with each sharp belt crack, clutching the desk.
You pathetically whine, “Stupid whores get like me get their asses spanked for being dirty cock loving slut! I love having my ass spanked! Nnn love being your slut.”
Another click of the sliding doors. “Damn choke her out with it too while you at it.” A handsome man dressed less formally in white collar and black slacks. Short black hair hangs in his dark ocean blue eyes. His lips have a defining scar.
Satoru informs, “The meeting is delayed by an incoming flight.” Your cheek is warm with sweet white hot throbbing pain. The desk is the only thing keeping you up. “Brat,” Smack! “Here is helping me release a little stress.” Satoru massages your aching cheek, dragging the belt along your spine to your other cheek.
Looping the belt around your neck, lifting your head up, and choking you. “Her mouth is free to use.” Satoru lines himself up, swiping his head between your wet lips. Rutting his cock in with a harsh thrust of his hips and a loud smack of skin.
Suguru undoes and pushes down his pants with his underwear. His cock is beautiful, pale with a soft tan at his cockhead. There are two thick puffy veins close together. You want to choke, suck and gag on Suguru's fat dick.
Opening your mouth for Suguru, Satoru squeezes the belt around your neck. You hear the clank of a belt hitting the floor. A rough hand grabs your wrist, and he spits on your hand wrapping your fingers around his cock. Thicker than Suguru, swirling your hand stroking his cock.
Satoru spreads your cheek apart with one hand. Spitting on your other hole, swirling his thumb then sliding it in. "Since you got here late you can have the glory hole after Suguru." It's all going to your messy cunt. You’re hoping all three of them cum in your cunt or ass leaving a mess to drip down your thighs when you head home.
Clenching Satoru's cock, gagging on Suguru's, stoking Toji. You're a mindless, cock hungry mess with spit dripping down your chin. Slick trickles down your thighs smearing onto Satoru's balls when they hit your clit.
Tears drip down your cheeks, Suguru buries his cock in your throat. Your cunt clenches Satotu with each gag.
Suguru croons "Awww she's crying!" Sliding his cock out, you gasp for air but nothing. Toji slides your hand off his cock when Suguru steps aside. Toji smacks his heavy cock against your cheek smearing your tears. Before he fucks your mouth in slow deep thrusts.
You’re lying limp, trembling on Satoru's rocking desk. Your lungs are screaming for air. Toji's warm cock dragging along your wet tongue. Stuffing his head into your tight throat with a rough grunt.
Satoru holds your cheek with his thumb in your ass. “Fuck! I love using her like this! She’s the perfect pussy sleeve.” Loosening the belt around your throat as Toji pulls his cock out giving you a moment to breathe.
Holding your hand out for Suguru’s cock, still wet with spit. Slowly sliding and swirling your hand along his cock. Staying close to his sensitive head, swiping your thumb every so often to smear his pre-cum. -
Suguru asks “Do you think she will be ready for round two when we finish work?" Following it with a breathy moan when you pump your fist faster.
Cupping Toji’s balls take his cock in your mouth looking up at him. Your back is arched, cheeks jiggling. Satoru sneers "Look at her, she a greedy cock hungry whore, course she is." Toji gags you with his cock the spasming of your cunt has Satoru moaning. He keeps pace steady whilst fucking you harder, bullying your sore cunt
The soft twitching of his cock and the pulsing of his veins with his thumb inside your ass gets you closer. It's his hot thick cum spilling inside you that makes your squelching cunt cum.
Satoru tugs the belt wrapped around your neck like a collar with a short leash fucking his cum deep into you. Smearing some of it cum with sloppy slow thrusts.
Satoru's hips smack your ass one last time before he bottoms out. Stuffing in some of the cum that follows his cock back in with his fingers. "She'll be at the door kneeling in lingerie waiting to be fucked like the whore she is, won’t you." Thick cum dripping from your cunt as Suguru takes his place.
𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 ── Genius profiler, Gojo Satoru, is the FBI's resident boy wonder, human Wikipedia and the reigning king of tragic cardigans. He can read a killer's pysche in seconds, but you can't figure him out. A grudge that's half a decade old, a stakeout, and a virgin all collide in the front seat of your car.
𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 ── kisses to all who can recognise the muse for gojo in this fic
The office carries the scent of burnt coffee, and old filings. It's the kind of place that wears its years proudly, with scuffed desks, walls washed pale by fluorescent light, and the constant clatter of keyboards and phones. A new espresso machine hums in the corner, already claimed territory, for half-empty mugs and discarded sugar packets are scattered around it. Like offerings to the temperamental god of caffeine.
You pull your new (itchy) blazer tighter around yourself as you step inside. This is it, the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Your new home, and the result of a decent few years clawing after case files and letters of recommendation.
You've always been told you were a prodigy in the field. Sharp, quick and too intuitive to be stuck doing desk work in the downtown city offices. The BAU was always looking for brains that could pluck patterns out of the noise, to predict a potential criminal's next move before they even made it.
And now? You finally got to prove it.
"Oi, you're the new hire?" A voice barks, sharp enough to slice through the buzzing office noise.
You turn, resisting the urge to ask why he feels the semantic need to ask that question, considering he was the one who stamped the approval on your unit transfer. But you doubt that your new boss is the sort of man you want to cross, on your very first day no less.
Ryomen Sukuna is a lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Wheat-golden skin, lined with streaking dark tattoos over his cheekbones and jaw. A shock of peach and raven-black hair streaked in a rough undercut. He looks as though he should be running a biker gang, not a federal unit, but there's something in his maroon stare. Hard and cutting, that makes you stand a little straighter.
"Don't slow us down," he grunts.
No handshake, no warm welcome. Just a warning, but you can understand why.
Time is of the essence in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, as is the ability to stomach the uncomfortable.
You pad after him, doing your utter best to not scuff the linoleum floors as you dodge strewn cables near the heavy glass doors. The entrance leads to a smaller nook, a quiet room with an oaken, circular table stacked with flimsy files, bulging with stamped papers. Worn chairs are scattered across the circumference, and you do your best to flatten yourself against the wall as others filter in.
Great. Meeting new people, your favourite hobby, right?
Although, that being said, you had studied all of their case files, with the sole benefit of not fumbling your way through first impressions.
You begin to match names to faces, hesitantly lowering yourself into your cold seat, in an attempt to look busy.
Nanami Kento was the first one who entered, and to your chagrin, he gets a brief handshake from Sukuna. Fuck, why didn't you get one? But Nanami's presence seems deliberate and measured, for he's tall, with every inch of him pressed into a well-tailored steel blue suit. His honey-blonde hair is neat, his face solemn yet thoughtful.
He's flanked by two others. The first being a woman with cinnamon-brown hair, twirling a flat lock idly between violet, chipped nails. Nicotine and cheap beer, threaded through with something unexpectedly floral.
Shoko Ieiri.
You know from pouring over her file that she has more years of medical knowledge than anyone else on the team, but right now, she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
The man pulling himself into the chair on the other side of Kento is, frankly, a perfect candidate for a haute couture ad. Long, dark hair pulled loosely back, with strands falling around his face in delicate arcs, like the petals of a spider lily, brushing the dark stud that glints in his ear.
Suguru Geto. Built like a bear, broad enough to block the doorway, his strong frame draped in a scuffed indigo racing jacket that looks permanently fused to him. Hie flips through a case file with the kind of casual detachment that comes from too many years doing this job. You've heard he's been here the longest, and from the way the others glance at him, shoving their own files to him, you can tell it's true.
The fourth new face nearly barrels into the table, gaze glued to his phone. He looks up just in time to scowl, as though it's everyone else's fault he wasn't looking where he was going.
Floppy sandy-blonde hair falls over the man's amber eyes, messy enough to look intentional. Dark roots peek through at the top, while moss-green tips dye the ends in a streak of rebellion. That Prada suit is a slim, toned fit and you know it costs more than your car insurance.
You don't need a file to place Naoya Zen'in. One could argue he only scored this job thanks to his father, who sits pretty high on the federal chain, pulling strings. But apparently, he isn't exactly dead weight. For what he lacks in tact and brawn, he makes up for in sheer agility.
That, and his reputation of being an utter jerk.
"I see you people way too much," Geto is grumbling, though his arm is already stretching around Kento to snag a glazed doughnut. He shoves the doughy confectionary into his mouth, smacking his lips shamelessly, as he muffles around sticky crumbs, "How is it we're already being assigned another case? We only just flew back in yesterday."
"The beauty of this is that it's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna's voice rumbles like gravel as he drains the last of his mug, "Sick fucks always findin' new ways to hurt each other." He slams the empty mug down the table, tattoos flashing like black cuffs around his wrists. His russet eyes flick up, catching your stare.
You grimace, pretending to admire the lead pencil in your hand, as though you were looking at literally anything else.
Sukuna rolls his eyes, "And lookie here, we've got fresh blood." He jerks a thick finger in your direction, "Department approved a new transfer since Kashimo ditches us for whatever adrenaline-junkie bullshit he does now."
"Probably bungee-jumping into a volcano," Naoya mutters, not bothering to lift his eyes from his phone.
A round of quiet nods and murmurs of ascent follow, resigned as you gather this must track for the famed, impulsive Hajime Kashimo.
"That, and the fucker kept tryin' to take my job," Sukuna growls, but his sharp eyes swing back to you, "So, kid. Tell us where you crawled out of."
You shift, suddenly wishing you'd spent a little more time preparing a decent show-and-tell, "I – uh, spent some time after the academy in Cyber. Worked cases involving data trafficking, predictive algorithms, behavioural mapping and —"
The doors bang open as a ridiculously tall man blows in, alongside a rush of cold air, balancing a pastry bag and an oversized coffee, as though he's walked through a hurricane. His tie is loose, white hair windswept, and his glasses are a little askew.
"Sorry, sorry — I'm late," the man blurts, breezing in like a hurricane with a coffee cup in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. He cuts across the room in long, careless strides, clapping Kento on the shoulder as he passes, "Don't start without me."
"Oh, no, your majesty," Sukuna mutters, voice dripping with snide disdain, "We were all waiting for you to grace us with your presence. What, fifteen minutes late? Wouldn't want our little genius missing the fun."
The man flushes mid-step under Sukuna's glare, shoulders stiff, "Look, man — "
Sukuna raises a thick brow.
"Uh, I mean, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Won't happen again, sir."
"Get your ass in a chair."
Geto presses a hand valiantly to his chest, and it takes all your Herculean effort to not stare at the counter of his sculpted chest beneath his top. But the man is as solemn as a priest, "He won't do it again, boss. Nope. I'll personally buy him an alarm clock."
Shoko snorts into her ocean-blue turtleneck, tugging it tighter around her throat, "He doesn't need you to suck up for him."
"Welcome to the team," Naoya finally drags his amber eyes away from his glaring phone screen, pinning you with an exhausted stare, and once again, that look that blamed all of his displeasure on others, "Not too late to hand in your two weeks' notice."
God. You should have read that case file one more time. Should've done a single ounce more of snooping into your new team. Then, maybe, just maybe, you would have been more prepared.
If you had just bothered to read the last and final page on the current members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you would have picked up on this.
Gojo Satoru.
He's sinking into a wheeled chair, flipping through a file and shuffling stacks of crisp paper. Loose navy cardigan over crisp slacks, and a cream button-down, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. White hair a little too long, falling into his glacial blue eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that look devastating on him now.
The last time you saw him was, when? High school?
He had been a mess back then, composed of crumpled Lord of the Rings hoodies from Hot Topic and a ramble of babble that everyone attributed to him being, well, an absolute nerd.
Gojo Satoru, the valedictorian. The boy genius with a scraggly bowl cut and round, prescription sunglasses. The guy who could speak a dozen languages, and pass an exam without cracking open his book once. Eidetic memory, and all that.
But he had always been a bit of a social pariah. If he wasn't alone, mumbling over textbooks in the library, he was probably exchanging Pokémon cards with some friend of his, like the bumbling, dark-haired Ijichi.
And now? Well, it's an ironic choice of words considering your line of work, but he looks criminal. Still a nerd, but in that hot way that Pinterest girls swooned over. Tall, broader than you remembered, sharp-jawed and somehow pulling off a cardigan better than you right now.
Your mouth is already open before you can stop yourself, "When the hell did you get so hot?"
Gojo's head lifts quickly, blinking at you like you're an anomaly in a code that he was clueless about. No recognition, no faint spark of memory in those jewel-toned eyes. He adjusts his glasses, pink lips quirking, "I'm sorry, have we met?"
Every cell in your body goes into system shutdown. Somewhere in your periphery, Kento's face flattens, as though he's embarrassed to have spent time in your presence. Across the table, Shoko slips a twenty into Geto's waiting hand. You catch Naoya sliding in a crisp fifty with the same bitter grace as tossing meat to a dog.
You cough, cheeks puffing as you scramble for rapid damage control, "I mean, wow. When the hell did it get so hot in here? I'm sweltering. Are you guys hot? Because I'm hot. Like, wow, summer's already here? Global warning, am I right?"
"It's the middle of winter," Sukuna throws you a look of mild disgust, as though you're contagious with a brand of idiocy he wants to avoid.
"Phewwww." You wipe your brow theatrically, refusing to die in utter shame, "Must be just me then. Because I'm boiling in here."
Naoya leans back, eyes dragging over you with lazy, bored curiosity, lips curling just enough to flash his fangs, "You do know all BAU agents have to pass a psych eval, right? You didn't bribe the assessor?"
Shoko perks up suddenly, leaning forward with the first glimmer of interest in her doe-copper eyes, "Could be medical. Hyperthyroidism, maybe. Or pheochromocytoma. Seen an endocrinologist lately?"
"Uh..." You falter, because Gojo is frowning at you with real concern over his puzzled face, "I'll get it checked out. Thanks."
You hear Sukuna grunt something about 'fuckin' idiots' before he's already sliding individual files towards everyone. His huge hand click the pointer, and the wall-mounted screen flickers to life.
"Remember our mystery case from last year?"
"Flat-top weirdo who set people on fire?" Geto frowns, pushing your file towards you, from where Sukuna tossed them onto the middle of the table. You murmur a quick thanks, careful not to meet Gojo's eyes, the gaze boring into you from across the table, suddenly quite stern.
"The unsub was found not long after. Jogo, wasn't it?" Kento murmurs.
Naoya wags a finger towards the screen, "Then there was that freak with the bio-warfare. Something about flowers and shit?"
"Hanami. Also caught. Do you even pay attention to what we do?"
Naoya just shrugs, golden hair fluttering as he tilts his head with little regard for Kento's disapproving stare.
"Eyes up here," Sukuna warns, his tone like barbed wife. He clicks, and the next slide makes your stomach lurch. You'd braced yourself for crime scenes photos, comes with the job, obviously.
But nothing quite prepares you for the patchwork grotesque on the screen. Stiff sheets of human skin, stitched together with light blue-grey thread in patterns so deliberate it makes your chest crawl.
You swallow hard, throat tight as you hold onto your breakfast. But the others? Entirely unfazed.
"Yeah, that's the telltale M.O, it's poppin' up more and more," Sukuna shoves his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-grey denim.
"Oh man, yeah," Shoko says, leaning back in her hair as though this is a casual conversation about the weather, "That case has been open for months, I thought the unsub had stopped acting, and we had to put the investigation on hold?"
"Nah." Sukuna sums it up eloquently, "This is from two days ago. Something's triggered the killings again." He drops the pointer, tossing it onto the table with a thunk! Your boss jerks his chin towards the far side of the table, "But I'll let boy genius tell you more."
Every head swivels towards Gojo Satoru, except for yours. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the stacks of paper in front of you, the coordinate grid maps of where the unsub had previously struck last year.
Gojo's pushing his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose with one long finger. The glow of the projector washes his pale skin in sterile blue, catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. For half a second, the thinnest sliver in time, you could swear he looks at you, watches for your attention.
"Okay, so — " He claps his hands together once, quick and sharp, and you swear the sound reverberates through your bones, "Our unsub. Male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. We could assume he's highly organised, almost meticulous with what he does, but impulsive to a fault. He does what pleases him, and gambles on what he thinks will give him a thrill."
"Like Kashimo," Shoko mutters, rolling a strand of flat, chestnut hair between her fingers once more.
Geto shakes his head solemly, "True that."
"The victims are skinned postmortem. And we've consistently found that pale blue thread is used to stitch pieces together. The shade of blue is consistent, almost ritualistic. The nylon fibres were analysed in the lab, and our unsub uses the same brand. It's cheap, easy to get at specific convenience stores so we can track his location as a path."
"You gettin' this?" Sukuna peers over at you, startling you out of your mild reverie. You fumble for the nearest Sharpie, already creating crosses over the past locations, wincing at the sound of the marker squeaking across paper.
"And like I said earlier, his stitches really are meticulous. Cross-stitch, blanket stitch, whip stitch. It's like he's experimenting with technique. I doubt it's random."
"Who spends time learning this shit?" Naoya mutters, reclining in his chair, but straightening up once Sukuna levels a shark-like flat look at him.
"Shut up, you wouldn't know a running stitch from a running nose," Gojo scowls, firing back without missing a beat, and he's pacing now. Voice picking up speed, words tumbling like dominos, "Locations? Spread across three prefectures, but always within walking distance of either a fabric store, or get this, cinemas? Something personal, perhaps?"
"Last time, agents found notes he had left behind, a manifesto?" Kento wonders out loud, dark eyes narrowed as he peers at the illuminated screen.
"Yeah, but it was nothing useful," Shoko shrugs, before pointing to Gojo, "Sorry, hang on. I'll get back to you. But there were no fingerprints left, not a speck of DNA to trace. And most of his ramblings made no sense, something about 'Idle Transfiguration' and his motivations, like humans hating and fearing each other."
"Like that's anything new," Sukuna grumbles, "Most people are like that."
"You're an optimist, boss," Geto notes, broad shoulders rippling beneath his jacket, "Anything about victimology?"
Gojo pushes his glasses up once more, glancing at you briefly. You loathe the feeling that pushes against your ribcage, and force your buzzing mind to actually focus on his words, "See, this is an anomaly. For someone so driven and focused on what he considers his craft, his victims seem to be chosen at random. Complexion and – uh, texture seem irrelevant. So, he's not really chasing consistency for his patchwork."
"But you guys caught him on your radar last year? You didn't find patterns?" You ponder, and while you know none would believe your words, you could swear that Gojo flinches at your voice. Ugh.
But the white-haired man gnaws his lower lips, "Yeah, yes. Patterns, yes. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, then resurfaced. That's typical cooling off period in disorganised killers, but this is the one part of his behaviour that doesn't seem as impulsive. He seems to hunt deliberately after mass public events. Tragedies, natural accidents, moments where there's a lot of negative public sentiment in the air. Like that's his time to source the right..." Gojo snaps his fingers, suddenly grinning, "Like sourcing the right fabric."
Naoya pulls a face, idly picking at a raw cuticle, "That's disgusting."
"Yeah, don't you love our job?" Gojo pushes his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms, dusted with light hair. He's clicking to the next map overlay, a string of red pins dot the screen, matching the marks you've made on the map in front of you.
"Notice the clusters. Each crime scene radiates outwards from a central hub. That hub? Abandoned textile factory in the south quadrant. It's a line of vast sewer tunnels, and I'd guess that's where our unsub probably feels safest returning to?"
Gojo coughs into his fist, finally lowering himself into his chair, as though he's just remembered that oxygen exists, "So. Yeah, that's – uh. That's what we're dealing with."
"Yeah, I knew all that," Sukuna snickers, slapping his thighs as he stands, "But now — "
"What?!" Gojo's head snaps up, scandalised.
"I knew, 'course I read the profile. You think I don't do my job? Just wanted you to get it out of your system, so maybe you'd get the chattering out of the way and I'd get five blessed minutes of silence at least."
Gojo mutters something under his breath that is absolutely not HR safe, folding his arms sullenly over his cardigan. Geto reaches over to pat his sulking friends shoulder in slow sympathy, "There, there. You'll always be my favourite profiler."
Shoko rolls her eyes skywards, sharing a long suffering look with Kento.
"Anyway," Sukuna grumbles, "We've got enough agents to stake out the predicted strike zone. We'll be in the field, but I want two of you pulled back a little, car surveillance, eyes on any movement in the surrounded abandoned area."
"I'll do it," Geto offers smoothly, putting his palm up. But the reaction is immediate and violent.
"No way."
"Impossible."
"You better not even fuckin' think about it."
"Not after Kenjaku-gate."
You frown, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry. Kenjaku-gate? This was some...incident?
"Don't," Geto warns sharply, stuffing another helping of glazed dougnut into his mouth.
"Please do," Shoko encourages, propping her chin upon her fist with wicked interest.
Naoya leans in, and you're struck by his immense resemblance to a hyena, "Yeah. There was this guy, Kenjaku. His whole M.O was identity fraud, always swapping bodies, new disguises, different lives. Shit got real sticky, he even wore Geto once."
You wonder if you heard that correctly, glancing at Geto, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, "Wore? As in — ?"
"Right," Naoya continues gleefully, "So for a hot minute, everyone thought he was guilty of all these weird crimes. Big mess, and the higher-ups in the government had to get involved. They were foaming at the mouth and all."
"Mhm," Sukuna huffs, leaning back in his chair, and jerking a thumb towards Geto, who was currently scowling daggers at no-one in particular, "He's been cleared now and all, but that bastard caused a lot of problems. Nearly sank the team."
Your eyes flick to Kento, who hasn't said a word, but who looks far more strung. You mouth, something personal?
The golden-haired man hesitates, then gives the barest nod, Don't ask. Something about his twin brother.
You file that away, stunned. You frankly can't picture your new boss having friends, let alone a brother. But before you can prod, Sukuna's sharp eyes cut back to you like a blade.
"Well, how about this then?" His voice is slow, dripping with challenge, "I'll send ya' out there. You and boyband wonder, hmm?"
"Me?" You freeze, sudden heat climbing your neck.
But Gojo, mid-sip of coffee, sputters, "Boyband? Man, what the fuck?" He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it up self-consciously.
"Shiny teeth, tragic wardrobe, zero substance?" Naoya offers with venomous glee.
"I have so much substace," Gojo sinks further into his cardigan, "Like, layers. Onions-level."
"Enough," Sukuna cuts through Gojo's muttering like a blade, voice sharp, and the casual chatter dies instantly. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter. So, let's focus before I do lose what little patience I have left."
Gojo winces, lips quirking into an awkward grimace, but Sukuna ignores him and taps the case file with a thick finger, "We've got fresh dumpsites with consistent signatures. Stitching patterns, the pale blue thread. Most recent was two days ago, meaning we've got a live unsub working fast. That puts us on the clock."
You feel Gojo's eyes flick to you again, quick and unreadable, and your stomach twists. He still hasn't said anything. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hey, long time no see. Just nothing.
It pisses you off more than it should, irritation welling up in your throat.
