The Bowery Presents
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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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@sladethescientist
‘𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍’ — 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇
about. she/her. 8teen. i like to write (gojo centric) and yap. not spoiler free.
on my blog ⌵
rules ⋮ all works ⋮ ao3 ⋮ stop genocides
recent works ⌵
december, west savannah
┈───┈──┈ㆍ⟢ ⟡ ⟣ㆍ┈──┈───┈
solitude shapes character. you are who you are when alone
petition for nanami to burn his hair gel
𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞?
pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader
part two of wanna be yours
summary: the aftermath of you and your husband's arranged marriage, but the better side of it. gojo satoru just loves you so much, that he's willing to bring down armies just for you
warnings: 18+ mdni, arranged marriage, very brief misunderstandings but they work it out, eating out (fem!reciving), fingering, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, he doesn’t pull out
word count: 6k
note: part two is finally done! and i think this is gonna be the last installment for this so don't ask for another part bc i will cry. as always, thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading, she's the loml <3
jjk masterlist
there were a few things that changed after your night with satoru.
as he promised, he got a bigger bed for his room. he promptly ordered all your things to be moved in with his, and it didn’t take long for all your belongings to melt with his. it was different from what you were used to, but you welcomed those nights when you’d curl into his chest, tracing patterns on his bare skin as his fingers ran up and down your back as he listened to you speak.
mornings you would find him littering kisses all over your naked body, or you’d find him in between your legs, waking you up in his own unique (much appreciated) way. satoru was insatiable and you couldn’t find a bone in your body to deny him.
he smiled more, his eyes bright as he woke up to your cheek smushed into his pecs on other mornings, not wanting to wake you up as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead and pulled you closer to his body.
everybody around you two talked in hushed tones whenever you’d pass by, obvious confusion laced in their tones, but somewhat glad to see the tension between you and your husband had simmered down.
“he seems happier,” suguru told you one day as you leaned over the balcony, watching satoru spar with one of his men, your arms crossed over the railing as you glanced over at the man.
“really?” you felt a faint smile tug at your cheeks as you tried to contain yourself.
he hummed, his back to the railing, his legs crossed. he was dressed in his clans’ colors, a black tunic embroidered with red stitching covering his chest. he had come around more often ever since the feast, and he seemed more open to talk to you.
the winds were picking up, the seasons were changing. it had been weeks since your night with him, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since then. satoru spent less time training and fighting, making as much time for you as he possibly could. you had your chair moved so that you could sit next to him during dinners, and in his free time he’d take you around the land on your horse, his face relaxed and gleaming whenever you’d turn around to look at him.
“well,” he turned to look over his shoulder, looking down at satoru, his white hair turning into a blur as he rhythmically and methodically moved, evading the wooden swords’ jabs with the agility only a seasoned fighter could have, “not right now. i think he’s trying to show off.” you snorted, rolling at your eyes at his statement (which was most likely the truth) and continued to watch him spar. sometimes you forgot of satoru’s rank amongst the other men, and watching him in this sort of state reminded you just how much he must have picked up on those years spent apart.
“i’m happy for you two,” he said after a beat of silence passed, offering you a genuine smile as he said it. he was usually more stoic than your husband, never giving too much information off from his face unless it was absolutely necessary, and catching him in these moments would always startle you.
“thank you,” you murmured, heat blossoming across your cheeks and neck as you kept your stare focused on your husband, not wanting to come off as too giddy. truth be told, you’ve never felt happier.
you couldn’t remember the last time you woke up with a smile and slept with one on your face. every day it seemed that satoru was trying to win your love in different ways. he was so different from what you had seen from him the last few months, but just like the old satoru you remembered. he was teasing, always finding ways to make you laugh.
“he told you he was going to be gone for a bit, yeah?” suguru readjusted his hair, making it so that it didn’t keep flying into his face. you nodded, holding tightly onto your clothes in hopes of preserving more heat.
“yes,” you blew some hot air into your hands as you rubbed them together, “he said you’d be going with him.”
“he’ll be needing as much help as he can get where he’s going,” suguru murmured, but didn’t try to hide his words as he tapped his fingers on his wrist.
“what does that mean?” you balanced your elbows on the stone railing beneath you, brows furrowed as he shrugged nonchalantly.