"Fine," you blurt, before your brain can catch up, "I'll do it. Stakeout. Whatever you need."
There's a faint quirk at the corner of Sukuna's mouth, like he can smell the edge of desperation under your words, that urge to prove yourself. But his eyes are colder, "We'll see about that."
"Kento, Ieiri. You canvas the medical angles. Hospitals, ER admissions, anyone who might've stitched somethin' suspicious together. You'll get the most traction."
"Geto, Zen'in, go after witnesses and locals. Hit the perimeter, dig for chatter. And don't give me excuses about your personal vendettas gettin' in the way."
At this, Geto and Naoya give each other nasty, defeated looks. You briefly wonder the dynamic between them is.
But Sukuna's glaze cuts back to Gojo and you, "Which leaves you two. Surveillance car. Abandoned industrial area on the south side. Keep ya' eyes open, and if you get trigger-happy, I'll have your badges before you can blink."
The team starts gathering files, muttering, scraping chairs against the floor. You catch Geto purposefully knock his elbow into Naoya's ribs, but one by one, they filter out. You're slow to move, waiting till Gojo gives you a hesitant look and pushes the door open.
But you're absolutely aware that Sukuna's gaze is still pinned on you.
"Stay a minute," he orders.
Your spine stiffens, wilting under his maroon eyes. Oh, god. What did you already screw up?
But Sukuna doesn't waste time, "You want to prove yourself? Do it out there, not in here." His arms cross over his vast chest, tattoos shifting with the movement, "This isn't a playground. People die if you fumble, or freeze."
You swallow, throat tight, "Yeah, I know. I mean, understood."
"For the record..." Sukuna pauses, eyes narrowed as he seems to search your face for something, "The only reason you're here is because someone vouched for you. Usually I don't take rookies without field scars."
"Someone vouched?" Your heart stutters, thudding beneath your sternum.
"Yeah," Sukuna's lip curls, like the whole thing is a nuisance, "Gojo. Said you were worth the risk."
Your jaw practically unhinges, in the most unflattering way possible. Gojo? The same Gojo who looked you dead in the eye, and treated you like a stranger, while you babbled on about global warming?
Sukuna seems to read your silent expression, rolling his eyes, "Don't get sentimental. Whatever history you've got with boy-wonder, that's your problem. Out there, I only care if you can keep up." He jerks his chin toward the door, "Now get outta' here before I change my mind."
You nod quickly, fighting the ridiculous urge to kowtow, and grabbing your file before scurrying away with a spinning head.
"...So, you like jazz?" Gojo offers, peering low over his glasses, voice low in the hush of the car. His breath clouds in front of him, puffs in the winter chill.
You throw the white-haired man a sullen look, "Are you quoting the Bee Movie right now?"
Gojo's brows crawl up his face, "What? No." He wiggles in his seat, reaching into the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Producing a battered stack of discs, each one labelled in his crooked scrawl, "I bought jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald. All the greats."
You must look gobsmacked, because flushed colour creeps across his cheeks. Gojo coughs and fumbles them back into his jacket, like contraband, "Sorry. Didn't know what you liked. If you don't want — "
You wave his stumbled fragments off, eyes darting to the frost-laced window, "No, it's fine." You gesture at the ancient CD slot on the dash, "Yeah, put whatever you want on."
Gojo perks instantly, sliding a CD in, and soon the tinny trumpet of Miles Davis fills the stale air of the car. You fold your arms, not looking at him, jaw clenched against the silence that starts to stretch.
For several minutes, the only sound is jazz, the occasional creak of your gloves as you flex your hands against the chill, and the scrape of Gojo's graphite pencil as he pulls through a crossword puzzle.
"So, first official stakeout. Excited?"
"Thrilled."
Gojo drums his long fingers against the steering wheel, "You know, these stakeouts are a rite of passage. It's the long hours, bitter coffee, and the leg cramps from being stuck in the car." He glances at you, smiling faintly, "Builds character."
"I can't wait," you mutter, eyes flicking over the dim, warm street lights casting long shadows across the pavement.
More silence. A car passes down the far end of the abandoned street, headlights sweeping briefly across the dashboard.
"You think he'll come tonight?" You ask finally, if only to give Gojo something else to do, other than throwing you confused looks.
"The unsub?" His voice sharpens, "Maybe. The dump site pattern isn't perfect, but this location fits his trajectory. High likelihood he'll circle back tonight."
"Guess all we can do is watch, no?"
Gojo hums in agreement, pink lips pressed together, before pulling his battered, cracked phone out of his pocket, "Naoya said he would send through any witness statements, I just hoped he stayed on task enough to remember."
You snort, "Has he always been this insufferable?"
Gojo smiles, and his expression is surprisingly warm, "He wasn't always. We grew up together, actually. Naoya was — " Gojo shrugs, eyes flicking to the windshield, " — pretty cool, back then. Somewhere along the way, he just became a jerk."
The bitter edge of jealousy curls in your chest, faster than you can halt it, "Well, it's nice you remember him."
Gojo's head jerks towards you, as though he's baffled by the sudden venom coating your tongue, "Uh, what?"
You moodily jab the dashboard a little harder than intended, "Seriously? You've been pretending not to know me this whole, like I'm some stranger you've never met, and I know it's not that deep, but it's — " You choke on the words, cheeks suddenly burning, "It's embarrassing. It hasn't been that long since high school, Satoru. Did I do something to you, or what?"
It seems that the air in the car has gone very still. Jazz murmurs faintly from the speakers, a trumpet line winding upward like smoke.
Gojo just blinks at you, stunned, lips parted like a fish out of water. But his expression shifts, sours suddenly. White brows knit together, that plush mouth pulling into a scowl.
"Are you asking me that?" His voice isn't loud, but the irritation in it cuts sharper somehow.
You gape at him, "What? Me? It's not like we were best friends or something, but a 'Hi, hello, how are you?' would have been nice in that team room. You practically ignored me."
"Yeah?" Gojo's laugh is humourless, bitter, "Well, it's better than tearing someone down, isn't it?"
Your heart stutters, confusion blooming, "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Gojo shifts in his seat, huncing in a way that looks wrong on his tall frame, pulling out his phone. You catch sight of the battered case, corners fraying, as though it's the same one he carried back in high school. He's frowning as he scrolls, before flipping the dim, cracked screen towards you.
Huh. A text message, addressed to you.
The date is old, years old, but your name is right there in the contact header. You drag your eyes over the clumsy words.
Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out sometime? nothing fancy. maybe that new burger place by the train station? i’ll even pay. (don’t laugh at me too hard, ok?) >_<
Your stomach flips, as you take in the following reply. Short, cruel. Mean in a way that only teenagers could manage.
"Wow. That's...wow. That's mean."
Gojo's throat bobs as he swallows, and he opens his mouth, but you sharply cut him off, "But that wasn't me."
"Huh?"
You force yourself to meet his eyes, hidden behind thick frames, startling blue, wide and wounded, "That wasn't me. I never saw this. I never replied to this."
"But —"
"Yeah," you blurt, "I changed numbers. Utahime dropped my phone in a pool, on a senior trip. I ended up just getting a new one, even a new number. Whoever did this just thought they were fucking with you, I mean, it's messed up, 'cause I never would have said that."
You swallow, the weight of the sudden silence pressing on your chest, but Gojo suddenly breaks it, blurting, "So, you think I'm hot now?"
Your head whips towards him, startled, as heat crawls up the back of your neck.
Gojo immediately winces, shoulders caving in as though he's trying to fold his giant frame into the tiny car, "Sorry. Just tryna' think of something to say. I didn't meant to embarrass you earlier. I don't know, I was just —" He waves his hand vaguely in the air.
You shouldn't lose focus, but your eyes linger anyway. His hands are elegant. Long, tapered fingers. Neat nails, calluses just barely catching in the dashboard light. Hands probably steadily enough to wield a scalpel or...
No. Don't go there.
Your breath hitches, and you drag your gaze away, desperately praying he didn't notice the temporary loss of your composure.
"No, it's fine. I mean..." You stumble over the words, trying to find stable foot, "I heard, well, Sukuna said that you vouched for me. Which is nice. I appreciate that."
Gojo's expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features, "Yeah, well." He shrugs, defensively, "I asked Sukuna to keep it a secret, but figures he sold me out."
You almost smile, "Doesn't change the fact that you stuck your neck out."
"Guess I did," Gojo scratches at his jaw, over the faintest hint of stubble, glancing away, "Thought you were worth it."
Your heart stutters.
The car feels smaller suddenly. The cold air outside fogs the windows, but inside, it’s warm, too warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The mournful trumpet fades into a husky croon, and every note seems to hang between you like a dare.
You shift in your seat, knees brushing his by accident. He tenses, just barely, but doesn't move away. And maybe you're imagining it, but his gaze drops, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. Quick. Guilty. Like he hadn't meant to.
But you'd seen it.
The silence between you grows roots, tangling around the both of you. You can still feel the phantom brush of his knee against yours, the way his eyes had flicked to your mouth. It lingers, heavy, like the saxophone whispering from the CD.
Gojo clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. Then he clears it again. And then he blurts, "You know, statistically, unresolved tension like this usually results in impulsive decisions that compromise stakeouts."
"…What?"
"I mean," Gojo gestures helpless, corduroy sleeve slipping down his wrist, "It's – it's basic psychology. Two people with history, recent emotional clarification, physical proximity." His voice is speeding up, rambling now, "That kind of cocktail basically rewires your brain chemistry and then, um, then you end up, you know, uh —"
Gojo swallows, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, "Kissing."
You just stare at him.
Gojo winces, palms pressed to his knees like he's bracing for you to laugh in his face. "Not that I'm saying we should, I mean, I am saying that, but not in a creepy way, I just – " He cuts himself off, groaning, pressing a hand under his glasses, "God, I sound insane."
Something in your chest twists. Because under all the words spilling from his mouth, he looks…nervous. Really nervous. The kind of nerves that can't be falsified.
Then, like the world's clumsiest miracle, he drops his hand, and his blue eyes meet yours, wide and shining and sincere. His cheeks are flushed pink, breath puffing in the cold air.
"Please, I would like to kiss you," Gojo says softly, before stiffening, "Only if you want to, uh, doesn't have to be now."
The world tilts, blood roaring in your ears. You're frozen for a second, but before you can second guess yourself, you lean in, heart hammering as you press your lips to his.
At first it's tentative, testing the waters, your mouth brushing his like a question. But then Gojo's warm hand comes up, hesitantly cupping your jaw, and the way he exhales against your mouth, like he's been waiting years for this, answers it for both of you.
The trumpet solo wails on, high and bright.
The kiss should've ended at that. A brush, a sigh, a fragile thing left untouched. But Gojo makes this soft sound in his throat, half whimper, half groan, and suddenly you're tipping forward, hand fisting in his cardigan to drag him closer.
He kisses like he talks; too much, too fast, spilling over himself. His teeth click against yours, and when you gasp, Gojo's tongue darts in shyly, then a little bolder, like he's cataloguing the exact angle, the exact pressure that makes your breath hitch.
"F-fuck," he murmurs against your mouth, voice cracking, "I didn't –I've never actually..."
You pull back a fraction, dazed as you stare the swell of his glossy lips, "You've never…?"
Gojo's ears are pink, his white lashes trembling as his nose brushes yours, "I read about it. But I've – uh, not, you know. This, or anything like this. Not with anyone."
Oh. Suddenly, the fumbling, the eagerness, it all clicks. And your chest squeezes at how earnest Gojo looks, like he's terrified you'll ridicule and mock his inexperience.
"Relax," you whisper, sliding closer, your thigh brushing his., "You're doing jus' fine."
Gojo's groan is strangled, raspy as you press your lips to the juncture of his neck, "The fact that I'm even here, doing this with you is a-amazing, actually."
Then he kisses you harder, messy now, a little greedy. His hand finds your waist, hesitant at first, then tugging you practically into his lap.
Fuck.
You feel it straightaway, the thick, solid press of his cock straining in his slacks. Gojo jolts like he's embarrassed you noticed, but you grind down just a little, chasing after some friction between your legs, and he breaks the kiss with a loud gasp, forehead thudding against yours.
"Jesus Christ —" Gojo's voice is wrecked, wrecked in a way that makes heat curl low in your belly, pool between your thighs, "I'm – fuck, I'm so hard right now, this is, oh my god."
You giggle, breathless, nipping at his berry-pink lip, "Focus, genius. Stakeout, remember?"
And as if on cue —
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The car door rattles violently, as though someone has pounded their first on the window. You both jolt, scrambling, your thighs jostling as you clamber off Gojo's lap.
Sukuna, arms crossed in his windbreaker uniform. Face twisted in a scowl so utterly disgusted and sour that could curdle milk. The type of expression that promises consequences so severe that medieval executioners would tremble in fear.
Your head falls back against the seat with a groan, as you kick the door open, taking in the swarm of federal agents rushing past your stakeout car, most likely to chase after your unsub, "Oh, you've got to be fuckin' kidding me."
Gojo, meanwhile, is fumbling with his seatbelt, sliding his cardigan off to pull his windbreaker on, doing little to cover his very obvious erection, whining under his breath, "I can't go out there like this, holy shit, he's gonna kill me. W-wait, don't leave me, tell Sukuna I've caught the flu and —"
You shove yourself out the car door, shooting Gojo a look, "I'm sure he just saw that. Can only pray he doesn't send us to be hung, drawn and quartered."
Gojo follows, still muttering, still rock-hard, but trying desperately to stand up straight, "He's really gonna' kill us."
"Kento got a lucky shot, didn't he? They're gonna' have, uh, what's his name? Mahito? They're gonna' have him put away for life." Gojo buzzes, as the motel door clicks shut behind you, the muted clamour of the hallway falling away. You toss your duffel bag onto the bed, exhaling hard.
"So," you sigh, pushing off your shoes, groaning at the ache in your ankles, "How much paperwork do you think Sukuna's gonna bury us under? Forty hours? Fifty?"
Gojo groans dramatically, collapsing face-first onto the other bed. His muffled voice filters through the sheets, "I can still hear him yelling in my head. Like a banshee with a nicotine problem. I've never seen him so mad."
You laugh, unzipping your flimsy jacket, tossing it on the cheap sheets, "At least he didn't bench us completely."
"I thought he was gonna' shove my badge down my throat."
Gojo flips over, messy white hair fanned across the pillow, glasses crooked. He stares at you for a long moment, his ears pink, before he says it. Quiet. Too quiet for Gojo.
"…It was still worth it."
You freeze, turning slowly, "What?"
His hand scrubs over his face, as he pulls his glasses straight once more, "Not the badge down my throat part. The stakeout. Car. You. I don't –" he breaks off, sits up abruptly, ocean-blue eyes bright with nerves. "I've never felt anything like that before. And if Sukuna yells me into the ground every day for the rest of my life, it'd still be worth it."
The room goes hushed. Your chest tightens at how serious he looks, this tall, awkward genius who's always been a little too much, suddenly stripped down to something raw.
You cross the room slowly, settling onto the edge of his bed, "Satoru…"
Gojo's throat bobs, and the tips of ears are flushed, "Can I —" He stops, shakes his head, tries again, quieter, "Can I have this? With you. Tonight?"
Your heart lurches. He's never done this before. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch on his knees, in the unpracticed tremor of his voice.
You lean in, brushing your lips against his temple, "Yeah," you whisper, "I really want that."
Gojo's exhale is shaky, relief and hunger all tangled together. When he kisses you this time, it's clumsy but desperate, his hands hovering, not sure where to land until you guide them, pressing them to your waist, your thigh, your chest.
And then it breaks open, heat curling, restraint snapping. Gojo groans into your mouth as you push him back against the pillows, his long body sprawling, his cock already stiff and aching against his plaid slacks.
"F-fuck, I don't, 'cause I've never…" Gojo pants, face flushed, "Just tell me what to do, please, I'll do anything —"
You take in the fine sculpt of his nose, the long lashes framing his eyes, the broad press of his shoulders against the woven fabric, "I can't believe you're a virgin, Satoru."
"Hey! I've been too busy to get laid."
The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, warm and teasing all at once, "It's a compliment, I don't know if anyone tells you this enough, but you're hot."
Gojo groans, flopping back on the bed like he wants the carpet to swallow him. You rake your nails beneath his shirt, feeling his toned abdomen, lightly dusted with fine hair.
And oh, the noise he makes. Like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his throat.
You lean down, kissing him again. Soft at first, then not at all, because Gojo is hungry, fumbling hands tugging at your hips, and then over your ass, groaning into your mouth like he's been starved of this forever. And maybe he has.
It's clumsy, teeth knocking once, but then Gojo moans. Loud. Like you've just discovered a frequency that short-circuits his neurons. His cock twitches under you, hard already, "S-sorry," he gasps, pulling back, blue eyes blown wide, "I can't, it's so – this is so embarrassing, I'm already —"
"Hard?" you tease, grinding your hips down so his cock presses right against your building heat, "Good. Means you want me."
Gojo whines, white hair tipping back against the pillow, throat flushed pink, "Of course I fucking want you. I've wanted you since — " He breaks off with a strangled groan when you rock against him again, "Shit-shit-shit, don't stop. Please don't stop —"
Gojo's rambling, babbling like he does at case briefings, but instead of statistics, it's just desperate filth, "Y-you're so warm, I can feel you even through my pants, I think I'm gonna die, – wait, am I supposed to – should I —"
You cut him off with another kiss, tugging at his worn belt until it clatters open. Gojo's shaking, half-helping, half-getting in the way because his large hands are trembling too hard. But finally you shove his slacks down enough to free him —
And oh, he's big. Thick, veined, dripping already, precum beading at the fat tip. Virgin, sure, but blessed in ways unfair to humanity.
Gojo gasps when your hand closes around his flushed shaft. Loud. Shocked. His head knocks back against the headboard, glasses sliding askew, "Oh my god, you're – holy shit, I'm gonna cum just from this, don't make f-fun of me —"
"Not making fun," you murmur, stroking him slow, savouring the way his soft, velvety cock kicks in your grip, "I'm impressed."
Gojo groans like you've shot him through the heart, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, hips jerking up into your hand helplessly, "Impressed —fuck, oh god, I think I l-love you, wait, shit, did I just say that out loud?"
You laugh against Gojo's throat, kissing down the column of his neck as he trembles under you, whining like he’s already on the edge, pearly slick already staining your hand.
"Relax, Satoru," you whisper, lining him up with your own slick entrance, pushing your panties to the side, feeling the thick, hot throb of his fat head near your core, "I'll take care of you."
And when you sink down, slow, tight, inch by inch, his groan could wake the entire floor.
"Oh, fuck, you're – you're t-tight, fuck, you're gonna break me —" His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding helplessly up your sides, pushing his glasses entirely off, "I-I'm inside, I can feel everything, I'm – oh my god."
You clamp a shaking hand over his running mouth, leaning in close. "Shhhh. Walls are thin, baby."
He nods frantically, eyes wet, muffling little cries into your palm as you bottom out, feeling every hot inch swab your gummy walls. His cock twitches inside you, already dripping, already too close.
And when you start to move, rolling your hips slow, grinding down until he's gasping into your hand, he nearly comes undone on the spot.
You barely get three swivels of your hips before he loses it.
"F-fuckfuckfuck, oh god, no – wait, shit —" Gojo's whole body seizes, hands clawing at your waist, voice cracking into a sob as his cock jerks inside you, thick head prodding dangerously close to that sweet spot, "I'm, oh no, I'm —"
And then Gojo's already climaxing, thick, creamy spurts spilling into you, thighs trembling, glasses long discarded on the thin sheets of the motel bed.
You blink down at him, stunned, feeling a heavy throb in your cunt, clenching around an overstimulated Gojo, "Did you just — "
"Don't say it," Gojo covers his face with both hands, chest heaving, still twitching weak spurts inside you, "Don't say I just came in thirty seconds. I know. I know. I —" His voice breaks into a whimper, muffled behind his palms, "Fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't, wasn't even, fuck, it's like the data didn't predict this outcome."
You laugh, despite the fading ache between your legs, eager for some friction. Because only Gojo Satoru would be blushing and pulling out scientific metaphors while still buried heavy balls-deep in you.
"Baby," you coo, stroking a hand down his flushed chest, thumbing over a pink nipple, and the action makes him keen, "We're not done. Not even close."
Gojo peeks out from behind his fingers, cerulean eyes wide and wet, "Wh–what do you mean? I already —"
"Yeah," you purr, tightening around him just to watch his jaw drop, to feel that delicious ache purr back to life as your groin tacked across his sticky hips, "And you're still hard."
And Gojo is. His thick cock, flushed angry-red, still twitches inside you, leaking, pulsing like it hasn’t gotten the memo.
He makes a broken noise, "That's not biologically s-supposed to happen. Well, sometimes, it c-can."
"Guess you're pretty special then, aren't you?"
Gojo arches, loud and shameless, like you've just electrocuted him. "It's too much – wait, wait, I — fuck, I can feel everything, you're so wet, so tight, god, I can feel your pretty pussy's heartbeat around me."
You press your lips to the shell of his ear, nipping the sensitive skin. “Then c-come on, fuck me more, Satoru. I know you can do m-more than thirty seconds. Show me what you've got."
Gojo whines, rasping, "I don't, – fuck, I've only read about positions. And everyone knows the Kama Sutra actually wasn't o-originally about s – woah, mmph!"
You shut him up with a kiss, rocking down harder, grinding his cock deeper into your sticky, drooling walls. He moans into your mouth, a desperate mess of teeth and tongue as he chases after your lips, his hips finally jerking up to meet yours.
"There ya' go," you pant, breaking the kiss to bite his jaw, "Just like that. F-fuck me back."
And something finally clicks. Some primal gear in Gojo finally slots into place, and suddenly he's gripping your hips with surprising strength, thrusting up into you with a rhythm that makes your breath catch. Hitting that sweet, roughened spot over and over in a way that makes you squeal.
"Shit, shit," Gojo gasps, white hair plastered to his forehead from sheer exertion, "I'm doing it, right? Like, I'm actually f-fucking you. It's so good, is it good for you? Tell me it's g-good."
"It's a-amazing," you whine, crescent-tipped nails digging into Gojo's shoulders as your own head tips back, "Fuck, 'Toru, you're so d-deep."
He groans like you’ve just told him he solved the world’s hardest equation (knowing him, that's probably the type of shit that gets him off).
"Deep, yeah, I read average vaginal length is l-like three to four inches but your cervix can actually – fuck, fuck, fuck, you're clenching – holyshit — "
You cut him off with another grind, walls fluttering around him until Gojo groans, head tipping back against the pillows once more, flushed and writhing.
"C-can't – can't take it,” he babbles, hips snapping frantically, the sound of skin slapping sticky echoing through the room, "Too good, too hot – fuck, your pussy's gonna kill me, I'm actually gonna die a virgin after all, oh god — "
You laugh breathlessly, tightening your quivering thighs around him, pinning him to the mattress as you ride him through another orgasm. He spills again inside you, creamy and opaque, drooling down your thighs, gasping your name, shaking under you like he's unraveling thread by thread.
And still, still — he's hard.
But Gojo looks wrecked. Vibrant blue eyes dewy, cheeks wet with sweat and tears, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, "Why, why won't it go down," he moans, almost panicked, pulling his cock out to slap at your wet folds, and the stimulation over your throbbing clit makes you squeal.
You cup his face, leaning close, "H-hey, we got plenty of time to practice now, right?"
Gojo breathes out one last shattered plea, voice cracked and raw, abdomen heaving with splattered release, "Teach me again tomorrow?"
The first thing you register is sheer heat. The second is warm weight, Gojo's ridiculously toned body pressed against you. Half on top of you, and half spooled around you as though he's afraid you'll vanish.
The third thing you notice is something hard rutting insistently against your hip. Smearing warm slick over your soft flesh.
"S-sorry, pretty girl," Gojo blurts, voice hoarse, and you don't miss the mild crack at the end, "Didn't meant to wake you, fuck, where are my glasses? I just, uh, well, morning wood is biologically inevitable due to nocturnal penile tumescence cycles but this feels way better than when it just happens randomly in my sleep."
You cut him off with a lazy roll of your hips, grinding back into his cock, just at the right angle so it slips between your thighs, curving upwards deliciously. Gojo yelps, biting the edge of your shoulder.
"Please," he whimpers, eagerness thrumming in his voice, "Round two? I read that recovery time after multiple orgasms is supposed to be, like, hours but I think maybe last night recalibrated me — "
You turn onto your back, grabbing his face and dragging him down into a messy kiss. He's still nervous with it, teeth knocking, lips wet, as though he didn't carve his way through your pussy last night, but he's so adorably desperate it makes your heart ache.
"Satoru," you murmur against his sweet mouth, "Just fuck me.”
His whole body jerks, like you've just flipped every circuit breaker in his brain. Gojo pushes in deep, groaning like he's dying, hips stuttering as your glossy folds envelop his thick shaft once more, that delicious stretch making you quietly keen.
"You're so – oh my god, you're so warm, and s-so wet. It's better than anythin' that I've ever – fuck, you're squeezin' me so good."
You laugh into Gojo's mouth, clenching around him just to hear him scream, "God, you're cute. S-shut up and keep moving."
And he does. Frantic, erratic, messy, his big hands gripping your hips like lifelines, flushed cock driving into you with the enthusiasm of a man who's just discovered heaven is real and he's the only one inside.
When you finally come, with a quiet moan, stars glittering in the peripherals of your vision, heart racing as your pussy's clenching tight around him, Gojo breaks, face buried in your neck, babbling ironically sweet nothings as he spills into you again, cock plugged thick up in your walls.
His blue eyes are bright as he slumps against you, sweaty and trembling, whispering into your skin, "…So, I should have asked you this earlier, but if I asked you to go out with me, like a real date, would you say yes?"
You blink up at him, breathless, taking in the sight of the gorgeous. man hovering above you, earnest and wide eyed, "…Yeah. I would. 'Course I would, Satoru."
Gojo's grin splits his whole face, stupid and boyish and beautiful.
The entire team is staring, and Shoko's cigarette falls from her elegant fingers, "No way." She's staring between you and Gojo, copper eyes narrowed, "So if you two ended up –," she pulls a face, "I can't even say it. But that means he won, fuck me."
Sukuna's grin is all fanged teeth, and he barks out a rough laugh, "Called it."
Naoya scowls, slamming a crumpled fifty onto the table, "Bullshit."
"Pay up," Sukuna orders, already extending one tattooed hand. Geto groans and drops a twenty, shooting you a dirty look that implies you deprived him of his lunch money. Shoko sighs and pulls a fifty from her wallet. Even Kento slides over a neat fifty-dollar bill.
Sukuna collects them all with a grin sharp as broken glass, whistling as he counts the notes, "Easy money. I told you boy-wonder was gonna' crack first."
"Hey," Gojo protests, cheeks blazing, "We – we did not crack, thank you very much."
Naoya sidles past towards the churning printer, snickering "No, you got cracked."
"That's a bit unfair."
"Please," Sukuna cuts him off with a sneer, "I sent ya' on a stakeout for a serial killer, and I caught you cryin' over a boner. You're lucky you got off this easy."
"Heh, got off," Geto murmurs, and with all past rivalries apparently forgotten, he receives a joyous high-five from a gleeful Zen'in.
You groan, dropping into your chair, "Can we not?"
But Sukuna leans back, shuffling his new wad of cash with a victorious hum, stuffing the roll into a suspiciously expensive Italian leather wallet. You privately wonder if your surly boss has a private side-gig in any less illustrious black markets.
"Nah, it's deserved. But still, it's a good welcome to the team. First rule of the unit, everybody fucks up. Second rule, don't fuck during an assignment. And third?" Sukuna whistles, pushing through the doors of his office, "Don't bet against me."
Gojo leans over to whisper in your ear, mortified, "This is the worst day of my life."
But you only smile, pushing a strand of soft, white hair out of his glasses, "Relax. You're still the one taking me out tonight."
The way Gojo's ears go pink? Worth every cent Sukuna just pocketed.
A/N: im baccckkkkk. yippie! normal posting will resume, including a post tomorrow too.
warnings: inappropriate school usage. smutty smut, slight nipple play, hate fuck sorta, crack fic
You hate him.
No, seriously. You hate him.
Nanami Kento, with his marble-statue jawline and his pressed suits and his “I don’t eat bread because it makes me sluggish” energy. Nanami Kento, with his calm, measured voice that makes even insults sound like corporate memos. Nanami Kento, who has the audacity—the fucking audacity—to look like a Greek bust while you’re over here juggling lesson plans, coffee stains, and a cat in a bowtie.
Chairman Meow, your pride and joy, your son (biological in spirit), your desk mascot. Nanami calls him “an unnecessary distraction.”
“He’s wearing a bowtie,” you say, petting the Chairman’s plump cheeks. “He’s dignified.”
“He looks ridiculous,” Nanami replies, without even looking up from his neatly stacked papers. His voice is so calm it makes you want to scream.
You imagine throwing your stapler at his perfect forehead.
The tension builds over weeks. He sighs when you’re late. You scoff when he wears another perfect tie.
He says, “Some people should learn professionalism.” You say, “Some people should stop looking like an Armani ad inside a public school.”
So yeah. Mutual loathing. Totally professional. Nothing simmering under the surface.
Until.
Until the day.
*-*
The day starts normally enough: you, armed with caffeine and chaos, him with punctuality and superiority. Chairman Meow sits on your desk, red bowtie glinting in the fluorescent light.
But then—then, oh holy then—the two of you spiral into yet another argument.
It’s about something stupid—like lesson overlap or his condescending comment about “projected learning outcomes.” You’re waving your arms wildly, because how else is a woman supposed to express her rage at a man who looks like a marble funeral statue brought to life?
And that’s when it happens.
POP.
The first button goes.
POPPOPPOP.
Three more follow like gunfire.
One button ricochets across the room like a war crime and smacks Nanami right in the forehead.
There’s silence.
And there you are, frozen in horror, shirt flapping open like a bad romance novel, standing in front of your mortal enemy in—oh God—in the laciest bra you own. The one with the flowers. The one that whispers boudoir instead of professionalism.
It’s not your fault.
It was the only clean white one you had left. But now here you are, basically soft-core cosplaying in front of Marble Statue Incarnate.
Nanami blinks. His gaze (traitorously) drops. Of course it does. He is a man. You are tits. Math works.
“Don’t,” you croak.
He immediately turns around, stiff as a board, voice clipped: “You should excuse yourself. And perhaps… invest in sturdier buttons.”
And then he LEAVES.
Leaves you standing there, half-dressed, clutching your dignity in scraps while Chairman Meow licks his ass like this is reality television.
*-*
You don’t speak of it. For a week.
A week of avoiding him.
A week of trying not to think about the way his ears turned red. A week of pretending your tits aren’t imprinted on the inside of his retinas like God’s cruelest screensaver.
*-*
Until, inevitably, another fight.
This time it’s after hours. Empty classroom. The desks smell like chalk and disinfectant. The tension could be bottled and sold as “pure suffering.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nanami says coolly, adjusting his tie.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, you doorknob in a three-piece suit,” you snap.
His brow twitches. You’ve got him.
And then it bursts out of you like divine lightning:
“YOU’VE SEEN MY TITS, NANAMI. SHUT UP AND TRUST ME ON THIS.”
The words echo. The silence is biblical.
Nanami actually—actually—chokes.
More silence.
Nuclear silence actually.
His jaw tightens. You swear to every Holy Entity, Past, Present and Future that if he pushes his glasses up his nose, you’re going to commit an act of terrorism with a hole puncher.
And that’s when everything collapses.
The air is hot. Stifling. Chalk dust spins in the glow of the half-dead ceiling light, and your lungs ache with how fast you’re breathing.
His mouth is on yours like a man who’s been starved, like he’s furious with himself for ever waiting this long, and you—oh, you bite back like it’s war.
The kiss tastes like blood and coffee, like the end of something sacred.
His hands are everywhere: palming your waist, sliding under your shirt, gripping your ribcage like he’ll carve you into his memory if you slip away. He drags your bra off quickly (a normal one this time thank you very much, you did your laundry), teeth clicking against your collarbone.
“Nanami—” you gasp, and he cuts you off with his mouth on your lips.
Nanami kisses like he works—deliberate, precise, but with a pressure that makes you dizzy. He bites your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and he swallows that gasp like it belongs to him.
Your back hits the desk, papers flying. His hands—big, hot, veined—clutch your waist like he’s been waiting to pin you down since the dawn of civilization.
“Do you ever shut up?” he growls against your mouth.
“Not even when you’ve got your tongue down my throat,” you pant, tugging his tie until it’s loose, hanging like a leash.
“God, you’re insufferable.”
Your shirt is nothing but tatters on the floor by now, and he doesn’t hesitate—his hands cup your breasts, squeeze, thumb rolling across your nipples until your knees buckle. He's greedy, squeezing like he’s punishing you for existing. His thumb rolls over your nipple again and you whine, shameless, arching up against him.
You arch into his touch, nails raking down his back through his dress shirt. He hisses, like you’re both trying to scar each other into permanence.
He pauses, breath ragged.
“So responsive,” he mutters, almost reverent.
“Oh, don’t you dare sound impressed—ah—fuck—”
Because now he’s got his mouth wrapped around your nipple, sucking, biting, tugging like he’s writing a thesis on how to ruin you.
“Nanami—holy shit—”
Your hands dig into his perfect blond hair, yanking him closer. He groans against your skin, the vibration making you squirm. When he finally looks up, lips wet, eyes dark, he looks wrecked.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, too softly, too sincere, and it punches the breath out of you.
“Don’t—don’t say shit like that—” you stammer.
“You drive me insane,” he interupts, thrusting you back against the teacher’s desk so hard a pen clatters to the floor. “You’re loud, you’re careless, you bring a fucking cat to school—”
“And you’re still between my legs,” you pant, smirking despite the fire in your veins. “What’s that say about you, huh? Mr. Perfect?”
He pulls back, just long enough to unbuckle your belt with brutal efficiency, eyes burning down into yours. “It says I’m about to ruin you.”
And oh, God.
But then he’s undoing your pants, sliding them down with slow precision that feels filthy, like he’s savoring every inch. His fingers graze your thighs, your ass, before cupping your pussy over your panties.
“Already soaked,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “You’ve been arguing with me like this? Wet?”
“Shut up,” you hiss, face burning.
“No,” he says, smirking for the first time, pressing harder. “Tell me—have you been this wet every time you shouted at me?”
“Fuck you,” you snap.
“I intend to,” he deadpans, sliding your panties aside and dragging two thick fingers through your slick. The sound is obscene in the quiet classroom.
You moan, bucking against him. “Fuck, Nanami—oh my God—”
His fingers push inside you—slow, steady, filling. You’re keening, gasping, grabbing onto his arm like you’ll float away. He curls them just right and you throw your head back in a near porno worthy moan.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone between words. “So tight, so perfect, fuck- you’re dripping for me.”
When he frees himself, you can’t stop the laugh that spills out, sharp and dirty.
“Even your dick looks polished. You iron it in the mornings too? Overachiever ass.”
“Shut up,” he snaps, shoving your skirt up, fingers yanking your underwear to the side again with no hesitation. “Open your mouth again and I’ll keep it busy.”
“Promises, promises—” you start, but then he slides the head of his cock against your folds, and you whine, shameless, desperate.
He sinks in slowly.
The stretch burns, hot and impossible, and you grip the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles ache. “Jesus Christ,” you gasp.
Nanami swallows hard, jaw clenched, brow furrowed like he’s solving the world’s cruelest equation.
You clutch the desk, nails scraping the surface, as he stretches you wide, deeper, deeper, until he’s seated fully inside you.
“You’re so fucking—tight—” His voice breaks as he bottoms out, and then steadies again, dark and reverent: “I’ve thought about this more times than I care to admit.”
The honesty makes your head spin.
“Yeah? Gonna admit it now?”
He drags out, slams back in, and you moan. The desk rattles violently beneath you, the cheap wood groaning like it won’t survive this either.
“You want confessions?” His thrusts are relentless, steady as his lectures but soaked in fury, in need. “I think about shutting you up with my cock every single time you talk back to me.”
You choke on a laugh, delirious. “Go ahead then, try it.”
He does.
His fingers slide into your mouth, two of them, filling it, pressing down on your tongue while he drives into you harder. You gag around the intrusion, drool slipping down your chin, and the sound he makes—low, guttural, ruined—makes your entire body clench around him.
“Look at you,” he groans, hips slamming against you, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. “Always so mouthy, and now you can’t even speak. Pathetic.”
You whimper around his fingers, nails clawing at his wrist, body bowing under the weight of him.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, you gasp, voice wrecked. “Fuck—you—Nanami—”
“You like this too much,” he accuses, forehead pressed against yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “You like me fucking you like I hate you.”
“Maybe I do,” you hiss, and roll your hips to meet his, shameless, filthy. “Maybe I like that you’re the only one who can actually shut me up.”
That definitely gets to him. His pace turns brutal, pounding you into the desk until your thighs shake and your vision whites out. Every thrust knocks another broken sound out of you, every snap of his hips feels like a declaration.
You’re crying out, begging, swearing, while he pounds into you with brutal precision.
“Louder,” he growls, fucking you harder. “I want to hear how much you hate me now.”
“Fuck you—fuck you—don’t stop—”
His hand snakes into your hair, yanking your head back so his mouth can crash against yours. It’s teeth, spit, moans swallowed between desperate kisses.
“You’re mine,” he mutters, almost to himself, like he doesn’t even mean to say it aloud. “God, you’re mine.”
Your nails dig crescents into his shoulders, your breath hitching with each thrust. “Then prove it—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
And he doesn’t.
His hand slides down, rubbing your clit in rough, perfect circles, and you’re gone—falling apart, screaming his name, thighs shaking. You gush around him, soaking his cock, the desk.
He fucks you through it, through the wave that crashes over your body and rips a scream from your lungs, through the way you tighten and spasm around him so violently his rhythm stutters.
“—fuck,” he groans, voice cracking, and then he’s gone too—hips slamming hard against yours, cock pulsing deep, forehead digging into your shoulder as he spills inside you with a sound that’s too close to a prayer.
The classroom stinks of sex and sweat and broken dignity.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing, the slow creak of the desk under your combined weight.
Then Chairman Meow meows from the hallway, behind the classroom door, loud and unimpressed.
Nanami, still buried in you, doesn’t even lift his head. Just mutters, low and hoarse: “That cat is going to haunt me.”
You laugh, delirious, still trembling, you turn your head and press a kiss to his damp face. “Get used to it, marble boy.”
cw: smut, semi public sex, car sex, handjob, protected sex, human!gyutaro, popular x outcast trope, mean!reader kinda, arguing while fucking, modern au
an: im sorry this took me so damn long to write. like i've said before, editing longer fics and rereading my own stuff over and over for proofreading makes me hyper-aware of all its flaws, so that part is always a struggle for me. but here it is now, and I hope you guys enjoy it :) i'd love to expand some more on this AU so if there's anything y'all would like to see, let me know <3 | wc: 3,5k
The parking lot is almost fully deserted when you push through the gym doors, the moonlight already high above the trees. You’d slipped a note into Gyutaro’s locker just before the rally earlier that day, a discreet flick of your wrist on your way to the gymnasium.
Meet me behind the gym after the rally. Far side of the lot.
Simple, straight to the point.
Thankfully, it doesn't take long for you to spot him. He's parked on the far side just like you asked, slouched against the side of some beat-up car with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The sight throws you off for a second, your gaze briefly flicking to the car's dented bumper. He usually shows up on that loud-ass bike, the one you can hear growling down the street long before you even see him.
"You got a car now?"
Gyutaro snorts, glancing back at the dusty honda behind him. "Not mine. Borrowed it off someone."
"Mh," you hum, tossing your bag carelessly into the open backseat. "Thought so."
"You always this bitchy after a good performance?" he asks after a beat of silence, pinching the cigarette between two fingers as he pushes off the car. "Or just when you're horny and too proud to admit it?"
"Shut up, I’m not horny."
He huffs a low laugh, smoke curling out between his teeth as he smirks. "Yeah. I’m sure you left that note in my locker to talk about your feelings."
It should annoy you, the way he seems to always have the last word. It kind of does. But the truth is, you’ve been too wired since you stuck that final landing on the mat, too aware of him watching you from the bleachers, his fifth— maybe sixth cigarette of the day perched between his lips in front of the very much visible "no smoking" sign. You’ve been on edge all evening and now you’re out here in the dark with him alone, and your skin’s prickling in anticipation.
So, yeah. You're pretty fucking horny indeed.
"I don't have all night, Gyutaro. Are we doing this or not?" you ask in that fake annoyed tone you've managed to master around him, flicking your eyes toward the back seat.
Gyutaro tilts his head, tongue poking the inside of his cheek like he’s considering dragging it out just to make you squirm. He steps closer and slides a hand into your hair, still damp from your rushed shower, fingers curling to grip at the base of your neck. Not tight enough to hurt, but firm.
"You’re not gonna run this time?"
"I didn't—" you gulp. "...I didn't run."
"No?" he chuckles, the cigarette moving between his lips as he speaks. "You’re sayin' I imagined standing out in the parking lot like a goddamn idiot with a melted slurpee in one hand and a pharmacy bag in the other?"
You bite the inside of your cheek, swallowing back an unnecessary comeback.
You almost went. You wanted to, really. But when you’d stepped out of the locker room a few minutes after Gyutaro that day, you’d seen the other girls from your squad lingering by the lockers, laughing and glancing in your direction just a little too long. They probably weren’t even talking about you but your brain decided to spin the entire situation anyway, twisting it into something worse. Knowing how fast rumors spread, you figured standing him up would be the safer option. So that's what you did.
"Do you know how fuckin' sweet that stuff is?" he continues. "It’s like swallowin' straight-up cough syrup. If you’re gonna ditch me, at least pick a better flavor."
"I was busy, alright?" you mutter now, trying to free yourself from his grip. "The girls needed me. Besides, I don't owe you anything."
Gyutaro scoffs at that, his fingers slowly uncurling from your hair, the strands falling back against your neck. His cigarette’s down to the filter now, the ember flaring as he takes one last drag before flicking it toward the curb. "...Did you at least take the pill?"
You hesitate.
"I picked it up the next morning."
There’s a pause, barely a breath— and then Gyutaro laughs. He pulls a box from his pocket and flicks it at you with a casual toss. "Here. You’ve got a spare now. And you owe me thirty bucks." he continues, "Guess you weren’t that worried about getting knocked up after all."
Before you can respond, Gyutaro turns and opens the car door wider, stepping aside just enough to nod toward the backseat. That familiar smirk curls back onto his face, like he’s already decided this conversation is over.
“Get in. Before someone sees you and thinks I’m tryin’ to mug the prom queen.”
The tension in your body tightens with every second you stand there and yet, your instinct still makes you glance around.
Because as much as you want him…you don't want to be seen with him. You still have a reputation to hold, and the thought of what people would say if they saw you with Gyutaro of all people sends a spike of panic through your spine.
Once you're certain the coast is clear, you slip past him without a word, head ducked and heartbeat speeding up as you climb into the backseat. Gyutaro slides in right after, the door clicking shut behind him with a muffled thud. You switch off the interior lights before maneuvering yourself onto his lap like it's second nature, skirt riding up and knees sinking into the seats.
It’s… a tight fit, to say the least. Your head brushes the low roof as you straddle him, your thighs barely fitting on either sides of him. And fuck, it's awkward as hell, but you manage to bite back the remark. No way you’re risking getting kicked out before you've even had the chance of getting properly railed.
Gyutaro doesn’t say anything—not at first. His hands settle on your hips, and his eyes don’t trail the usual places. Not your lips, not your tits. They're on…your arms.
“Hey." you snap. "What are you staring at?”
He lifts a hand in response, fingers ghosting over a bruise near your collarbone. You forgot it was even there, just one of a dozen you’ve picked up from catching girls mid-fall and getting elbowed during formations. His thumb brushes another one on your bicep; faint purple, ringed with green at the edges. You shift your shoulder away instinctively, a subtle flinch before your body can start betraying you with goosebumps.
“You look like you’ve been getting into fights,” Gyutaro smirks. "Didn’t realize hangin’ around me was gonna turn you into such a menace."
You roll your eyes. “It’s called stunting. Try throwing a girl your size into the air and not getting beat up in the process.”
He huffs a laugh and leans forward, not asking, not hesitating—just pressing his mouth softly against the bruise on your shoulder.
“...Wh-what the hell are you doing?” you ask, trying to bite back the way your voice falters.
“What does it look like? You look hot all banged up like this.”
You click your tongue, shifting your weight on his lap. “God, you’re such a freak. No wonder people treat you the way they do.”
“Yeah, well…” he says, leaning in again, this time to the inside of your arm, where another faint bruise blooms. He kisses that one too, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Takes one to fuck one.”
Your pulse stutters. You roll your eyes, not even trying to mask it as you tilt your head back, letting him kiss down your neck.
“Just— don't think this means anything. Your dick’s just a means to an end for me.”
You’re still trying to keep that edge in your voice, that don’t-mess-with-me tone, but your pulse is loud in your ears now. The warmth of his lips, the softness behind his voice... it’s all making your head spin a little.
For a split second, you catch the faintest flicker of something in Gyutaro’s eyes before a smirk curls at the corner of his lips. His hands roam up your thighs and settle on your ass, fingers pressing in before delivering a sharp smack that makes you hiss through your teeth. “Right.”
He leans in again while your thoughts begin to spiral, his mouth meeting yours. He nips at your bottom lip, soothes the sting with a swipe of his tongue before pulling back to meet your gaze. One of his hands curls around the back of your neck while the other anchors at your waist, grounding you against him.