“he didn’t tell you what it was for?” if satoru was one who wasn’t above gossip then suguru was one who stirred it up.
“he said it was a meeting with one of the eastern clans,” you say, rubbing yourself. your nose was freezing. suguru nodded, which made you feel a little more at ease.
“did he tell you why?” you shook your head, indifferent as you looked back at your husband. he was shaking hands with the poor kid who went against him, barely breaking a sweat as he threw his sword to the side, a wide smile on his face as he looked up at you.
“business,” you murmur, not quite giving him your full attention anymore because satoru was walking near where you were standing, craning his neck to look up at you as he grinned.
“is he bothering you?” he called out, his chest moving up and down with labored breaths. he tried to make it seem like sparring didn’t take anything out on him and you nodded, smiling back at him.
“i’m about to throw him off!” you called down, leaning on the railing as you gripped it tightly to ensure your balance and satoru gleamed, suguru scoffing at the interaction.
“did you see me fighting?” he asked, and you wanted to chuckle at his words, the hopeful smile on his face as he wiped at his nose, the cold getting to him as well.
“you fought very valiantly!” and suguru thinks that without your words and your praise, satoru would be a mess, not able to function. he wasn’t sure how he did it months without it, because he doesn’t seem to live without it.
his cheeks flush a cute pink, and you want to bottle up the way his smile grows.
“you two make me sick.” he groaned, pushing himself off the railing as he made his way inside, throwing you a playful wink as he shut the doors. the sun was beginning to set and you could see the bits of night peaking through the sky.
you watched as satoru disappeared through the stairs, likely coming up to see you and you drummed your fingers on your arm as thoughts traveled through your mind.
despite his playful tone, suguru’s words left a bitter taste on your tongue. even as satoru found you, pulling you close to him as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips you couldn’t get it out of your mind. he led you back inside, talking nonstop about what his men needed to improve on, but your mind began going blank.
---
dinner that night was just as it always was, but you still couldn’t find it in yourself to push past what you’d been told earlier.
“i’m thinking of having a winter feast during the solstice,” satoru said, drinking his wine as his fingers played with yours, running down the skin of your palm as he absentmindedly pressed his thumb to the back of your hand.
“sounds good,” you said, not quite listening as you pushed some potatoes around your plate. you should have gotten past this awkwardness to talk to him about these things, but that must have just been wishful thinking.
“this year seems to be colder than the last, so i’ll ask shoko to see if she can bring back some furs from her clan.” he continued, oblivious to your state of being.
“okay,” you blankly said, giving him
a short glance only to see him in his own world, plotting.
“i’ll have one of the southern tribes see if they can bring any pomegranates in, and…” he trailed off, noticing your stare boring into the table. his fingers squeezed yours, bringing your attention to him.
“are you alright?” he asked, and you quickly nodded, plastering on a false smile as you picked up your spoon, wringing your hand out of his.
“mhm!” you scooped some vegetables into your mouth, spending an excessive amount of time chewing as you felt his eyes bore into the side of your face.
he didn’t seem convinced in the slightest, a brow raising at your strange behavior. if you were trying to be funny you had an odd way of showing it.
“do you feel sick?” he moved closer, his hands finding your forehead, pressing against your cheeks as he felt for your temperature.
you gently pushed his hand away, holding his wrist as your feet moved quickly in anxiousness.
this should be easier than you made it out to be.
he looked worried, finger itching to feel you again despite your silent pleas. it was second nature for him to care about you. if he didn’t spend half the time hopelessly in love with you, he spent the other half hoping that you were doing alright. he wanted only the best for you, and vehemently tried to make up for the months he didn’t do so.
“no, i feel fine. but,” you sighed, rubbing at your eyes as he patiently waited for you to find your words. you knew he wouldn’t lie to you, he didn’t have the ability to, but the way suguru spoke to you made it seem like there was something he wasn’t telling you, “why are you leaving? i feel as though,” you swallowed thickly, “as though i don’t fully know why.”
satoru sat back in his chair, his eyes squinting as he looked at you. it’s not like he didn’t like being asked things, but normally you didn’t seem this apprehensive about talking to him. he welcomed your queries, answering them to the best of his abilities, but he couldn’t remember the last time you seemed this nervous to talk to him about something.
and he knew that he should have told you this before you asked, but he put it off. his fingers ran through his hair as he breathed deeply through his hair.