You find yourself leaning back for more, your lips crashing back onto his. You’ve needed something to burn the leftover adrenaline off, and Gyutaro’s always been good for that. His hands are already under your skirt, lips in the middle of trailing down the base of your throat when you pull back suddenly, planting both palms on his chest. He frowns.
You look him dead in the eye, your tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Condom.”
Gyutaro blinks, a little caught off guard—but only for a second. You watch as he leans his head back against the seat, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he gives you that stupid, lazy grin. "Lesson learned.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his beat-up jacket, pulling out the foil and flashing it at you lazily, holding it between two fingers. “There. Can I fuck you now? Or do you have other demands?"
You roll your eyes, snatching the foil out of his hand. Your shoulders brush the roof as you lift yourself up. “Actually, yeah. I demand you stop picking the smallest fucking car on earth for shit like this.”
Gyutaro snorts, hands already gripping your hips. "Oh, i'm sorry. Let me just hit up my imaginary rich father and ask for the SUV he doesn’t have, yeah? how's that sound?”
You glare at him, hips grinding down onto the bulge in his pants, your breath hitching at the friction. Some part of you wants to ask if he's still mad at you…but your ego tells you to shut it.
"If you actually cared about my comfort—"
"Your comfort?" he interrupts, a clearer hint of annoyance in his tone now. "I don’t got money to waste on some fancy-ass car just to fuck in it. Deal with it.”
You’re about to hit him with a sharp fuck you— but your hand grabs a fistful of his hair instead. You drag him into a kiss, teeth clashing, frustration and arousal tangled as you unbutton his pants. The tight space has you practically bent over him, forehead pressed to his as you work him free, your lips brushing his in a messy, uncoordinated kiss.
"Fuck, you’re insufferable." he mutters against your lips, your forehead bumping clumsily into his.
"Yeah, and your voice is turning me off so keep your mouth shut." you bite back. Gyutaro jerks slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a second as your fingers wrap around him, a slow glob of spit falling from your lips to slick your grip.
"You don't look like someone who's turned off." he says, a slight hitch in his breath when your thumb drags over the head.
"Keep talking and I’ll leave you like this." you say, keeping your rhythm steady, stroking him just to watch him struggle to stay quiet. "I can take care of myself just fine."
"Oh yeah? Go ahead then." he grits out, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours. "Climb off and finger yourself in the front seat if i'm such a nuisance. I’ll just enjoy the show."
You pause, fingers squeezing around him, eyes narrowing.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He grins then, his hips bucking slightly into your hand. “I’d like it better if you shut the fuck up and rode me.”
You laugh, a little breathless before tearing the foil open with trembling fingers, your breath shallow as you carefully roll the condom down his length. He’s already half-hard, warm and twitching in your hand as you stroke him, coaxing him to full hardness.
His own hands are on you instantly, hooking his finger into the sides of your panties to drag them aside in a quick motion, leaving you bare. You hover awkwardly above him for a second, bracing your hand on the headrest behind him, trying to stabilize yourself as you guide him to your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds. His hands tremble slightly against your thighs, muscles tense, and when you finally sink down onto him, his head tips back against the headrest with a guttural groan.
"Fuck—" he hisses, nails biting into your skin. "You’re so fucking wet."
"No thanks to you."
He huffs, something between a laugh and a moan while his mouth grazes your collarbone. "You really wanna keep pretending?" You bite down on your lip, trying to keep the moan trapped in your throat but it slips out anyway—soft, involuntary.
Gyutaro hears it. Smirks. "There she is."
You glare at him, but your hips roll instinctively, grinding down slow, dragging his length against every sensitive inch inside you. Gyutaro swears under his breath, thrusting up to meet you, the rhythm already building fast in the tight, cramped space of the car, the windows fogging quickly.
"Come on. Why don't you show me just how much you 'hate' me, huh?" he says, hands locking around your waist as he fucks up into you.
You ride him harder in response, panting against his mouth, your forehead pressed to his as the car rocks under the force of it.
As expected though, reality hits fast. The movies have been lying to you this whole time, because car sex fucking sucks after the first sixty seconds. Now you're all sweaty, your legs are cramped, and your knees are digging into the sharp plastic of the seatbelt buckles with every movement.
“You're a fucking idiot.” you gasp between bounces, trying to adjust without slamming your head into the roof again. “What the hell made you think this would work?!”
Gyutaro’s eyes flash with irritation, his hands digging into your hips to keep you steady on his lap. “I didn’t think you’d be so fucking bitchy about it,” he snaps, voice low and rough. "You’re the one who left that damn note in my locker."
"Yeah, well, I didn’t realize I signed up for cardio in a fucking sardine can." you hiss, flinching as your head knocks against the ceiling again.
"Stop bitchin’ and keep moving before my dick gets soft."
You roll your eyes but oblige, grinding down harder out of pure spite.
The frustration gets momentarily swallowed whole by the way he stretches you open, thick and deep and perfect even in the worst angle. But a cramp is threatening to snap through your calf, and your spine is still half-twisted at some cursed angle.
"I can’t— wait, stop, I can’t fucking move," you gasp, breath ragged, frustration dripping from every word. "This car is too fucking small—fuck, Gyutaro— ow!"
He grunts beneath you, trying to adjust but only managing to make you accidentally pull at his hair. "Jesus, watch it!"
"I’m cramping!" you snap, pushing against his chest to shift. "My leg is going numb!"
"Alright, get off." he mutters, gripping your hips.
You blink, dizzy and aching but he’s already maneuvering you off his lap, both of you fumbling in the tight space. Your knees nearly catch on the seatbelt buckles again but his hands are there, guiding you, pushing you gently but firmly down in a half-laid position.
It's still awkward as hell. Your head knocks against the fogged-up window, your shoulder is crammed between the door and the seat, and your legs spread unevenly over the space. But Gyutaro crowds between them anyway, one hand shoving your skirt up to your waist while the other hooks under your knee and hikes your leg higher.
“Just stay like this,” he mutters, giving himself a few slow pumps before lining himself up again. Then he’s pushing back in, the stretch forcing a pathetic moan from your lips before you can stop it. “Fuck, that’s better.”
He starts to move. His thrusts are smoother now, each one angled just right, rocking your body back into the seat with a rhythm that’s got your eyes rolling back in seconds. “Shit,” he pants, breath hot against your lips. “Shoulda let me do this from the start.”
Your head tips back as his fingers reach down to circle your clit, rubbing fast, insistent.
“Oh fuck,” you gasp, voice cracking, legs trembling around his waist. “Oh my god. Fuck yes, right there,”
He lifts his head, eyes flicking to your face. “Yeah? Now you’re moaning?” he groans, thrusting harder now, sloppier, pace faltering just slightly with how tight you’re squeezing around him. He leans in, lips grazing your ear. “Thought I was a freak? That my voice turned you off?” You sob out a whimper, too far gone to speak. “Bet your jock boyfriends never made you feel like this,” he grits, snapping his hips forward hard enough to make the entire car jolt.
“Shut up, shut the fuck up—” You whine, high-pitched and raw, fingers tightening in his hair like you’re holding on for dear life. “Gyutaro, fuck, I’m so close, I wanna come—please,” you're babbling now, voice thin and broken, tears stinging your eyes from how intense it all feels.
He groans like your begging physically does something to him, hips grinding deeper, his rhythm relentless.
“You sound so fuckin’ pretty when you beg.” he pants, lips brushing yours again, voice rough. “Almost makes up for that mouth.”
You’re barely hearing him now, brain fogged with nothing but the pressure building in your gut, the obscene slick sound of skin hitting skin. You still manage to clamp a hand over his mouth to shut him up, but it's useless. He jerks away, freeing himself almost immediately.
Your back arches hard against the seat and you cry out as he presses just a little harder on your clit, circles tighter, meaner. His cock hits deep, drags against that perfect spot inside you again and again, and your vision whites out.
"That’s it," he pants, one hand gripping your thigh, the other still working tight, fast circles between your legs. "Good girl."
You cry out as your orgasm hits, white-hot and blinding. The pleasure burns through every nerve, pulsing and crashing as you clench around his cock, thighs shaking uncontrollably at his sides and gasping into his mouth like you can’t get enough air.
"Shit—shit," Gyutaro hisses, "You feel—ah, fuck, you feel so good, fuck—"
His thrusts turn frantic, losing rhythm, hips jerking erratically as you milk him through your orgasm. His forehead presses against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, his breath hot and uneven as he chases his own release, fucking into you over and over again like the cramped space and awkward angles don’t matter anymore.
His hips stutter then slam up into you once, twice more before he’s groaning through gritted teeth, ropes after ropes of thick cum filling the condom as he comes.
For a long moment, the car is filled with nothing but the sound of both of you panting like you just ran a marathon.
Then Gyutaro leans back slightly, blinking up at you with blown pupils and flushed cheeks, his chest heaving. There’s sweat beading along his temple, a strand of dark hair stuck to his cheek.
"You okay?" he rasps, quieter now. There’s something unsure in his voice, a subtle hint of vulnerability.
You blink up at him, eyes heavy and glazed, every muscle aching and spent as you nod. Your breath is still heavy, chest rising and falling unevenly as the aftershocks pulse through your body. Your hand lifts on its own accord, fingers trembling slightly as they cup his cheek.
Your fingertips trail along the line of his jaw with a softness that surprises even you, the warmth of his skin steadying the dizzy whirlwind inside your head. Before you can second-guess it, you lean forward and kiss him. Your eyes flutter closed instinctively as it gradually deepens into something almost tender, the complete opposite of what just happened between you.
You're first to pull away, your lungs feeling like they'll burst.
"…We’re never doing this in a car again."
Gyutaro breathes out a shaky laugh, collapsing forward to kiss your collarbone.
A/N: me: says no new works. Also me: writes in the car and gets rlly bad car sick, almost threw up like thrice . ANYWAYS, this is based on real events.
warnings: light smut. slight body dismorphia (very slight, like its an inuendo), not very well written smut, sorry pooks.
It was supposed to be moving day bliss.
You, Nanami Kento, Chairman Meow (whose government name was, indeed, Chairman Meow), and approximately seventeen cardboard boxes filled with both the essential and the absolutely fucking unnecessary. (Do you need seven mugs that say “world’s best slut”? Maybe. Do you use them? Also maybe.)
The plan: get you out of your shitty shoebox apartment and into a slightly-less-shitty shared apartment with your boyfriend. A joint domestic endeavor. A romantic little “cohabitation arc.” A Hallmark movie montage with bad lighting, worse plumbing, and Nanami’s rolled-up sleeves.
The problem: Chairman Meow was NOT having it.
He was slinking around like a furry harbinger of doom, yellow eyes narrowed as though he personally paid rent here and did not approve of your sudden eviction. However, he was also vibrating with glee at the sudden proliferation of boxes. Boxes, after all, were his personal religion.
So while Nanami, a six-foot-tall, annoyingly well-dressed god among men, carries your books in neat stacks like he’s shelving a library, you are busy prying Chairman Meow out of yet another cardboard fortress.
“You’re not helping,” you scold.
MrrrOWW! replies Chairman, batting at a crumpled wad of paper.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I think he thinks you were,” Nanami says, calm as ever, tying up a box with twine like this is a serene Sunday craft project and not you fleeing your shitty little apartment.
Everything’s going fine. Like—too fine. It’s suspicious. The air has that unnatural calm that usually precedes earthquakes, or in your case, catastrophe.
So the stage is set. You’re in the kitchen, muttering about whether bubble wrap is recyclable (Nanami: “It’s plastic. No.” You: “Don’t tone me, sir.”), while Nanami is in the living room, being his usual efficient, terrifyingly competent self.
And then—
And then.
Tragedy. Comedy. The undoing of one man’s dignity.
“Strange,” Nanami murmurs to himself, dusting his palms as he eyes the last shelf of your bookcase. A single black box sits perched on top. Neglected. Innocuous. A mystery cube.
The box wobbles when he touches it. He frowns. “Poorly packed.”
And then, because of course, gravity decides that today is the day to humble him.
Because of course this is THE box.
You know the one.
The forbidden one.
The “you swore you’d burn it before anyone found it” one.
Except, instead of you burning it, it decides to kamikaze directly onto Nanami’s very serious, very handsome head.
There is a fwump.
A cascade.
And then—
Good lord.
Directly. Onto. His head.
There’s a pause. A silence that should be sacred. And then—
The apocalypse of lace.
Bright pink, sheer panties slap across his face like a fabric crime. They dangle there obscenely, delicate and light, except for the crotchless heart-shaped cutout that whispers, “Hi, yes, I’m here to end your career as a man of composure.”
A bra lands on one shoulder. Another slides down his arm like some kind of cursed sash. A pair of fishnet stockings drape across his chest. Something strappy and red with more buckles than it should ever be intended wraps around his wrist like it’s trying to claim him. Neon red panties with the word SLUT rhinestoned across the back clatter to the floor.
And then there’s the toys.
Good lord, the toys.
A pink silicone thingamajig spins dramatically across the floor like a Beyblade of shame. Something unmistakably shaped like a riding crop clatters against his shoe. A vibrator hums to life—traitorously—because it’s been jostled awake. A dildo that clatters dramatically against the hardwood.
Nanami freezes. His belt has a lacy thong hooked on it, dangling there like the world’s filthiest accessory.
“...Good grief,” he says flatly, though there’s a faint pink tinge betraying him at his ears. He plucks the crotchless panties off his face, stares at them like they’ve insulted his ancestors.
And that’s when you walk in.
You walk in, balancing a stack of plates wrapped in newspaper, only to behold The Scene.
Nanami Kento. Your sophisticated, stoic, tax-paying boyfriend. Standing in the center of your shitty apartment, surrounded by a storm of lingerie and sex toys.
A bra is sliding slowly off his shoulder. A pair of panties clings to his belt. He’s holding the world’s most vulgar piece of pink lace between two fingers, looking like he just saw God and God was wearing a crotchless teddy.
Chairman Meow? He has claimed a bra and is dragging it valiantly toward the underworld.
“Oh my fucking GOD,” you choke, nearly dropping your stack of plates. “OH—OH MY GOD. KENTO.”
Nanami’s voice is calm. Too calm. “...Why have I never seen you in these?”
You are quite literaly frozen, jaw unhinged, brain absolutely fried. “Wha—Kento—what the—are you SERIOUS—”
Nanami lifts one of the panties like he’s a forensic investigator. “I mean it. I’ve never seen you wear anything remotely like this.”
You put the plates down. “I—uh—it’s not like—okay, first of all, can you NOT hold those like they’re evidence from a crime scene—”
“Why haven’t you?” he asks again, golden eyes narrowing, voice dropping to that quietly dangerous register. “Is it because you’re not comfortable around me?”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, to explain that you’ve literally never felt confident enough to wear them for anyone. That every ex you had was either undeserving or oblivious. That these things were bought during hopeful, champagne-drunk late-night online shopping sprees and then shoved into hiding when the courage evaporated.
You blink. Blink again.
“Wait—WHAT? No. Oh my god.”
Nanami looks genuinely wounded, which is so fucking hilarious you nearly laugh. Except also, oh no. His jaw is tight, his brows drawn, like he really believes you’ve been hiding this arsenal of sex couture because you don’t trust him.
You wave your arms.
“No! No-no-no, Kento. I’ve literally never worn them for anyone. EVER. I—” Your voice pitches embarrassingly high. “I just—don’t feel confident enough. That’s it. They’ve just been sitting there, collecting dust.”
Nanami stares at you.
And then, softly—like you just committed some unspeakable crime—
“You’ve been depriving me?”
You made a face that could only be described as: “???????”
Nanami , was actually scandalized. “You own all of this—” (he gestures to the floor, which looks like a Victoria’s Secret exploded in a sex shop)—“and you’ve never thought to wear any of it for me?”
You nodded, cheeks on fire. “Yeah. I mean, I bought them thinking I might but then I just… didn’t. Not really confident enough. With like—” you waved vaguely at your body, your everything, “—all this.”
Nanami blinked. Then blinked again. His jaw ticked, and he looked almost… offended.
“You’re telling me I’ve spent the last year watching you in oversized t-shirts when all this time—” he gestured at the pile of lace and leather, “—this was waiting in your closet?”
“………Yes?”
Chairman Meow yowls, dragging a lace garter into the hallway.
Nanami sighs. Deeply. Adjusts his tie like it might steady his soul. “Unacceptable.”
And then, softer, with devastating sincerity:
“I want to see you in them.”
Cue you, internally combusting, externally squeaking like a chew toy.
Nanami, immaculate even in a storm of dildos and satin, brushes lint off his slacks. That One Thong still clings to his belt like a desperate suitor. You swear he knows, and he refuses to remove it on principle.
“Finish packing the kitchen,” he says mildly, like he’s not a lingerie-clad saint sent to punish you. “I’ll… sort this.”
You gape.
Chairman Meow wrestles the bra under the couch.
And Nanami, the man you are apparently in love with, stands like a marble statue in a hurricane of sex toys, and you have never wanted to sink into the floor more in your entire life.
*-*
Moving Day had long since been swallowed into memory.
The Great Lacy Apocalypse™? The Vibrator Avalanche? The Day Nanami Kento Stood With a Pair of Crotchless Panties on His Face Like a War Hero? Buried. Stuffed in a box. Shoved under the bed, never to be spoken of again.
(Except Chairman Meow did speak of it, in his own piss-poetic way. Specifically by peeing in the new shower. Twice. You tried to tell Nanami this was simply protest, rebellion, a proletariat statement against relocation. Nanami said it was simply: “Disgusting.”)
Months rolled by.
Life settled.
Your shared apartment became cozy. Chairman adapted (read: claimed the windowsill as his throne). Nanami came home from work smelling like coffee and curses. You, blissfully, forgot about the catastrophic lingerie reveal.
*-*
Until The Gift.
Nanami came home one Thursday evening with his tie loosened and a suspiciously crisp shopping bag in his hand.
“I got you something,” he said, as though this was an everyday occurrence. As though he wasn’t holding the bag with the careful precision of a man who had once accidentally touched a dildo and lived to regret it.
You blinked at him, suspicious. “Is it… food?”
“No.”
“…A cat toy?”
“No.”
“Is it haunted?”
“My love,” he sighed, tired already. “Just open it.”
So you did. And—
“Oh my fucking god.”
It wasn’t food. It wasn’t a cat toy. It wasn’t haunted. It was worse.
A full lingerie set.
And not just any lingerie. No—this was crafted. Black lace threaded with delicate gold accents, the pattern eerily similar to the cursed lines of his tool. High-end. Luxurious. Strappy. Deadly. The bra cups sculpted, the garter sleek, the panties scandalous in ways that could probably get you arrested in conservative prefectures.
You held it up with trembling hands.
“Kento. What the fuck.”
“I think you’ll look good in it.” He said it evenly, calmly, like he hadn’t just detonated a nuclear device into your evening.
Your brain short-circuited. “But—but HOW—did you even—how the FUCK do you know my size??”
Nanami, the bastard, adjusted his tie. “I measured you myself.”
Your mouth dropped. “WHEN.”
“While you were sleeping.”
“WHAT.”
He looked maddeningly unbothered. “You’re a very sound sleeper.”
“THAT IS—ILLEGAL???”
“It’s efficient,” he corrected.
You stared at him. He stared back. The lingerie dangled accusingly between you. Chairman Meow pawed at the shopping bag, already plotting larceny.
You whispered, horrified: “When did you even…?”
“A few weeks ago,” he admitted. “The boutique is known for their speed.”
Oh.
Oh, so not only did he secretly measure you in your sleep like a weird villain, he also premeditated this? He’d walked into some luxury shop, looked some poor sales associate dead in the eye, and said: Yes, my girlfriend will need lingerie that could double as architectural scaffolding.
Nanami’s gaze sharpened.
“Try it on.”
You squeaked. Actually squeaked. “Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Kento, this looks like it requires an engineering degree to put on.”
“Then take your time,” he replied smoothly, already shrugging off his blazer, settling on the couch like a man awaiting a Michelin-star meal. “I’ll wait.”
*-*
It took you seventeen minutes.
Seventeen long, curse-filled minutes of straps, hooks, and betrayal.
By the time you emerged from the bathroom, you had sweat on your forehead, lace in places you didn’t think lace should go, and an overwhelming sense of: If this doesn’t look good, I’m moving into a cave.
Chairman Meow, naturally, chose this exact moment to attack the discarded bag in the living room, growling like he’d discovered a new enemy. Nanami didn’t notice.
Because Nanami was staring at you.
Silent.
Mouth slightly open. Glasses slipping down his nose.
You shifted awkwardly. “Uh… so…?”
And then, in a voice low and reverent, like a man seeing the face of God:
“Holy fuck.”
In three strides, he was in front of you. His hands hovered for a moment, hesitant, reverent, before finally settling on your waist. His thumbs pressed against the lace, the contrast of his big, warm palms against the delicate fabric making you shiver.
“You’re—” he swallowed hard, eyes flicking over every strap, every line, every curve, “—stunning.”
You completely short-circuited.
“Come here.” He mumbled.
*-*
What followed was not polite.
Okay, that’s a lie.
It was polite in the sense that Nanami treated you like you were a goddess descending into his lap. But it was also filthy. Because Nanami Kento, it turns out, had been waiting months—months—to get his hands on this specific fantasy, and once the gates were open, it was over for you.
You were not supposed to survive the evening.
That was clear the moment you walked out of the bathroom and Nanami looked at you like you were a solar eclipse—blinding, dangerous, the kind of thing you weren’t technically allowed to stare at, but he was going to burn his retinas anyway.
Your thighs looking like holy land, your tits like—no, he actually said it—
“Those belong in the Louvre,” he muttered, very reverently.
You squeaked. Nanami did not.
He stood. Slowly. Like a man about to walk into the ocean and never come back.
“Come on.”
You tried to sass. Tried to joke, hide behind humor. “Oh, so this was the big plan? Dress me up like a bougie sex doll and—”
“Incorect. You are my girlfriend, my love, my heart,” he cut you off smoothly, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Sit on the bed.”
OH OKAY THEN.
You obeyed, legs trembling, garter straps biting into your thighs. Nanami stepped between your knees, bent down, and kissed the embroidery on your stomach like it was scripture.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin, “how much time I’ve wasted imagining this exact moment?”
Your brain was fried, it died in slut (not sure what that means but it did).
And then he started.
Because apparently, tonight, Nanami Kento was not just “boyfriend.” No. He was prophet, pilgrim, worshiper at your shrine.
Every inch of lace got attention. Every strap, every ribbon, every garter clipped neatly to your stockings—he kissed them, tugged them with careful precision, praised you like you were the center of gravity.
“Perfect,” against your thigh.
“Beautiful,” against your knee.
“Obscene,” against the swell of your tits.
And then, with the calm audacity of a man who files taxes early, he reached under the bed and pulled out The Box.
You screamed.
“YOU—YOU—You knew???”
Nanami lifted an eyebrow, completely unbothered. “You didn’t exactly hide it well.”
“IT WAS UNDER THE BED.”
“Yes.” He set it on the nightstand, opening it like a surgeon preparing his tools. “And now it’s exactly where I want it.”
What followed was… indecent.
He laid you back on the bed, one hand on your stomach, the other fishing through the box with all the seriousness of a man choosing the right pen for a contract.
“Ken—oh my god—what are you—”
“I’m deciding,” he said calmly, pulling out a vibrator that looked vaguely like a pastel alien. “This one will do.”
Your brain short-circuited. “How do you even know how it works??”
“I read the manual.”
You blinked.
“There’s a manual??”
“It’s very detailed. Very thorough, I recommend the read.”
But then it didn’t matter, because he pressed the toy against the lace of your panties—panties he still hadn’t taken off, because apparently, he was sadistic—and turned it on.
The sound was obscene. The feeling was worse. The vibration buzzed against you through the lace, and you gasped, hands gripping the sheets.
Nanami watched. Patient. Focused. Like a scientist observing a reaction.
“Good?” he asked softly.
“Are you—NGH—fucking kidding me—”
He pressed harder. Just a fraction. The vibration made your hips jerk, legs trembling in their pretty stockings.
“Very good,” he corrected himself, voice low. “You look divine like this.”
He didn’t stop there. Of course he didn’t.
He used the toy until you were gasping, thighs shaking, lace damp and clinging. And then he set it aside—calmly, carefully, like he was shelving a book—and pulled out something worse.
Handcuffs. Satin-lined. Midely familiar.
“OH MY GOD—WHERE DID YOU EVEN—”
“They were in the box,” he said simply, already looping them around your wrists, locking you against the headboard. “You have excellent taste.”
You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to laugh. But mostly you wanted to sob, because he was so calm about it, so methodical, so utterly devoted while you were unraveling like thread in his hands.
And then—then—he finally moved the lace aside. Finally pressed his mouth to you.
It was not gentle. It was not quick. Nanami Kento ate pussy like it was his job, his calling, his god-given duty. He kissed, sucked, licked like a man dying of thirst.
“Fuck,” you gasped, hips bucking against his mouth, wrists straining in the cuffs.
He groaned against you. “So wet. So sweet. My beautiful girl.”
The words melted you. The pressure broke you. You came once, twice, your body shaking, lace tugged askew, thighs clamped around his head like a chokehold.
Nanami did not stop.
He made you come again with his fingers—two (Your second orgasm was messy, wet, thighs trembling so hard he had to pin you down. Your third came when he finally slid two fingers into you, toy still buzzing, mouth sucking your clit like he was trying to consume your soul.), then three, precise, curling against your spot like he was solving a math problem. He used another toy, something sleek and buzzing, pushed inside you while he sucked on your clit until you were crying, actually crying, tears sliding down your cheeks from the overstimulation.
And all the while:
“Take it for me.”
“You’re perfect like this.”
“You were made to be ruined in lace.”
You lost track of how many times you came. Four? Five? Numbers stopped existing. The world was only Nanami’s voice, his mouth, his hands, his toys, his patience, his absolute fucking audacity.
When you finally came down, he clicked the toy off. Tossed it on the bed beside you.
“Good girl.”
OH.
OH THAT.
Your pussy clenched at the words, and his smirk said he noticed.
“You’re—” you panted, “—you’re a menace.”
“I’m efficient.” He leaned down, kissed you gently. Too gently. “And I’m not finished.”
*-*
When he finally slid into you—condom, because he's responsible—it was slow. Deliberate. You were already wrecked, ruined, pliant, and he was still looking at you like a man discovering god.
You gasped. He cursed, low and rough.
“Look at you,” he groaned, hips grinding against yours. “So tight after all that. So greedy for me.”
You babbled nonsense. Actual nonsense. Words didn’t exist. You were lace, and sweat, and Nanami’s cock, and the way he kissed you like he was still worshipping.
And still—still—he kept the bullet vibe pressed against you, so every thrust was doubled by the vibration.
You were gone. Completely gone.
He fucked you deep, steady, every thrust pulling another sound out of your throat. You came again, clenched around him, and he groaned, forehead pressed to yours.
And when he finally came—grunting, gasping, clutching you tight—it felt like the world had collapsed.
*-*
Afterward, he uncuffed you, kissed your wrists, cleaned you up with the precision of a man who had already filed the aftercare checklist in triplicate. He laid you against his chest, stroked your hair, whispered, “Next time, I’ll use the red set.”
You groaned. “There’s not gonna be a next time. You KILLED me. I’m DEAD.”
Nanami very calmly stated : “There will absolutely be a next time.”
Chairman Meow scratched at the locked door once. Just once. Then gave up, probably disgusted.
Inside, Nanami kissed your sweat-slick forehead, whispered, “You’re perfect,” and held you while your body twitched with aftershocks.
SUM. your birthday plans had been just to get a tattoo. so how’d you end up getting eaten out too?
CONTAINS. 5.8k words. 18+ content, MDNI. non canon compliant/alternate universe. x fem! reader. pierced/tatted geto. cunnilingus. hair pulling (m receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. doggy. pet names (pretty girl, cutie, etc.). finger sucking. spanking (once). creampie. kinda public sex (?)
A/N. wrote this a year ago for my birfday and i kinda wanna bring tattooist geto back 🫣
Portraits and portraits of art pieces covering the walls welcomed you as you stepped inside, the jingle of the bell perched on the front announcing your entrance.
From dragons to variations of skulls—some with roses, lightning, and a couple of the grim reaper. You could easily lose yourself looking at all the different works, staring at how all the different lines came together and how the colors melded into one another.
“What're you looking for today?" A low baritone voice interrupted your brief exploration of the parlor. You turned to see a man standing at the counter with pigtails, a black line going across his nose and a couple piercings scattered across his pale face. How was it that you'd missed him upon walking inside?
"I was thinking about getting a tattoo, do you guys happen to accept walk-ins?" You responded, coming up to the counter where the man was standing. Choso, from what his name tag read. "We do, our current tattoo artist's busy though. You mind waiting about.. twenty minutes?"
You supposed it wasn't too bad after showing up without an appointment so you just simply nodded, going over to take a seat in the lobby. There was only one other person sitting on the end of the black sofa, their attention purely on the show playing on the TV mounted on the wall. You went from playing with your fingers to looking over at the TV, attempting to do anything that would make these twenty minutes pass by.
"Hey, go ahead and fill this out. And let me see your ID," Choso came back with a sheet of paper, a consent form. You fished for your ID in the back pocket of your jeans before handing it over to him, starting out with the task of filling out the paper. Signing your initials where it asked you to, reading through the different medical conditions that the paper explicitly listed out.
Your foot bounced against the floor as you waited, sudden nerves starting to hit you all at once now that you were in here. You knew that you wanted a tattoo, you'd been looking forward towards getting it for a few months now. But the little nagging voice inside your head told you that you could barely tolerate a needle at the doctor's office, and that was only for a couple seconds in of itself. How would you tolerate almost an hour of it?
A woman walked out from the back of the parlor, a tattoo of what seemed to be her birth year wrapped up in cling wrap. But your attention was quickly diverted to the man coming out after her—though, you supposed it would be hard not to stare at him. He was absolutely.. gorgeous. Long dark black hair that practically seemed to shine underneath the harsh lights tied back in a half bun, eyebrow and snake bites piercings accentuating the features of his face, and dark ink adorning his forearms.
"Here's the aftercare sheet, just shoot me a text or something if you have any concerns or anything," the man told the woman before she stepped away from the counter, handing her a white paper. The jingle of the bell echoed behind her as she left, leaving only the four of you alone in the lobby. Maybe this wasn't who Choso was talking about? You couldn't picture yourself or your panties for that matter lasting hours in a room with him.
Though, you probably should've expected as much with your luck.
"You got time for a walk-in?" Choso spoke up, nudging his head towards you when the other man was finished pocketing his tip. The man glanced over at you before pulling his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through it for a couple seconds. "Yeah, I got time," the other man walked over, standing in front of you before extending a hand out, "Geto Suguru." The coldness from the silver rings adorning each of his fingers was a stark difference from how warm his hand seemed to be. You gave him your name, stopping the handshake before it prolonged more than it should've.
More than it already did.
"So, what type of tattoo were you looking for?" Geto pushed his hands in his pockets, standing back to allow for you to get up from the spot. "I'm not too sure how to describe it, but I have a reference photo, if that's okay?" You told him, getting your phone out to go back to your camera roll. "Yeah, that's fine. Just airdrop to me when you find it."
The smell of antibacterial spray filled your nose as you stepped in, the room somehow been more decorated than the one outside. Geto had a couple of his designs up on the wall along with a couple band posters—Nirvana, Iron Maiden, and Led Zeppelin being some of the more prominent ones. A couple figures placed on a shelf, photos decorating them as well. "Go on and take a seat. I'll be right there," he told you, opening up one of his drawers.
You took a seat on the leather chair in the middle of the chair, leaning against it before looking over to see what he was doing. "So.. how bad is it supposed to hurt?" You decided to ask, bracing yourself for the worst answer that he could give you. Despite the fact that you knew arm tattoos weren't all that painful from the two hours of research you'd done. "I can't give you a straightforward answer since not everyone has the same pain tolerance. But I'll walk you through the process before I start."
"The first thing I'm gonna do is shave your arm," Geto started off, opening up a pack of razors in front of you. Almost like he wanted to reassure you that everything he was using was new. "Around what area do you want the tattoo?" You opened your arm, gesturing around your inner forearm. Geto shaved the hair around the middle, wiping the residue away with a tissue.
"Next thing I'm gonna do is rub some alcohol on there and put on this cream," he brought up a small container into your line of vision, "It's not numbing cream before you get any ideas. Just so the stencil sticks." The rest of the process had gone relatively fast, the smell of rubbing alcohol filling up the space between the two of you. Geto placed the stencil on your arm, looking over at you to gauge your reaction. "Is this placement okay or do you want me to change it? Don't hesitate to ask, since y'know.. it is kinda permanent."
After a couple minutes of deliberation, Suguru placed the stencil where you’d decided. "So I'm gonna go ahead and put the needle on your arm just to go ahead and see if you can tolerate it," the machine whirred to life with the press of a button, "If you don't think you can tolerate it, just let me know and I'll wipe off the stencil." Geto turned around to face you, the buzzing of the tattoo gun getting louder the closer it got to your arm. All the nerves that you'd felt earlier seemed so silly now. While you felt the pressure of the needle , it was nothing like the excruciating pain you'd heard others have.
You cleared your throat before looking back over at him again, "Yeah, I can handle it." Suguru simply nodded, uncapping the bottle of black ink before almost filling up the small container in front of him. He arranged the small containers almost perfectly aligned to each other, the small work space that he'd set in front of him looking meticulous. Even the napkin that he'd grabbed was neatly folded up in three squares.
You'd almost wished that it was Choso doing the tattoo instead. Because, this, well this simply just wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how he managed to look so goddamn pretty just doing the most menial of tasks. The almost intoxicating scent of amber from his cologne filling up your senses with how close he was. You weren't sure if was better or worse for you that he didn't notice just how affected you were, of how much his presence alone was making you want to ditch the whole idea of getting a tattoo.
"You need something to help you relax? I got a couple stress balls hanging around or I could play something on the TV if you want," Suguru sat down on the rolling chair next to you, already grabbing the TV remote next to you. "Can you just play something, please?" Geto flickered through a couple of the channels available, settling on what was on the TV mounted outside. Not particularly your first choice, but enough to get your mind off the tattoo, at least.
And to get your mind off the very attractive man next to you trying to do his job.
"So, any meaning behind this tattoo or you just decided you wanted to get it?" Suguru broke the silence, though his focus was purely on tracing the piece of work in front of him. "Just saw it on Pinterest and I related to it a bit. Well, that and the design itself seemed pretty to me," you offered, staying still and keeping your attention on the TV. "I can follow the design that you showed me or I could try to improve on it. That is, if you have trust in my abilities," he spoke up after a couple seconds, purple eyes almost seeming to bore into you.
"Can I see some of your abilities in place?" As hot as the man was—you didn't want to risk the tattoo coming out like complete dog shit. Suguru let out a short laugh, getting up from his spot before flipping through a couple drawers. He came back with a leather bound sketchbook, placing it on your lap. "I'm not much to show my works to others, but feel free to flip around if that helps you decide," you opened up the sketchbook with your available arm, immediately being greeted with a plethora of colors.
Not only were the pieces themselves better than what you could've expected, but they were so realistic. The shading of each drawing accentuating it perfectly against the lighting of the room, almost like he'd focused on that more than the actual drawing. You shut the sketchbook after flipping through a couple pages of different flowers, animals, and whatever else his brain could conjure up—handing it back to an expectant Geto. "It'd be wrong not to have faith in you after seeing that," you mused, watching him set the sketchbook aside before he went back to tracing.
"Don't worry, I'm still gonna follow the whole outline and shit. Just wanna make it look a little bit better is all," he responded, dipping the needle onto the container of black ink before bringing it back to your arm. You turned to look at much progress he'd done after the forty minute episode had ended only to realize he was just finishing up with the tip of the design. An incredibly detailed tip, though. "You okay? Don't want you passing out on me or anything."
"No, I'm fine," you reassured, going back to watching the TV in the comfortable silence that had built in the room. The only sounds emanating from the room were the soft whirring of the tattoo gun and the screaming of a couple characters on screen. "Have you watched this before?" You decided to break the silence after a while, turning to look over at him. "Something like that. Haven't watched much after the fourth season. Don't really have a buncha time available to watch TV."
The rest of the session had gone moderately well, the two of you sitting in silence for a majority of the time albeit for a couple questions that either he or you asked. He was, oddly enough, easy to talk to. "Okay, I'm gonna go in with a white paint. It's gonna hurt more than the other one so just tell me if it gets to be too much," he told you, pouring white paint into one of those small containers. And you felt the difference between the two, looking over to see him adding small marks with the white paint. Small marks that were starting to hurt like a motherfucker.
"Easy, you did so well for me throughout the session. This is nothing compared to that," Suguru spoke up, raising the tattoo gun to give you a small break. One of his gloved hands went to the furrow settled in your brow, gently easing it over before changing out the gloves for a fresh pair. You weren't even sure when you'd even started to grimace so badly. "Easy for you to say," you grumbled underneath your breath, certain that he wouldn't have caught it. But if the way his eyes shot up to look at you with a slightly amused smile was anything to go by, he did.
"You make it so hard to be nice to you," Geto muttered, turning the tattoo gun back on and going back to adding the fine white strokes. Maybe it'd been the fact that he'd offered that small bit of reassurance or maybe it was the fact that you could feel the session was starting to come to an end, but the pain didn't quite feel as bad as the first go. "Alright, we're all done," he spoke up after a couple minutes, turning the tattoo gun off and placing it on the table next to him.
"You mind if I get a couple pictures?" He waited for you to nod before setting up the ring light next to you, pulling his phone out. You extended your arm out to where he had the camera pointed, the tattoo on display. "Mm, hold on," Suguru muttered to himself, one of his hands wrapping around your wrist to adjust the angle. His touch almost seeming to linger more than necessary. Surely, all of this wasn't necessary just for a single photo, right? Especially when you weren't even the subject of said photo.
"You're gonna want to avoid shaving or waxing the area while it's still healing, some peeling's normal but just come to me if you have any concerns," he continued to explain the process of the aftercare involved, wrapping the tattoo up in cling wrap. "Try not to fuck it up," Geto led you over to the front desk, ringing you up for the price. "Wasn't it $120 and not $100?" You questioned, grabbing your wallet from your pocket.
"Consider it a birthday discount of sorts, pretty girl," the nickname spilled out so easily that you might've almost missed it. As if you needed more things to overthink about from this encounter. You handed him a hundred dollar bill with a ten dollar tip, giving him a short thanks before leaving the parlor. You looked over at the aftercare sheet that he'd given you at the counter, seeing his Instagram scrawled out in pretty decent penmanship. Well, at least you had plans for when you got back to your apartment tonight.
You knew that the tattoo was healing nicely—that you'd put the expensive ass ointment that Geto had recommended the designated three times a day. So why exactly did you find yourself standing outside the tattoo parlor once more? Out of concern for the new ink or just wanting to see Suguru once more? It couldn't be the latter, right? Not like you'd spent hours scrolling through his Instagram these last couple days to see what he'd thought about the tattoo. Definitely not the latter.
After all, he did say come to him if you had any concerns.
Surprisingly, it wasn't Choso to greet you at the counter this time around. Suguru was standing there, rearranging a couple pieces of body jewelry onto the glass display before he lifted his head to see who'd walked in the door. "You didn't let it get infected, did you? I spent hours on that thing," he didn't even bother with a greeting as Choso had done, already looking annoyed at the prospect. "Your concern for my health's endearing too."
"Yeah, yeah, what're you here for?"
"I just wanted to check up with you to see if the tattoo was healing nicely," the practiced lie slipped out of your tongue without any effort, plenty of rehearsals in your head allowing for it to slip out with any second thought.
"Alright, I have a couple minutes before my next appointment gets here," Suguru gestured for you to join him, opening the door for you. The space looked pretty much the same as the day you'd come in—which you should've expected, since it was only a week ago—albeit for a couple pencils scattered on top of a sketchbook in the middle of his desk. You took a seat on the leather chair, waiting for him to finish cleaning up his space.
Suguru grabbed a white box of gloves, grabbing a pair before placing them on. "So, what're you concerned about?" He questioned, long fingers running through your skin as he looked at how the tattoo was healing. "Well, it's been peeling a bit. I just wanted to know if that was normal or if I'm fucking something up somehow. I've been putting on the ointment you recommended three times a day."
Geto let out a small hum before leaning back on the rolling chair, folding his arms across his chest. His very muscular arms, the material of his black button down practically straining against them with the motion. "Your tattoo seems to healing well. Bit of peeling's normal as a new layer of skin comes in, nothing to worry about too much. Usually the area starts to get red if it's starting to get infected."
And maybe you should've taken that as a cue to leave. But you found yourself wanting to bask in whatever couple seconds that he would give you, unable to think about any other opportunities where you'd see him. Well, any other opportunities that didn't involve you spending upwards of a hundred dollars. You made no effort to move just yet, folding your hands over your lap. Trying to think of anything else to prolong this visit.
A couple moments of silence pass between the two of you before Suguru opens his mouth up to speak, only to get interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. "Yo, someone named Larue's here for their appointment," Choso called out from the other side, his foot tapping against the hardwood floor. Suguru gives you a glance before answering back, "Ask him to reschedule. Tell him that I'm sorry and I'll give him a discount or something."
Choso's heavy boots echoed against the floor as he walked away, leaving you alone with Geto once more. "So, tell me, what exactly is it that you're doing here again? And don't lie to me, talking about some 'I wanna see if my tattoo's healing properly,'" And you almost rolled your eyes at the way he raised his voice in pitch, mocking you with a short chuckle. Almost.
"First of all, I don't sound like that. Second, I really did just come to see if it was healing properly," And despite your words, you couldn't bring yourself to move from the chair just yet. "So maybe I should go tell Larue to come back for his appointment. Since we determined your tattoo's healing nicely, our time's done," You would've thought that he was bluffing but he moved to get up from his chair, walking over to the door.
"Wait," you called out before he managed to turn the doorknob, looking over to see him already staring at you with an expectant look on his face. Like he was about five seconds away from telling you to get off the leather chair. "So maybe, there's a slight chance that I didn't just come here just because I was concerned about my tattoo," you muttered almost reluctantly, avoiding looking at him directly.
"And why don't you try telling me why you came here instead?" Suguru stepped away from the door, returning to his spot in the seat next to you. Where you couldn't avoid looking at him even if you wanted to. How would you even begin telling him that he's been clouding your mind since last week just from that three hour interaction? That you've refreshed his Instagram page more times than you could count to see what he'd say about the piece?
You gulped, willing for the words to come out before he got the chance to go back to the door again. But you couldn't. Couldn't bring yourself to the potential humiliation that would inevitably come if you had just been delusional about this all along.
"You here because you want me to fuck you?" And the words that you'd struggled to spit out, he'd just said them so bluntly. You were expecting for him to look at you with that same mocking smile from earlier, but he seemed to be genuinely analyzing you. Waiting. "No, no, of course, I was just here to.." You hadn't quite rehearsed for this part in your mind.
"Because if you were, then I'd say that I was thinking about you too, cutie," and before you had the chance to respond, he was already speaking again, "So I'm just gonna ask you again. Are you here because you want me to fuck you?"
Now that there was little chance of your advances getting rejected, the word slipped out so easily, "Yes."
"Go on and lay back for me. Wanna taste you," and by how quick he was to get on his knees in front of you, you'd guess that he was doing this for his pleasure more than yours. "Lift up your hips," you followed his words without hesitation, letting him slide your jeans off and place them to the side. Large tattooed hands spread your thighs apart, presenting you like a feast to the man before you.
And you would've felt some ounce of embarrassment for the wet spot that quickly built up in the middle of your panties in just the five minutes of being here—if it weren't for the fact that Geto's cock was already straining against the material of his jeans. "Mph, fuck!" Geto quickly pulled your attention back to the issue at hand, his tongue prodding against your clothed cunt. "Not so loud, you don't want Choso to hear us," he clicked his tongue, giving you somewhat of a relief when he pulled away.
A very short lived relief. His tongue traced the outline of your slick folds through the material of your thin panties, his eyes closed. The tip of his tongue swirled against your clit, your cunt leaking out onto your underwear. You'd be lucky at this rate, if you could wear them back home. And almost like he'd read your mind, his fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties before sliding them down to your ankles.
You waited to feel his tongue on your cunt again—but nothing came. You looked over at him, watching as he just observed your weeping pussy. "Thought you were eager to taste," you muttered, a scoff leaving from his lips. A gust of wind blowing to your cunt, your walls clenching all the much more. Eager to receive whatever he could give. "Let me admire for a bit. We got enough time," Suguru let out a small tsk after, his face in front of your cunt. And before you had the chance to say anything more—his tongue was already on your labia.
Your syrupy slick dripped onto his expecting tongue, his eyes almost rolling back at the taste. The small silver ball at the end of his tongue piercing flicked against your folds with every lick, each touch serving to have you clenching around pure air. Your hips bucked up to meet his movements, his large hands holding you down in mere seconds. "What'd I say? Let me enjoy this, pretty girl. Told you we got enough time."
"Such a tease," your grumbled words came out more breathless than you would've liked. "And you're so impatient," he retorted without missing a beat. A hushed whine escaped from your lips when you felt him pull away, his mouth moving to your inner thighs. Pressing open mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin, nibbling down just hard enough for it to leave a mark behind. "Promise I'll take care of you, sweet girl. Have some trust in my abilities."
“You say that but your abilities have been less than stellar lately."
A couple dark locks fell out of place, framing his face almost perfectly. You'd almost expected Suguru to look offended at the implication of your words—but all he did was seem to find some kind of amusement. "Guess I'll have to repair that then," he murmured, more so to your cunt than to you, his tongue prodding in and out of your entrance. "You're not doing a g-Oh fuck!" He immediately made you swallow whatever retort you were planning, his tongue penetrating inside of you.
Suguru swiped his tongue up and down your cunt, the lower half of his face covered in a mixture of your slick and his own spit. Your eyes fluttered shut, the tip of his nose prodding against your clit with every swipe that he made. "Keep looking at me, pretty. Keep those pretty eyes on me," you opened your eyes to see purple eyes already looking back at you, resuming his actions all too greedily. He was so messy when it came to eating you out—spitting into your cunt, watching almost all too eagerly as you clenched around the liquid.
"Please," a whine left your lips, your fingers tugging on his hair. Whatever act of defiance you'd tried to put on earlier had quickly faded away, all you were feeling was need. An almost slutty moan left his lips at the sudden tug, one of his hands grabbing on to yours. "Come on, you can pull harder, can't you?" An even louder groan escaped his lips at the harder tug you gave this time around—the tips of your fingers digging into his scalp. "Now, what were you saying please for?" His words came out muffled, his face buried in between your legs. "Your fingers, please."
"Since you asked so nicely," Suguru took to that almost immediately, two long fingers pushing past the ring of muscle before curling to hit your g-spot. His mouth instantly attached itself to your throbbing clit, pushing through your clitoral hood to get to the bundle of nerves. "F-Fuck, don't stop, don't stop," you sounded like a broken record, your thighs pressing tightly against the sides of his face while his tongue swirled around your clit.
"Gonna cum, gonna cum," any other thought that you had apart from cumming had been quickly fucked out of you, your grip on his hair tightening even further. Not that Suguru minded by any means, moaning against your cunt with every tug. The vibrations only added to the dual stimulation, your back arching off the chair. Needing to get more. Pushing your hips against his face, bucking up to meet every swipe of his tongue. "Cum for me, princess, come on. You can do it, right?"
All you could do was nod, not wanting to be any louder than you already had been. Part of you had been surprised that Choso hadn't come by knocking earlier. Suguru continued flicking his tongue around your clit, working in synchrony with his fingers to pull your orgasm out of you. "Fuck fuck, gonna cum!" You weren't sure if your muffled moan made it's way into Suguru's ears, watching as he eagerly lapped up your release. Running his tongue across his lips, your slick making them glisten under the lights.
"Get on all fours," Suguru told you after you'd managed to regain your breath, deft fingers working to unzip his jeans. You got on your stomach, resting it against the cold leather while getting on your hands and knees. And if Choso were to come into the room to be quiet now, he'd get a spectacular view of your ass perched up in the air. Suguru ran his cock against your folds, your slick lubricating it with ease after your previous orgasm.
Ridges running down his shaft brushed up against your tight walls, your slick coating his tip like second nature the further that he pushed it in. Your walls clenched and unclenched rapidly in a futile attempt to get used to the pure stretch of his cock. "You can take it, right? This isn't anything," But the sheer girth of his cock was just enough to dispute that statement, the position making him feel much deeper than he was. "Yeah, yeah, I can take it," your voice came out as a mewl, your grip on the leather getting tighter the more he pushed his cock in.
The rhythm that he started up was fairly slow at first, allowing you to get used to the feeling. Whatever he was lacking in length, he certainly compensated for it with the sheer size of his girth. Just a couple inches inside of you and he'd already stuffed you full. "Doin' so good, gonna speed up, okay?" He waited for you to nod, retracting his cock before pushing the full length inside of you with one sharp thrust. Your mouth went agape, your eyes almost rolling to the back of your head upon the impact. "So good, so so good," even after a couple thrusts, he already sounded so obsessed.
"That's ittt, that's my girl. Fuck that ass back into me," A strangled groan left his throat at the sight of your ass cheeks jiggling underneath him with every thrust, the two of you moving in tandem. One of the hands that'd been on your waist went to cup whatever he could of the flesh, all too entranced with the vision presented in front of him. "Mm, fuck!" A moan left your lips as you felt the palm of his hand strike against the flesh, your ass stinging from the impact. Not to say that you necessarily hated it, by any means.
And Suguru caught it—the way your slick ran down his shaft at the sudden impact. "Should've fucking guessed you would've liked it," his tone practically dripped in condescension as he spoke, his hand going to cup your other ass cheek. Holding the flesh in his hands before giving you another harsh slap, almost rivaling the harsh smack of his hips against your own. "Shit shit, Geto, don't stop," you whined, pushing your ass back into him. "Think it's okay for you to call me Suguru after bein’ inside you and all."
"Suck," a simple command, two of his fingers in front of your face. Your tongue swirled around his fingers, tasting the remnants of your cum on them before letting it fall flat. Simply sucking on his fingers as his cock pushed in and out of you with such fervor. "Get 'em all nice and wet for me, just like that," Suguru pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth the second you started to get too loud again, tears building up at your waterline when you gagged on them. "Aw, don't cry, cutie. Y'know I had to."
And while his words were meant to be reassuring, the mocking tone of his voice was anything but. Spit dribbled down from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto the chair beneath you. "Sugu-Sugu, fuck, right there!" He'd adjusted the angle of his hips, his shaft brushing up against your g-spot with every thrust. "So. Fucking. Tight," each of his words was accentuated with a deep thrust of his hips, filling you up impossibly so. Like he wanted to show you just how much he'd been thinking about it, like he claimed he did.
If the moans coming out of you weren't evidence enough as to what was happening in the room, then you were pretty much certain that the plap! plap! echoing through the walls was evidence enough. Geto's heavy balls smacked against your ass with every harsh thrust of his hips. He brought his hand down to your clit, rubbing at the nub just in time for it to match his pace. You clamped around his cock like a vice, a strangled moan leaving out of his lips. "Just had to tell- shit me that you wanted my cum, ma."
"Mph, cumm- I'm cumm-" Muffled babbles left your mouth, your cunt clenching around him yet again. A creamy ring formed around the base of his cock, his thrusts getting sloppier and faster. Whatever small bits of concern about being too loud had been disregarded—loud squelches and skin clapping filling up the room as Suguru rutted inside of you. You turned your head to look over at him, the sight before you almost like something out of a painting. His hair had completely been released from the half-bun, cascading down his back perfectly and his eyes were closed in pure bliss.
Spurts and spurts of cum shot deep inside of you, his cock twitching as you milked him for whatever he could offer. Suguru pulled his softening cock out of your cunt, his cum starting to dribble out of you and down your thighs. With the same fingers he'd had inside your mouth, he pushed his cum back inside of you. Scooping the substance up with relative ease. Your body slumped against the chair, willing that Geto would give you a couple seconds to catch your breath.
You'd expected him to grab a wipe or a paper towel to clean you up with, but he simply got up from his spot behind you. Grabbing his pants off the floor and fastening up his fly. You looked over at him through half lidded eyes, seeing him pop the fingers that had previously been in your cunt into his mouth. Slurping at them in a similar fashion that you'd done just a couple minutes prior. "Wanna taste yourself, pretty girl? 'S so fucking good."
Geto didn't give you a chance to respond before he was leaning down to your level, one of his fingers underneath your chin to raise your head. He leaned in, his lips pressing against yours in a messy exchange. More of spit getting intertwined than an actual kiss, not that you minded in your state. His tongue flicked against yours, the bittersweet taste of both you and him combined filling your tastebuds. Geto pulled away after a couple seconds, a string of saliva connecting the two of you.
You hadn't even finished putting on your pants yet when Suguru spoke up yet again,
"You mind giving me a five star review when you get home?"
Synopsis. Five times the elders of the Sukuna household are sure their fearsome clan leader is impotent, and the one times he makes them realize - Ryomen Sukuna is feraI. For you.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, clan leader!Sukuna, 5 + 1 things, arranged marriages, Itadori family shenanigans, wingmanning, the elders, helping Sukuna get laid, Sukuna is down BAD, true form, second mouth, oraI (fem rec.), fíngering, spítting, cervíx kíssing, pússydrúnk Sukuna, dp, DÚMBlFlCATION, tummy buIges, he’s big, rough s, riding, manhandIing, p talking, bréeding, creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 11.8k
A/N. Missed their chaos omg-
“Buckle up, boys. This might be the most important event of our lives.” Itadori Jin has never taken his role as older brother so seriously.
Locked in a team huddle with his father, the elders, and a very reluctant, recently-married Ryomen Sukuna. “Dad- you’re on the romantic music. Council- you’re on the rose petals. I’ll be outside on the phone with the fire department, the exorcist, the-”
“It’s my wedding night?”
“Exactly.”
With a final clap of determination, the group shoves their clan leader towards the bed chambers. Ignoring his grumbles of- “But the ladies love me.”
“Ryo, you’ve been single your entire life.”
“…” Okay, perhaps Jin was right. It’d been a traditional arranged wedding, yours being the only proposal that the infamously cold Sukuna had even looked at, let alone agreed to.
But he clasps the polished doorknob, “I’ll give ya an heir.” Opening. “Just you watch, I’ll give ya four heirs, maybe five, maybe six—oh.”
Until he saw his pretty wife.
Even more gorgeous than you’d been during those brief formal interviews, between clans and council members who nudged each other at the fact that he had finally chosen a bride.
You’d swapped out your wedding robes for an actual robe that was much…riskier. Stuck to your skin, glistening in the faint candlelight. You were semi-sprawled comfortably across the bed, having patiently waited for their ‘team meeting’ to have finished.
And Sukuna would’ve yelled at any of them for gaping stupidly from the doorway, he should have - if he wasn’t gaping stupidly himself, that is. Lips parted, crimson eyes bulging.
This was the clan leader rumored by some to be a monster, and rumored by others to fight like a monster: now fully frozen at the sight of you.
It takes about seven different council members and Itadori Wasuke poking Sukuna’s muscular back with his wooden cane to make him move. “Ryo-” Jin hisses in slight concern, fingers starting to itch towards his phone, namely in the sequence of the emergency number he’d memorized for tonight. “Ryo move- you- oaf-”
Respect for the head of the household be damned, they were deadset on bullying him inside the romantically-decorated room. Finally making him move one foot. Two.
As soon as he staggers through the entrance, the towering mahogany doors then slam shut behind him. Somewhat snapping Sukuna out of his little reverie - somewhat. He shakes his head free of that vision of you, gaze dropping to the floor- anywhere but where you were sitting, so beautiful and unbothered.
An heir.
Right, an heir. What was that nonsense about six heirs? Right now, he felt he’d be lucky to get to not faint.
“I uh-” You lean closer with a smile when he starts to sputter out, and the act itself nearly makes him take a step back. Heart rushing to the surface of his tattooed skin, “Ah, I mean-”
He gulps. And almost as if they were sensing the tension inside the bedroom, the group outside abruptly starts up the distant saxophone of a George Michael. It filters through the slight gaps of the doorway and into the thick silence inside.
You were looking at him with a raised brow, clearly waiting for him to speak first with his interesting reaction.
Which is exactly what Ryomen Sukuna does - exactly why he clears his throat gravely. All seven feet of his figure straightening, toned chest puffing out. Jin had told him to smile before he smoldered, and right now Sukuna does neither. Only asking in grim seriousness-
“So are you uh…open-minded?”
“What?”
“What?”
BANG!
He’d removed himself from the honeymoon suite before you could even blink.
And as you sat up on the bed in genuine confusion, the clan leader outside - your husband - was crouched against the now-closed bedroom doors. Knees to his pecs, all four palms coming up to cover his face- though, they do nothing to hide the scorching red flushed at the tips of his ears.
The elders can only gawk; they’d known Sukuna since birth, and never had he acted in this manner. Never had he been so flustered, blushed so bright that it looked like he was steaming from his very skin. Flinching at the touch of his brother, he groans once the older one starts punting him with questions.
Jin squawks, “Is your wife okay- are you okay?”
“Yes- no.”
“Do I need to call the fire department?”
“No.”
“The exorcist-”
“No no no- fuck! She was just so…” Sukuna finally manages to string together more than one coherent syllable, running his hefty fingers down his features, like he wanted to scrub the embarrassment off of him. And the tail end of his response rings out as nothing but a whisper. So small, so shy. “…beautiful.”
He looks up at the circle surrounding him like he was pleading, “So, so beautiful.” Baritone dropping into an even lower volume, he scratches the back of his head like a child recounting a crush. “And she- she smiled at me, heh. What’d I do to end up with a wife like her?”
The elders and family members look at each other.
Silence.
At least, as much silence as you could get in the Itadori Estate. Because, before long, Wasuke clutches his aged heart and gasps, “No!” Only once every pair of eyes has turned to look at him- “My son has no game.”
The emergency services were called that night.
Though, it’s more for a health check on his father’s heart than for anything gone wrong with your honeymoon. And Jin thinks that’s pointedly to do with the fact that you don’t have a wedding night - at least, not in the sense of the word.
After he’d offered Sukuna a general health check-up too (he’d vehemently denied) and a heart check-up in particular (he’d considered) you’d finally ended up walking out of the bedroom. Barely getting through one word of their overlapping explanations before you’d held up a hand.
“It…actually might be better if I don’t know.” You’d sagely remarked, and quite smartly. Before turning to your new husband, who’d all but cowered at your gaze, “But you need to get some sleep, mister. Don’t think I don’t know about how cranky you get otherwise.”
“Hell yeah, ma’am. So true, ma’am.”
And Sukuna had sauntered back into the marital suite of his own accord, for a night of sleep. Nothing but sleep - though, Jin thinks he caught Sukuna fist pumping in celebration when you insisted he didn’t have to sleep on the couch.
There seemed to be no hope for an heir that night. Or, ever, at this rate.
And the trusty council of elders that were present would later retell the story in the morning after, with varying degrees of humor - some cackling about the fearsome head’s one weakness, others grieving the lack of heirs that the Itadori clan shall now have.
But most had been left with quite a different impression. They eyed each other during breakfast, when you’d come down with no marks, no signs of lost sleep. Surely, there was no other explanation - Ryomen Sukuna was impotent.
He might not be the sweetest clan leader, or the most empathetic, or clearly the most savvy with the ladies, but he was their leader nonetheless.
And they had to do everything in their power to help.
.
.
.
“-and then the ol’ man starts playing fuckin- I mean, freaking ‘Careless Whisper’ and then I make a fool of myself-”
“Mhm.”
“-but she was oh-so-sweet about it. Which makes no sense, how can one be beautiful and sweet? I mean, look at me- I’m a right bastard-”
“Mhm.”
“-not that I’m complaining. And then when we shared the bed, heh, she told me ‘goodnight.’ Can you believe that? Goodnight? Obviously, she’s into me.”
“Mhm.” Five-year-old Itadori Yuji looks up from where he’d been playing with blocks on the archery dojo, “Uncle Kuna, can we go play hide-and-seek now?”
But the older man lets go the taut, tough string of his bow- hitting the bullseye of his target dead-on. “You’re right! She’s totally into me- heh, ten points for Sukuna.” It was already nearing sundown, and he’d been cooped up in the Estate’s dojo for hours after the fiasco that was his wedding night a few days ago.
Nothing else had occurred between the two of you since. For which he was equally as grateful as he was disappointed - obviously you didn’t want to spook him. And obviously he wanted you.
But it wasn’t his fault he’d been trained in the arts of commandeering rather than communication.
Which is how he found himself with that lil’ nephew of his as a therapist, shooting away arrows with the specialized bow designed for Sukuna’s four beefy arms, and fourfold strength. As if that would help ease the tension.
The clan leader opens his mouth again and it’s enough to make Itadori throw himself back onto the polished wooden floor. Starting off- “And did I tell you that when she told me ‘goodnight’ it was in a tone of like-”
“Ahem.”
If there was anything that could make big, bad Sukuna quieten down, then it certainly wasn’t his advisors, or his older brother, or anything else but you.
And all you had to do was clear your throat once to signal your intrusion, having wandered your way through the massively sprawling Estate. You’d somehow led yourself straight to him.
You bow politely, “I hope I’m not disrupting.”
“C-course not.” To your surprise, your husband speaks first. “We were just-”
“Talking about you-” You giggle as Itadori instantly runs to cling onto your arms. Excitedly squealing at a mile a minute, “Uncle Kuna says that- that he has a huuuuge crush on you and-”
“No!” Sukuna interjects in panic- that traitor.
“And- and he liked the way you say ‘goodnight’ and-”
“Itadori Yuji, I will pay you to stop talking.”
You’re watching the situation like a tennis match, and Yuji does stop - for about three seconds, that is. Until his voice drops into a conspiratorially low whisper, hands cupping his mouth- “Did you know he also called an exorcist-”
“What the f- I did not?” Husky bass damn near cracking, he rips the little boy away from you. “Scram, gremlin.”
Pushing at his back to make the toddler waddle away and give the two of you some space, Sukuna hastens to straighten up and puff his chest out. Making sure that the loose fabrics of his training yukata would slip aside to flash you with a sliver of his toned pecs, glistened with a thin layer of sweat.
And when - only when - he catches your eyes dipping downwards, he clears his throat—smooth, Ryomen Sukuna. You’ve made people disappear, you can do smooth- “H-hi.”
His vocals crack.
Nearly passing out from the shame - but you don’t seem to mind. “Hi to you, too. I see you’re working hard?”
“Yeah- I mean no.” As you raise a brow, “Who needs ta work hard when you’re just good?”
“Is that so?” It’s a blatant brag, but one that didn’t go unsubstantiated. Your eyes drift to the side to where targets had been lined along the distant wall, each of them punctured right through the middle with a sharp arrow. “Oh, that’s impressive. I don’t think I could ever-”
“Would ya like to try?”
You’re nearly as shocked as Sukuna at the words that escape his mouth, before he can mull and chew over them first. But that swiftly melts into a look of eagerness once you nod- being handed his hefty bow.
“It’s heavier than normal.” Before you know it, he’s sidled up behind you. Leaned down so close that his warm breath blankets your neck- pointed chin hitting somewhere by your temple, tense core pushed up against you.
So close. Easily, two of Sukuna’s hands help you hold the weight of his massive bow, and another two fall down to your waist to guide you. “Easy there, mama.”
“Th-thank you-” You’re find yourself stammering from the pure intimacy. And it was just so unfair how pliable he found you - heart racing, mind spinning at the thought - angling you bodily to face the targets. “So I just pull and release, then?”
“Mhm. You pull reeeal hard.” Deep, throaty. You’re noticing just how warm his hands were when they’re on yours, helping you pull, pull, pull back on the feathery edge. “Breathe in reeeeal slow.” You do, and you feel him match yours. “Position it.”
His honed strength helps you find the target, and his hands- oh, but his hands were nearly making you lose sight of the bullseye. “Aaand-” Two of his rough palms draaaagging down your sides for stability for him to tower over you, and then two more gently rubbing over your hands for reassurance as you- “-shoot.”
Schwing–!
It lands dead-center in the bullseye.
He grins, “Hell yeah.”
“Yes!” You’re hissing, bow still in your arms as you leap into Sukuna’s. It was a brief embrace, just the quickest few seconds - but your husband nearly melts.
With your face tucked into the crook of his neck- his eyes nearly bulge out of his sockets, four massive palms hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with himself. In a flash, you’re reaching ‘round your body to let him rest them on your back, and he gasps, “O-oh-”
“Oh?” With a slight chuckle, you pull back, and he nearly whines in agony. But this was the Ryomen Sukuna, of course he can hold it back…to merely a slight grunt of pain. “Thank you for teaching me.”
“Thank you for being my wife-”
“Pardon?”
“Nevermind- I uh-” All four palms come up to cover his face in utter horror- it had been going so well if it wasn’t for the clan leader’s big mouth. Everyday was seemingly an unfortunate reminder that he was related to the blabbermouths that were Jin, Yuji, and…
Speaking of, where was Yuji?
Little did he know that a certain pink-haired toddler was holding a certain group of elders hostage behind the screens that led to the dojo’s entrance. Their bodies, formerly leaned over the doorway to spy on the couple, were now crouched on the floor.
Disappointed- how could their revered clan leader not take the bait? Impotency strikes again.
But, right now, the masterminds were slightly more occupied with something else. Fingers to mouths, voices in whispers- begging the little boy standing in front of them to remain quiet.
But Yuji only smiles, standing proudly in front of them. He whispers, “Do you wanna play hide and seek?”
The council of the greatest minds in the household look at each other, “Uh…no?” Unsure of what else to say to the boy.
Before their ears are pierced by the most noisy child-like shriek of Sukuna’s name—“Uncle Kunaaaaa—it’s the exorcists!”
An arrow shoots their way. And by the way it strikes precisely into the wooden panels between the elders’ heads, precisely where it didn’t harm anything but their motivations, their egos, and perhaps slightly their heart conditions - they’re guessing it was their loving clan leader that shot it.
.
.
.
Sukuna always did hate stuffy clan meetings.
The ones where documents were piled into columns taller than himself, council men and women spoke over each other to try and earn his attention, and he had to act for hours like he actually tolerated the guest invited that day. All in the name of ah- politics, or whatever.
And today was much the same - except for one shocking, sudden surprise. You.
You, seated directly opposite him on the large round table now that you were officially part of the clan. You, perfectly positioned for him to take in every pretty inch of you. You, who he’d give anything just to have beside him and chatting his ear off, or helping with his papers.
And, honestly, with a view like that he wouldn’t even complain about being forced to discuss- what was it again-
“The socioeconomic impacts of clan bonding activities and how they-” Choso - who’d recently started attending for education on the clan - drones in such tired monotone, shrugging at their two-toned guest, Zenin Naoya, without looking up from where he was doodling on some contract. “-could really benefit from those.”
“Tch- don’t talk like I didn’t know that, brat.” Sukuna narrows his eyes down at his eldest nephew.
Only to get a withering eyebrow raise in return, “Well, did you?”
“Yes…” No-
And almost as if he could read the pure lie on his uncle’s face, the middle-schooler has the audacity to put his pencil down and grin. More interested in the happenings of the meeting than he had been in four hours now. “Oh really? Well then, dear uncle of mine, would you care to explain to your nephew who comes up with these bonding activities?”
“The fuck do I look like? Stupid? It’s…Jin.” It was a guess, no one else would do something like that. He turns his face away from Choso and towards you. Politely laughing at something that the person next to you had said-
“And why is it important?”
He grumbles, this damn kid. Absent-mindedly- because oh, how was he expected to focus when your lips move to talk so prettily. As if in slow motion, like in those sappy movies Jin loved. “Uh, socio-something or the other-”
“And what do we hope to get out of today?”
“Erm-” Furrowing his brows, laser-focused on wracking his brain when- you turn his way. All you have to do is look at him for Sukuna to blurt- “Six kids, a summer house, and pets of her choice.”
In stunned silence, Choso only gravely draws a tally count.
You: 3
Sukuna: -478
“Oi- I’m at least in the double digits-”
“I think you have bigger things to worry about.” He muters, jabbing a pencil in your direction. “Your wife’s about to get stolen.”
And oh.
Ryomen Sukuna didn’t take kindly to snapping his head over and recognizing that slight glint in Naoya’s eyes; the way his mouth curled up meanly, body leaning just a tad closer to yours whenever you pulled back. Not kindly at all.
Worst of all, he’d just been hit with the realization that it was that rat bastard who’d been making you laugh while he’d been stuck with duties.
Simply on opposite ends of the room, and yet, it feels like an eternity until the hulking clan leader rises from his seat. Feet pounding their way over to where you were, your eyes raise instantly-
“Oh, there you are.” You start to smile - only for it to falter, coldly, at the shadowed expression on Sukuna’s face. He looked like he’d just seen a raging ghost, and his expression was downturned as such.
You couldn’t pinpoint whether it had been the stress or the fact that the future heir to the Zenin clan couldn’t take a hint. But you’re trying to soothe him, “You looked quite busy-”
“I was, ah-” He was always weak to anything you said, “-bonding…activities…socioeconomics.”
Sarcastically, “How riveting.”
“No need to worry, I kept her company, though.” An annoying, grating voice bursts through your bubble. And before you can do anything to stop him, Naoya has his arm thrown ‘round the back of your seat. Around the room, one by one, the elders were starting to turn in their own chairs. Discussions dropping to whisper- “And my father always does commend my networking skills, clan leader Sukuna.”
And you think Sukuna might burst. You think he might just rip into him-
But, no. Instead, he breaks out into a smile, “Ah, young master Zenin, huh? Didn’t notice ya there.” A smile that was just slightly jarring, slightly…dangerous. “I see you have met my wife. Quite charming, isn’t she?”
“Yes yes, quite beautiful.” Naoya waves off with a chuckle, elbowing the taller man where he could reach. Huffing, “Though, I must say, it’s quite smart to let the wife inside a clan meeting. Gives you something to look at, at least.”
You seethe, brows furrowing, “Pardon-” But your husband already has a hand signalling you to seat yourself back down comfortably. A commotion was starting to stir by now, and if anyone was going to make a mess of clan politics and reap the consequences, it would be him.
He could and would take the fall for you.
“Young master Naoya.” He declares in a booming voice, “The Itadori clan has decided that we would so ah- love to indulge you in a practical example of our very own bonding activities.”
As you tilt your head in slight confusion - this certainly wasn’t part of the meeting agenda, and the council seemed to notice it, too, Naoya hums. “Oh?”
“Right now. You’re welcome.”
“What? Now? But-”
As the lanky man scrambles in his seat, Sukuna grasps the very back and topples Naoya right out of it. “No no, let me.” And all it takes is one hand to lift their guest straight into midair and march him out of the room.
The door slams shut behind the duo.
And you didn’t need to hear the yelps, or the punches, or the begs for mercy to know exactly what your husband had in mind as a ‘bonding activity.’
It seemed the member of the Zenin clan would be leaving here bruised for his words, and it seemed that the elders were strangely…excited at the notion? Buzzing impatiently, tittering to each other.
It only increases twofold as Sukuna re-enters the meeting hall - knuckles suspiciously bruised, and notably without a pompous heir behind him - and you find yourself fighting back a smile. Muttering some half-hearted lecture about treating guests well, which he seems to lap every word of, you end it off by reaching upwards and kissing the side of Sukuna’s cheek.
Fleeting and innocent.
But the elders gasp-
“Oh my god- oh my god, it’s happening—”
“My money’s on a girl child being the firstborn-”
“-maybe he’s only half-impotent-”
Keen eardrums catching the whispers and congratulations, you only have the time to catch the tips of his cheekbones smearing bright red - before the clan leader stumbles back out of the meeting room.
“Oh, I think I jinxed it-”
Choso, meanwhile, crinkles his nose and reaches for his eraser and pencil once more.
Sukuna: -477
“Gnarly.”
.
.
.
“Uncle Kuna—-!” It was inevitable that every single person inside of Yuji’s cute lil’ kindergarten would end up knowing when his father wouldn’t be able to pick him up, and his uncle would arrive instead.
For one, it was all he would talk about the day beforehand. And two, they’d all hear his shrill squeal- except, most students and teachers used to this little ritual were probably shocked at the scream that followed after. “Mama—!”
And you were just as caught off-guard.
Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin fistbump one another. All those lessons, not gone to waste!
“Ah- Yuji?” You’re fighting the way your voice wobbles in surprise, and it felt like a tiny cannonball had been shot at you with the way he runs straight to you. “What did you say, baby?”
Somewhat confused, two large eyes peak up at you. And his voice is tiny, “Mama?”
Ruffling the curly pink locks of Yuji’s hair, you just-so-happen to glance at the boy’s uncle. Your husband. Who was currently steaming from his ears and flushed bright crimson, veins bulging at his forehead, mouth opening and closing stupidly. “I- you- who-”
He was speechless.
Barely even breathing- honestly, you’re hit with the slight urge to reach forwards and feel for Sukuna’s pulse before a calm voice breaks through. “Ah! I see Yuji’s favorite uncle is here today.” A soft, bowl-cut man claps his hands as he walks up. Your eyes drop down to his nametag and read ‘Haibara.’ “And you must be-”
“My wife-” Sukuna spits out, before another word can leave Haibara’s mouth. “My wife, Jin could never pull anyone like-”
“Excuse my husband.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With yourself properly introduced - this time with names - you find yourself laughing along to one of Haibara’s anecdotes of Yuji, something to do with a dare and attempting to eat a terribly finger-shaped stick. He smiles breezily at you and hums, “He’s a good kid, and seems to be very fond of you. You should come visit more often.”
“Well, I hope to.” Grinning right back, you squeeze Yuji’s squirming body as Sukuna takes off his tiny back-pack. And you can’t help but think that it all felt so…domestic.
Evidently, the cozy atmosphere had been obvious. Haibara ponders out loud, “Forgive me for asking, but do the two of you plan on having children soon? You seem like you’d be wonderful parents.”
Oh, you look at Sukuna. And Sukuna doesn’t meet your eyes, though, with his face turned straight ahead- what you could see was the way the tips of his ears were slowly starting to redden.
It seems like ages, it seems like he was waiting for your answer just as Haibara innocently was. And your mouth opens-
“Mister Haibawa, Yuji’s uncle can’t be a parent, he’s already an exorcist.” What the f—the trio of adults snapped their heads down to see that a black-haired boy - another Zenin, confound it - had just tugged on his teacher’s sweater. Butting into the conversation- Sukuna thinks he could recall this boy’s name, something Gummy? Megumi?
“Oh?” Then it wasn’t an orange-haired girl on his other side, “My mommy says he’s unemployed.”
“That, too.”
Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin facepalm. All those lessons, gone to waste!
“Well I don’t think he can be a parent because he looks stupid.” This time, one burly boy with a buzzcut enters the scene. And he was sparing no punches, both metaphorically and literally - he knocks out a good few backhands against Sukuna’s core.
“That, too.”
“He doesn’t look stupid, Todo.” His nephew whines at him- that’s his boy!
Sukuna could almost shed a tear, oh, how proud he was. So proud, in fact, that he’s hoisting the babbling boy over his shoulders without a second thought.
Maybe Jin hadn’t completely failed as a father, after all. Maybe the boy wasn’t a hopeless case and had actually come to appreciate the strong, kind parental figure that was his uncle- “He just looks sorta stupid when he thinks he’ll embarrass himself in front of his wife. Because he does that a lot. That’s all.”
“Like the time with the exorcist.” Megumi nods, sagely.
“Like the time with the exorcist.” Yuji agrees, smacking the top of Sukuna’s head.
“There- there was no time with the exorcist.” The clan leader tries to clarify to an extremely confused Haibara.
And the girl - Nobara, according to the nametag on her glittery back-pack - points up at him, accusing. “I like his hair. He also can’t be a parent because he wears wigs.”
Sukuna growls, “You’re just jealous, bob-cut-”
You furrow your brows, “Do you wear wigs?”
“No.”
Yuji giggles, “Will you wear wigs?”
“No-”
“When will you wear wigs?”
“Never!” Honestly, children these days. He damn near pounces on Haibara, who’d asked that last question.
Megumi - honestly what was this kid’s problem - seems to pipe up for the sake of piping up, “And he steals candy from babies.”
“That was one time-”
“Hey hey-” Without warning, Todo was tugging on Sukuna’s trousers to gain his attention. Snickering as the older man looks down with the most weary face in existence, “You wanna learn how to actually impress fine shyt?”
“What is…fine sh-”
“That’s enough for today. I think.” Their teacher claps his hands, “And Todo Aoi what have I told you about using certain words? Don’t think I won’t have a talk with your guardian again, young man.” Flustered, he throws an apologetic look your way before corralling his tiny students inside. “Now- inside!”
You can finally breathe a sigh of relief - finally, finally.
Though, you don’t know what bewilders you more - the fact that they listen, or the fact that Todo was the only one that didn’t. And it was all because of the fact that he had Ryomen Sukuna kneeled down to match his height, mouth snarling, but head nodding intently to whatever Todo was whispering in his ear. You look at Haibara, and he shrugs just as helplessly.
“Umm…mister Haibara?” Another one. The pink-haired man’s soul damn near leaves his body as another teeny, toddling monster starts pulling on the teacher’s sweater.
Likely expecting an encore of the chaos just prior, his smile stretches thin. “Yes, Toge?” And you, too, start praying that it wasn’t any more love advice, or choice words about Sukuna’s character.
Pale hair cut into severe bangs, the boy mumbles in a small voice, “There’s some old men in the bushes.”
Ryomen Sukuna has never run up to a bush to kick it so fast.
And, later, with Jin left explaining to the teachers and the elders still walking off their bruises, he found himself walking down a softly sunlit road with you. Yuji now fast asleep on his shoulders, and you by his side.
It was a perfect day. Made only more perfect by the gentle tugging of your husband’s fingers towards yours, in midair. In all his years, it’s perhaps the scariest thing he’s done. They hesitate, and then they reach - the slow curves of his digits gliding down your wrist, before interlocking with yours. Warm. Firm. And yet, softer than his palms have ever felt.
He thinks he catches you smiling, and Sukuna thinks Todo’s advice might not have been so bad after all.
And from a nearby bush, Itadori Jin pumps his fist in success. Impotency or not, not a complete waste, then.
.
.
.
One night a week later, the elders decide, push should come to shove.
Literally; cold towels were thrust into your hands before you’d been shoved through the damp wooden gates of the Itadori household’s bathroom. It was the largest one, special in the way a large portion of the room was occupied by a steaming hot spring.
And from your position at the very edge of the humid chamber, you could see the toned shoulders of Ryomen Sukuna. Back turned to the door, just the upper half of his body was peaking out of the water. Glistened with dampness, deltoids flexed as he leans his elbows back against the floor.
You’re semi-glancing behind you at the members of the council that had all but thrown you inside- something about ‘marital bonding.’ Which was really just a way for them to take care of their head’s little ah…rumored problem.
To them, it was perfect - your gorgeous wife comes up to you in a hot spring and…helps. What more could he want? After all, there’s nothing wrong with impotency - there was just something wrong with their clan leader.
You’re game either way.
And you gently knock against the wall to denote your entrance, before walking up to where Sukuna was gawking from now. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Helping.” You reply simply, wringing the towels before folding them over his heated forehead. “Do you wish for me to leave-”
“N-no!”
It comes out faster than he’d have liked, more hitched than he would have liked. Honestly, the sentence barely even leaves your lips before Sukuna sits up straighter. Letting sploshes of scalding water drip down his abs, he leans further back against your touch. “I mean- stay.”
“Mhm, I heard you had a long day.”
“The worst, mama.” And part of his response is half-grunted with the way you’ve now situated yourself properly behind him. With your lap now a bed for his damp head, fingers weaving through those coral pink locks. “Had to refurbish the dojo, then take care of the problem with that damn Zenin brat…then donate to Yuji’s…kindergarten, then…promote a few elders… and one I had to…” Heavier and heavier, he was sinking into you with each nimble movement of your fingertips. “-fuck.”
“You fucked an elder before you fucked me?” You raise a brow in humor.
“Huh- no!” He’s growling, steam curling from the water. And as you’d briefly halted your ministrations to tease him, he guides your hands back to move. “I would never…eugh. Shit, can’t even imagine doing somethin’ like that with anyone but you.”
Suddenly, it’s silent. Except for the slow curdle of the water, and the soft grunts that Sukuna was oh-so-desperately trying to bite back.
Fuck, he was so handsome.
Such naturally chiselled muscles, and dark circular tattoos on just about every joint he had.
You massage his burning temples, slipping down into the longish length of his hair. “Oh, is that so? And do you imagine it often with me, clan leader Sukuna?”
“Stop being such a fuckin’ tease.” Hissing, Sukuna’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he practically begs. And he looked so pretty when he was begging; brows upturned, mouth unintentionally pouty. “How can I help myself?”
“And am I doing anything to stop that?”
“Yes-” Forgoing the massage, Sukuna now stops your right hand. Holding it tightly as he turns his head and presses a kiss to the tender inside of your wrist, hot with water and his blush. “Just existing is enough.”
“Sukuna…”
Your mouth parts, and it’s like a string being drawn- your lips are on his. It’s messy, with the way he’d angled himself from upside down, tilted up just to sliiide the plushness of his mouth across yours. It’s light, like he was holding himself back.
And you knew what he was capable of.
Which was likely what made you reach for the back of his head, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. Gasping, your mouth just barely parts for his hungry maw to clasp ‘round your sugary tongue. Sucking—before-
Before a button clicks, and suddenly the bathroom walls are trembling with lyrics singing ‘I just had sex—’
You could’ve caught whiplash with how fast you’re both staring at the entrance: meeting with the sight of the several elders, Wasuke, and a ridiculously large boombox. Piled onto an embarrassing heap on the floor, they’d seemingly fallen over- likely from their spying over one corner of the door.
‘And it felt so good—’
“Wrong one dammit- this is what Wasuke was on music.” You’re catching one of them murmur. Just about the only thing they have time for before scurrying away - leaving the boombox very, very behind. And you don’t have to look behind you to know that Ryomen Sukuna was likely seething enough to make the spring water itself bubble.
Sukuna growls, “Fucking George Michael.”
“Actually I think that’s Akon.”
Sukuna slams his open palm against the edge of the pool, and you have to open up your palms to stop yourself from being splashed. He murmurs, more to himself, “All because I didn’t wanna fuckin’ scare you- not that they’d-”
“Wait, why’d you think you’d scare me?” You ask in confusion.
To which he looks at you in genuine bewilderment, as if that wasn’t even worthy to be a question. “You’re beautiful.” He states, like there were no truer words.
Before gesturing at himself- those naturally rosy locks, the four arms, the faint slash across his abs where they said his second mouth was to be. Cursed with strength, cursed with power, cursed with looks that defined him as something more than human. “Look at me- just fuckin’ look at me. And that’s not all- how shall I be expected to live a normal marriage when I’ve been cursed from birth? I only ask for forgiveness that I’d been selfish with my choice of you, my wife-”
“Well, I don’t forgive you.”
It’s silence, and he looks torn between hanging his head in understanding, and taking your words head on.
“Because I think you’re beautiful, too.” You say it honestly. “My beautiful husband.”
And, for not the last time that night, the big, bad cursed Sukuna blushes.
‘Felt so good~’
.
.
.
“Sh-shit—” Your back arches lewdly, allll the way back until your naked, puffy core could reach as much of Sukuna’s mouth as possible. “Think I like it better when you’re like- ngh, this.”
Just a few minutes and one rapid trip to your bedroom later found you with your previous clothes in a heap across Sukuna’s bedroom floor. Your thighs shakin’, hips bucking wildly as you straddled his mouth—no, not his first.
You were riding his second mouth.
The wildly monstrous one slashed across the middle of his stomach, large and hungry. He’d gaped it open immediately once you’d clamored up his washboard abs, letting the curled tip of his second tongue slide deftly between your inner thighs.
Playfully flickering in patterns straight up to the target of your cunt-
“Haaah, so you’ve decided you like- mmm, this mouth more than me?” One of his four hands teasingly dips downwards to grace your pussy with a solid spank.
So loud, so wet that it makes his cursed mouth lick its lips in greed. “Really not gonna talk t’me now then? Not even through these lips?” Another one. And it’s letting off the rawest slurp that muffles your own squeal- “Though, I think she disagrees, huh, baby?”
Through gritted teeth, you somehow manage to force out, “Shut up-”
“Alright alriiiight.” Sukuna trails off, seemingly back to focusing on the ministrations of his tongue.
Your eyes are dangerously on the verge of criss-crossing as he glissades it up every bead of slick escaping you. Laid flat n’ draaaaagging across every inch of skin he could reach, the flexible tip of his tastebuds were just barely touching your treacly folds when-
Spank!
Even harder this time. And your mind whirls stupidly at the stinging sensation that just felt so good- “N-ngh, fuck–”
You were bending so cutely on top of him, and Sukuna can’t help but lean his hulking figure further down the king-sized mattress. “Atta girl.” Bucking up so that you’re fully seated on top of his second mouth now, slick dribbling all down his obliques, his cursed tongue glued to your clit.
Sticking between your folds, his pinkish tastebuds rover ‘round and ‘round that fat nub where you were most sensitive. Just barely gurgling out, “And here I th-thought you were shy-”
“And here I thought you were dumbified, hmpf.” With a roll of his eyes, your husband chuckles. “Guess not yet.”
It was as much a warning as he would give you - and it wasn’t a warning at all.
Before the fat girth of his finger is rudely pryin’ apart your pussylips and shoving the first few inches inside. Until you’re being spearheaded by him, he’s trying to scope every inch of you. He’s trying to snake his muscle in until he’s probed into every nook n’ cranny.
“F-fuuuuuck—” Sukuna groans out, watching through half-lidded peripherals at the way your tight hole was trying to suck him up. So thick, he can count every throb of your walls around him, one-two-three-four- “Are we sure yer not dumbified- hah, already? Look how fucking wet ya are, mama.”
“N-ngh, Kuna—”
Your whines are botched with pants, after each time his finger is swabbing its way inside. Fitting in two- moving in the slightest half-ruts just to fit inside- again. And again and again.
Each passing second had him probin’ into a new corner of your pussy - and yet, it still wasn’t enough for the clan leader. Which is why Sukuna finds his tongue slithering back and forth your folds, pushing them apart until he was given a front row seat to your depravity. “See? A damn- fuck- waterpark. Are ya always like this or m’I just special, huh?”
“You’re not gonna be special if you- mmpf, talk so- ngh, much-” The stretch is so incredible that you’re forced to bite down on the gummy insides of your cheek. A necessity if you didn’t want to wake the entire house up tonight.
But Sukuna had other plans.
Rose brows raising in slight surprise, “Ohhhh? That good, huh?” The edges of his sleazy grin twitch once he’s tuggin’ on your dripping wet entrance even further, pumping in the expanse of a third lengthy finger. “M’just gonna take that as a sign m’special~”
“Kuna-”
Oh, you were just so pretty huffin’ and puffin’ atop him like this. It’s enough to make his second mouth slobber with greed, edging dangerously towards the circle of your stuffed hole. “Alright alriiight. Brace yourself, baby.”
“Brace m- wha- oh.”
Before you know it, his fat fingerpads are pushed oh-so-deeply inside. So deep that you think he’s filling out every drivelling orifice, pumping furiously.
Sukuna fucks you with his fingers like he’s trying to make you remember. Like he’s trying to hook into all of your sweetest spots, the ridges of his joints brush up slightly against your g-spot. You mewl, “It’s so- oh, I’ve never felt so full-”
“Yeahhhh- those fingers of yours can’t do this, huh? Poor thing.” Fauxly cooing, he’s rovering you so open. Your husband’s fingers were so big that he didn’t even have to try to leave you trembling- to leave you whimpering as he pulls out in a quick split-second.
Wordlessly despite your disappointed cries, you crack your teary eyelids open to find that Sukuna was slipping off the silver metal wedding ring off of one of his left hands. And pushing it down onto his slick-glazed right hand- before thoroughly thrusting. “S’gonna be a stretch- gonna be a biiig stretch. You can take it, mama.”
“C-can I?” Your thighs twitch stupidly at the frigid feeling of his ring scraping your soft insides.
This way, you could pinpoint the exact way he was moving inside of you: in and out in and out, curling to hit your g-spot.
And Sukuna can tell the exact moment his stirrin’ fingers target your most sensitive spot- because you’re panting, you’re bucking. You’re throwing your head back once he plunges his slick-glazed fingers out to do it all over again and again, until his knuckles hit your pussylips raw. “Hell yeah, ya can. How’re you gonna, mmm, take all of me if you can’t even- oh, take these, hm?”
You’re pouting, “I-I can…”
“What’s that?”
In an effort to prove it to him, you bounce your hips right back into his sloppy cadence. “I can-” And it only makes your cunt squelch even louder the closer you are to his slippery tongue.
“You can?”
“Y-”
His hips jerk upwards roughly, grazing that ridged texture of his tastebuds from the very bottom of your pussy, up, up, up to the tip of your slope. And it’s loud. “You can?” Your heart races, it’s only then that you realize he wasn’t talking to you - he was talking to your other pair of lips. “Then take it- take- ngh.”
Harder and harder. His probin’ mess was reaching a fever point and you’re rubbing yourself pathetically on the prolonged muscle of his tongue.
And the more ravenous his cursed mouth became - edging his globular tip nearer n’ nearer to your stretched-out hole - the more ruined he was becoming. Bucking himself up animalistically, two hands of his control the grindin’ of your hips- manhandling you down just enough so that the wetness of your cunt just barely touches his rock-hard cocks.
“F-fuck!” You’re whining at the feeling of two thick mushroomy tips touching your skin.
And Sukuna doesn’t touch himself- no matter how many hands he has. Having you on top of him like this would be a sure-fire way to cream himself in his pants before he even started. His pretty lips wobbling, eyes scrunching closer the harder his aching erections throbbed.
He was so sexy. And you can’t stop yourself from staring- something he notices even when he’s in this state. “Wh-what?” Flinching at the sheer intensity, “The fuck are ya looking at, huh?”
“I’m just th-thinking…” And you have to stop yourself from moaning as he pulls out his plump fingers in punishment. They were glistening, dripping with so much of your juicy sap that Sukuna sucks clean in front of you.
Before slipping back in—“That I’d- oh- love to make you, mmm, shut up.”
Rolling his crimson eyes, “Oh, you’d love to make me shut up, huh?” And he was so smug. So sure of himself…until the leader catches onto the way you’d been rutting against his second mouth. Riding. And, slowly, those hazy peripherals of his widen- “Fuck…don’t tell me-”
You only nod.
“-you seriously wanna be fucked by my cursed mouth?”
Nodding drunkenly again-
“O-oh.” His head falls back into the satin pillows as you’re slipping it in, the slimy tendril of his tongue finally scouring into where he’d wanted to for so long now.
It feels incredible.
Finally hooking ‘round your tight entrance to push in, in, in—he’s just so big that once Sukuna’s unfurling his greedy tongue, it feels damn near never-ending. And you felt so tight pulsing around him, squeezing him inside once, twice, thrice. “Ya- ya really are gonna be the death of me- fuck!”
You start to ride him and it makes the big, bad Ryomen Sukuna mooooan, twitching his way inside of you. Since you were already softened up by his fingers, it was easy work for him to pull out and immediately replace himself with those rude tastebuds of his.
Straightened out so he can probe around your walls, the length of his cursed tongue was pumping n’ pumping.
You’d never felt anything like this before. And you swear you see the mouth on his belly chuckle darkly as he fucks you like he would with his cocks. Salivating. Sploshing your poor insides until you have him memorized.
Sukuna’s tongue swerves along your walls until he brushes the very back of your cervix, softly mushing it in. Again. And again. And again—“Fuh-fuuuuck—” You’re gurgling out, wet wads of saliva dribbling down each side of your lips. “Who’s the one dumbified now?”
“Wh-what- ngh-” His eardrums were popped from the pure pressure, barely able to make out your words.
And through the constant rams of his tongue, you manage to string together- “I-I said, who’s the- oh, dumbified one n- oh!”
“You.” In that very moment, he has his bumpy tastebuds glued to your g-spot, his hips arching right off the tense bedsprings, core tensed. Sukuna slashes his cursed mouth into your favorite area and grooooans, “Still you.”
He squeezes your perked clit with the tips of his rude fingers, still with the ring on one of them. And the backs of your eyes explode with white-hot pleasure at the dual pleasure - his tongue fucking you ferally, his digits teasing your clit. “Yes it is- hngh, because it’s gonna make me…”
Cum.
You were so close, you could feel it in each swab of his tongue. Gaped open even wider for the most maximum movements, each thrash is angled just right against your g-spot.
Just right to stretch out your glistening walls until they’re taking the shape of him. And he hums, “Yeahhhhh— all over.” Your clingy slick is drenching his abs by now, like a waterfall that he’s scooping up with a fourth hand.
One on your clit, two on your hips to move you pliably up n’ down his length, and his final one getting absolutely soaked. Sukuna brings them up to his primary mouth to suck off the layers of candied slick, smearing it all over his lips like some delicacy. “Yeah, allll over now, mama. Make a hah- mess of me.”
Your jaw unfastens as you watch him clean himself off, every single drop. “Oh my…hngh.”
“What? Mmm, jealous?” Ruder, harder. It was just so sloppy how his mouth rovered all over your cunt, slippin’ and slidin’ back and forth at a constant pace. “Maybe if you were, hah, patient, you could’ve gotten that.”
“As if I’d want that…” You’re huffing, stubborn.
“My wife, you’re just- about- to cum- on me.” The space between each word is slashed with a push of his rovering fat tip, and a thorough squeeze on your clit.
To which you’re shooting back- “And you were about to cum- ngh, untouched.”
And you think he’ll tease you back. You think he’ll bully you until you’re driven mad - but Ryomen Sukuna was moaning in agreement.
Speeding up the pace of his velvety tongue, he’s slithering it with a deep bash against your g-spot. Grunting, “Can you blame me?” Harder. Something at the back of his throat cracks. He begs, “Such a pretty, oh, fuckin’ wife like you and- and I’m expected to stay calm?”
Hiccuping, “I- I don’t- Kuna, I’m not gonna last-”
Faster. “M’expected not to get pussydrunk? Expected to not fucking- lose it. F-fuck-” Sloppier.
And you don’t get to hear what the tail end of his sentence might have been. Because with a few more vulgar strokes, you’re breaking apart—cumming.
Lids cracking with tears, lips wobbling out whines.
His name, over and over again. Your cute noises are so loud that he has half the mind to wonder whether those damn elders will hear, “Cum—ing-” You announce, belatedly. Body shaking with each peak of your high, “Feels so- so good, oh.”
“Does it, now?” He babbles away, drunk on your honeyed pussy. The sheer primal clench of your walls almost made it hard for him to fuck you through your wave of bliss. “Good- good, atta girl, cream all down my t-tongue now.”
The curvaceous tip of his tongue was constantly pricking your g-spot, and it only drags out your orgasm even further. Until you were nothing but a sobbing mess, “Am- oh, I am.”
“Mhmmm— go ahead.” Your thighs twitch, head dropping backwards as the last few dredges of your high are pounded away. “Go ahead- take it. Take it all out on me.” With a few twinges of electricity that zap down your spine, you can finally manage to crack open your eyes.
But you notice that just as you’ve reached your high, Sukuna did, too.
Or, at least, he was trying oh-so-desperately not to.
As your pace lazes, his two hands on your waist glide down to his plump, aching erections. Both sets of thumbs rover on top of his leaking orifices, squeezing just so he won’t leak out in cum. Stopping himself from cumming untouched.
And that makes you huff, “Kuna…” Your newfound nickname for him makes him flush, and you instantly swat away his hands. “Want it now.”
“Cheh-” Those hazy, blood-red eyes of his narrow, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the tight snap of his underwear being pulled. “What a spoiled lil’ wife…”
But that wouldn’t stop him from indulging you, of course.
Sukuna breathes in heavy puffs, and you barely even have the time to catch yours before he’s immediately clawing onto the right side of your ass cheek with one hand.
Usin’ that sinful leverage to manhandle you straight down onto one of his plush tips, the thick circumference of his shaft throbs against your hole and you moan. Head snapping down- “Fuck.”
Oh, fuck.
He was so…big.
And that was being humble- you’d come to learn that not only was Sukuna gifted with extra height and limbs, he was gifted with extra size too.
Two fat, veiny lengths laid between two meaty thighs, they were colored the prettiest tan flush on their tips. Dribbling down heaps of precum that puddled between the two of you. By now, the curly pink hairs at the bottom of his bases were already drenched, and his ballsack was so tight with need.
Sukuna was so hard that every throb was visible. So big that it made your thighs squeeze together.
Mentally, you’re calculating just how it might be possible for him to fit inside you. Before his rough tone cuts off your thoughts, “Ah ah- we can count together, mama. Say it w’me now-”
“Wha- one!” Almost laughable, he’s then bullying in just the thickened front of one cock. They were stacked vertically, and as you get pierced by the lower one, his upper one was rubbin’ primally on your front.
Sukuna’s mean fingers draw an invisible line from up your treacly slit, measuring. “Mmm- s’more like two inches.”
“Two-” You blabber, “Then how much more-”
“Guess we’ll just have to find out, heh~”
And he meant it.
Before long, Sukuna was fucking up into you furiously. Ferally. Thrust after half-thrusts just to fit his incredible size inside, “Tha’s about four…mmm, more three.” He’s drunk on your pussy, counting away how many solid, sopping inches managed to be squeezed in each time. In a split-second, your poor pussy’s being spanked. “You too, baby.”
“It’s just so- ngh—” Your head throws back for the nth time tonight, singing in synchronization with the creaks of the bed.
It’s like he was jackhammerin’ you, mazing your slick-filled insides with the globe of his cockhead. Sukuna was so long that it was easy to massage your every sweet spot- again and again. “Whaaaat? Can’t take it? Fuck, wee’re only about-” On your tummy, he measures out how far he’d slid inside by now. “S-six inches, still. About halfway?”
Your eyes bulge—halfway?
It’s a shock so large that the rest of your body loosens up, weakened. Just perfect for him to grab onto your hips, your thighs, one hand on your neck to jostle your cute body up n’ down his cock.
“S’it too much for my, mmm, good wife?” Mercilessly, he’s spitting between your ajar mouth. “Took my tongue but you can’t even take one of my cocks- aw, c’mon now, mama.”
“I-I-”
“I-I-I- whaaaat?” Octaves higher. Your husband leans in until his heated breath burns the shell of your ear, whispering, “Gonna hafta speak up, y’know? Unless ya want me to- fuck- it out- of you-”
And you always did surprise him. Because where the head of the Itadori clan expected to be met with a few sobs, a few pleas, you’re only straddling his toned hips tighter.
Swervin’ your hips down in a dizzying figure-eight to help him stuff your cunt full of him. And even though it still wasn’t enough to bottom out completely, you look up at him through teary lashes. “I want both, Kuna.”
Sukuna’s pink lashes flutter, his breath catches. “Wh-what?” And he stutters. Oh, you’d made him stutter - just as nervous and awestruck as he was on your wedding night.
“Both.” You can only repeat the word.
Because at that very second– before your response has even graced his very ears, he’s rutting up into you like an animal. Like a dog in heat, Sukuna’s crushing your front to his abs and his cocks to your cunt.
Pap!
“Fuck…” He hisses at the sting of flesh slamming on flesh, “Eleven. What was that?”
And you’re being dumbified by the sheer stretch, not only had he started kissin’ your puckered pussylips with his second cock - he was starting to press inside. No hesitation, no waiting around for you to get used to the stretch. Sukuna was hungry.
You somehow choke through wads of your own spit, “More- both- oh fuck!”
“What? S-say it again-” He’s like a broken record at this point, and so were his plunging cocks. Deeper n’ deeper. Your drivelling entrance was now stretched out so widely over the circumferences of his bases, sobbing just as much as you were.
“Bo-”
“Twelve- again.”
It was a damn wonder that he could still spit out coherent words. Stammering. Heaving.
The hand of Sukuna’s that’d been caressing your front was now slithering down to cup both his shafts. Guiding them upwards to press in—“Gonna have ya take it a-all until here-” You snap your head down to see what he was talking about - only to catch a lil’ you’d missed in your observations of his size before.
Those two ring tattoos at the base ends of his cocks.
The sight itself is so lecherous that it has you moaning- “Oh, yes- both.”
“Yeah? So sit pretty and take it, baby.” They were glistening with your sultry sap, nearly kissing your folds by now. “Allll the way until m’tattoos- got it, girl? Alllll the way until…” Stupidly, you’re nodding. And he can only breathe through clenched teeth, “Fuh-fuck! Thirteen.”
Thirteen.
Thirteen entire inches - each.
You’d finally reached the tattoos. And they were stuffed pretty n’ puffily inside you. Throb-throb-throbbing away against your every tiny orifice, Sukuna didn’t even have to try to mold your gooey cunt to him.
As you open your mouth to demand him to move, he plunges in two of his thick fingers. Messily dragging himself towards the back of your throat, “Tch- such a dangerous fuckin’ mouth. M’gonna hafta fuck that outta ya.”
You’re whimpering, your jaw dangling agape perfectly for him to spit inside. And then his second mouth—targetting your pussy with a thick glue of spittle.
At least he was nice enough to give you an actual semi-warning this time.
Because before long, two hands are clawing at your sides. Pinning you down so that his two shafts can prick your cervix neatly, bottomed out and yet still trying to go deeper.
When he finds that futile, Sukuna bodily bounces you up n’ down his upright erections. “Oh my god- o-oh my god.” One of his angular shafts was bashing in your sponged cervix, and the other was just below n’ cutely rubbing on your g-spot. “Fuck it just feels so- good!”
“Aaaaatta girl, enjoy it.” With a hand on your throat, he bends you back into an arch.
The pressure is almost too much - so much. You find your body naturally torn between running away and yearning for more, more, more. Though, luckily, the clan leader’s there to help you make that decision. “Nuh uh, no runnin’, baby. Put your back into it- taaaake it, you see how much she likes it?”
“Can- can hear-”
“Mhm—”
And truly, your overfilling pussy was so loud. Every splatter of precum inside you made the most primal squelches- and the volume?
The sheer sploshes of his gooey translucent sap was enough to bloat your pussy. But now with two plump, vein-covered cocks of his probin’ your innards, he was fucking a tummy bulge into you. You gasp at the feeling, “I d-didn’t even know that was- hck! possible-”
“Heh, course it is—And y’know how to make that cute lil’ tummy bulge of yours even bigger?” Sukuna beckons you closer, like he’s about to tell you a secret.
Even though, really, he’s manhandling you like a ragdoll. Reeling you in until his scorched hot lips were grazing your own, murmuring. “I just…hafta…fuck a baby into you, my wife.”
Almost on cue - like a little preparation - both of his strawberry-red divots stream out a few beads of precum. Splattered against your walls, they drip n’ cream down the sides of your pussy and make you see stars. “I would like that- oh, I would- I would like that.”
“Mmm— and what about you?”
Evidently, your needy cunt’s in agreement, too. Because the wettest noises suddenly let off from between your legs- and only later do you realize that it wasn’t just because of how damp your pussy was. No, it was because of his second mouth.
Tonguing down the shimmery sheen of slick upon each of your thighs, he licks up every drop of juice you were leaking. Flicking the curly end of his tongue at your clit-
“Ah ah- focus on me.” Sukuna snaps you out of your high with a light spank on your slope, and a literal click of his fingers.
“B-but how can I when it feels so goood—”
“So goooood, huh?” He drags it out purposefully, pressing his thumping veins against the roof of your channel.
Sukuna knew the effect he had on you. He knew how to target your favorite spot in strikes so precise that it left your toes curling, vision flashing with white. “Tell me-” Right now, he had one hand smearing apart your folds to better let his tongue slip between them. Another two hands clung onto your waist to help you move, and the fourth and final was grabbing your face. Pushing your cheeks together pathetically, “Can’t focus? Awww, my poor wife. Are that- oh, useless at focusing on anything that isn’t my two c-cocks right now?”
“N-ngh, Kuna—” Cute. How cute. Your dilated pupils were swirlin’ in circles inside the whites of your eyes, comically pounded stupid after each stroke upon stroke.
“S’that the case, huh? Is that why my mouthy girl is so- oh, fuck- quiet now?” He’s almost snickering- it’s so ruthless.
Heavy hips pressuring up into you. He was pounding you in rough thrusts, all the way from the mazing curve of his cockheads to those tickling tufts of pink at his very bottom. And Sukuna has the audacity to spit—“Fuck, mama. Do you even know your name right now?”
Your brain was too hazy, merely sparking with twitches of pleasure. You’re left blubbering nonsensically for a few seconds, until his tongue slaps your buttony clit. Startling you into answering, “I-I…”
“Heh, do you even know mine?”
“K-Kuna—” You might not remember your own name by now, but screaming Sukuna’s over n’ over had permanently branded his into your mind.
And so you look up at your husband’s handsome, leering features for any recognition. Only to find him tutting, “Now now, how disa- oh, disappointing. I thought you’d most importantly know who I am, at least.”
“Then…clan leader?”
“Nuh uh.”
Pouting, “B-but ”
“B-b-b-but-” He’s mocking, buttery tongue now rubbin’ your nub raw. You felt overstimulated enough to press your chin between his puffy pecs, like cushions. Sheening out drool all over his skin- “Say my title before you cum, baby.” You listen with bated breath, “M’your husband. And m’always gonna be your husband.”
“M-my husband?” Your mouth drops - and you’re unsure whether it’s because of his words, or the sudden increase of his tempo. Hot and hard.
His twin, rock-hard crowns plummet all the way until you swear you can feel him poke your lungs. Throbbing at a thunderous staccato, he breathes—“Gonna be your husband that fucks you like th-thiiiis—” Punctuated by a few sloppy drags of his vein-decorated lengths, “Gonna be your husband that eats you out like m’starved.” A few hearts that he’s drawin’ on your clit with his extra prolonged tongue.
“Fuck- fuck I’m gonna—”
As your sobs break off, his roughened hand dips from your throat to the slick n’ precum dripping down your thighs. And you faintly notice the way he’s using the moisture to write out his own name—
Ryomen Sukuna.
Signed off with a little heart on your skin, “And m’gonna be your husband that…” And a second heart right above where your womb was, where he was jackhammering into your womb like no other. Flooding it with copious knots of cum like he was practising for something else soon.
Sukuna leans down sweetly so that his lips trace your earlobe, whispering. “-breeds this pretty pussy alllll full.” Tapping the front of your pussy, like he was just imagining it.
And that does it for you. That does it.
Before long your head falls into the crook of his neck with a dull thud, so utterly dumbified on your sudden orgasm that you can only blabber. “Kuna- Kuna—!”
Your thighs were shaking, cunt fluttering with each spasm of pleasure.
And if Sukuna was going to fuck you through your high, he was going to fuck you through your high. Every probe of his rovering cocks increased your bliss tenfold, exact hits to your g-spot.
Sobbing, “Please-” You can only hold onto his flexed, tattooed deltoids for dear life. Clawing down his skin due to the constant stimulation, you bow your spine backwards and meet his ferocious thrusts. Riding out the euphoria- spark after spark that made your toes curl.
Grunting, he just felt so used right now. And he loved it. “Yes yes yes- let this entire house know. Let that whole council ngh- hear how good of a husband I am to you.”
It lasts until you’re gurgling on your own whines, zaps of electricity still shooting from your cunt. “Let them-” And Sukuna dares to smush your tear-wettened cheeks together to coo, “Fuck, what’s that–? What’s that pretty mouth hafta- hngh, say t’me?”
And you somehow manage out, “I-inside.” A shaky hand of yours snakes down to part your pussylips wider, helping his roverin’ tongue. “My husband…”
Ryomen Sukuna’s eyes widen, his kiss-bitten lips part.
You could almost hear the deep, trembling gasp that he’s inhaling. Letting out only five words—“I l-love you, my wife.”
You aren’t granted the time to formulate a response- before his thick, battered cockheads start spilling out. Flooding your cunt in mere seconds, you’re just dripping down your thighs in thick clumps of his seed.
And his cursed mouth is more than happy to indulge in all the miry ribbons of sap, lickin’ all upwards until a thin, ivory gloss coats its lips. Sukuna looks down and groans, “Oh fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck fuck-”
His flush was scorching, face scrunched in pleasure. You’re purring, “You’re so pretty, baby—”
“Ah, m’so glad I married ya.” He can’t stop the lil’ confession that leaves his mouth. Heart too full- your cunt too full. And if you saw one of the strongest, most vicious clan leaders in existence smile through a fiery blush n’ his pussydrunk tears, then you mercifully don’t comment.
“M’glad I married you too, Kuna—”
And you’d felt nothing like this before. Having his gluey cum splosh around inside of you, both of his lengths were shoved in so deeply that they were constantly coating your cervix in white. Your womb.
Your deepest orifices that leak out as Sukuna plants a hand on your tummy and presses, watching with bated breath as his seed gushes out of you like a waterfall. “Fuck- didn’t think it would be like th-this, ngh.” He was hypnotized, making an even bigger mess of you. “Didn’t think that it would be s-so…” Addictive.
He doesn’t finish his sentence. For now.
Red eyes teary, Adam’s apple gulping. You’d completely sucked him dry by the time that Sukuna was pulling out of you. The matching mushroom tips of his shafts twitching, reddened and sensitive.
He hisses as they bob in the air for a few seconds, before-
“Kuna- oh, fuck.”
Before you were flipped over and pressed deep into the mattress. Your legs on his shoulders, your knees near your tits—and his mouth over your overstimulated cunt.
Letting you cream all down his chin, Sukuna has to swat away his cursed mouth just to get a taste of you himself. And the moment his plush lips touch your glazed folds- you’re trying to run away. Failing.
“Now now, my wife.” Being draaaaagged back down by all four of his big, beefy arms. Sukuna pecks exactly six open-mouthed kisses on your sloppy hole, his lengthy pinkish tongue coming out to sluuurp—“I remember something about…six heirs?”
Oh.
.
.
.
“Y’know, there’s really nothing wrong with impotency.”
Wasuke grunts, a few elders nod. “Agreed.”
“But maybe he’s taken a vow of celibacy-”
“Maybe his dicks fell off.”
“Choso Kamo!” It was never too early in the morning for Itadori Jin to squawk at his sons, especially when they were in the middle of what was undoubtedly an exceptionally important subject of conversation - the two of you.
He wags his butter knife like a weapon, “We do not say those words in front of Yuji, and especially not in front of our toast.” Before reality sets in and he drags a hand down his face, “But yes…that is possible…”
Wasuke deems it to be the perfect time to chime in, “Bah! I don’t care if they fell off or if they multiplied- I just want grandkids.”
“Father, might I remind you that it was you who decided to interrupt their little moment last night?” A vein pops out beside Jin’s temple, and in his periphery can see the other guilty elders shift in their seats.
The old man does, too, but still in denial. “Slander! That is propaganda that I will not be falling for-”
“Father, we have multiple eye witnesses. I am an eye witness.”
“And what were you doing spying with us?”
“…”
As Itadori Wasuke rests his case, the winding table falls into perhaps the first quiet of the morning. Somewhat tense. Somewhat anticipating. That is, until an oblivious Yuji nearly upturns his bowl of cereal to chime in—“Exorcist-”
“What? Choso, did you let him watch your-” Jin starts- and then stops. Because then he’s seeing exactly what his youngest son was looking at - you and Sukuna.
Well, more like you in Sukuna’s arms. It seemed that you were having some trouble waddling down the Estate’s multiple flights of stairs, painstakingly taking it one at a time to enter the dining room. And he has half the mind to nearly ask what’s wrong, perhaps even get up and help you himself- until he sees it.
Oh, it was hard to miss.
He sees it, and so does everyone else within a five mile radius: the bite marks, the bruises, the slight weariness in both your eyes from lack of sleep. It almost looked as if you two had been thrown to the wolves.
And his younger brother often did forgo a shirt for breakfast, but now he’d haphazardly thrown on a yukata. One that showed off such feral scratches disappearing down his back, his neck, fuck- maybe even his thighs?
Jin drops his butter knife, Choso exits the table, and Wasuke…was he even breathing? Hell, Jin was sure that a few of the surrounding elders had honest-to-heavens fainted right then and there.
Nearly everyone knew what happened.
Except for a beaming Itadori who was the first to gain your dual attentions, squealing out a “G’morning–!” that you both reciprocate in hushed, hoarse voices. Fuck, he even swears he heard Sukuna’s gruff baritone crack.
No one comments, of course, for the dark glint in their clan leader’s eyes promised sure death if they did. Though, Jin does roll his eyes at a few of the whispering council members—
“What a glorious, wonderful day it is. I truly do believe in miracles-”
“My bets are on a girl- but a boy would also be-”
“Akon worked?”
He doesn’t think he can judge, though. Not when he’s immediately pulling out his phone to text Yuji’s teacher, Haibara, about the salacious new updates. Ah, can you blame him? You two would make the prettiest lil’ babies.
Finally, you and Sukuna finally take your seats at the clan table. Grinning. And by the looks on your faces, Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t impotent. Not at all.