“it’s with one of the eastern clans,” he started, taking another sip of his wind as his hands found yours again, as if he couldn’t breathe without having you near in some way, “do you remember that girl, the one from the feast?”
despite him not being very specific, there was only one memorable girl from that feast. the one that he disappeared with four half an hour before he came back. your jaw clenched, nodding stiffly as you moved in your seat. he noticed your shift in emotions, trying to hide his own as he continued.
“i told you what she had tried to do, hm?” satoru seemed a bit awkward in his wording, and if it were in any other case it probably would have made you laugh. but you can only nod again, his words nothing new. he had told you about it after he spent the night with you, answering your questions as to why he had left with her.
you could barely remember her name, but you distinctly recalled what satoru had said about her. how she had tried to come onto him, how he had forced her off. you hadn’t seen her around since, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t fully stopped making her way into your mind at random times during the day.
“ i had her clan cut off from trading with ours.”
if you were expecting any response it definitely wasn’t that.
“…what?” you gave a startled laugh, blinking as you tried to make sense of what he had just said.
he shrugged as if it didn’t mean much, as if that was the least that was expected of him.
“that’s why our import of sweet potatoes and eggplants has been lower than usual. but it’s alright, i’ve already ordered for the seeds to be planted in our garden. her father is seething at the moment, it’s why i have to go see them.” he cut away at some meat, glancing at you as a smile was forcing its way onto his lips. he kept it down, watching for your reaction.
you swallowed thickly, a feeling growing in your chest as you glanced up at him, only to find him staring back at you, a little smile on his face.
“she had the nerve to ask to be a concubine. i’m only hoping that in this meeting we’re able to get some more of their silk imports in, it shouldn’t take too long.”
you couldn’t find any words to respond with, but could feel a smile growing on your own face. you were the more compassionate one out of the two of you but hearing this felt like a whole different experience.
“that’s,” you tried to hide your giddy feelings, “new.”
satoru rolled his eyes, hooking his hands underneath your chair to pull you closer to him if it was even possible.
“and well deserved,” he commented, kissing your cheeks as you laughed softly, his lips soft against your skin as they found their way into the places he knew you loved most.
you tried to push him away, feeling embarrassed at the guards that stood by the door, knowing they were able to see all of this happen before them.
“suguru was telling me about it,” you felt his hands shift, lifting you over the armrest, his strength godly as he shifted you to sit on his lap, “i just thought that something else had come up.”
gojo hummed against your skin, your dinner promptly forgotten behind you as his nose nudged at your jaw, “yeah, like what?” he enjoyed hearing your shuddering breaths, the way your fingers automatically went to tangle themselves in his soft hair.
“i-i don’t know,” you felt weak from being breathless from so little, and we’re glad your back was to the men behind you, “but definitely not that.”
“it was the least i could do,” he said, “i wanted her banished but my advisors warned against it. said it would cause too much chaos,” his eyes flicked to yours, inviting, challenging, “as if i wouldn’t go to war for you.”
you felt the air in your lungs squeeze out, your hands gripping his shoulders, anything to bring you back to reality as his tongue poked at his cheek, debating some things in his head.
“out,” he spoke, loudly now so that the guards could hear, his voice commanding and starkly different from how he talked to you, “get out.”
while he liked showing you off, but there were things only meant for his eyes and his ears.
you could hear them shuffling to leave, looking over your shoulder as you giggled at their hurried movements, the door shutting behind them as they left you and satoru alone in the dining hall.
you turned back to him, his eyes twinkling in the faint candlelight, his hands running across your back, up and down your arms as you shifted across his lap, your clog rubbing on his hard-on as he sucked in a deep breath.
“you’d go to war for me?” you teased, your sweet breath fanning across his lips as his tongue poked out, his eyes glazing over as he scoffed at your ridiculous question. his hands settled on your waist, your skirts hitching upwards.
“i’d do anything for you,” he whispered against your lips, hovering above them as his eyes held yours, “if you told me you wanted me to ransack that clan dry i’d do it.” though he was a joking sort of person, you knew his words were nothing but the truth.
if you wanted, he’d burn down villages for you. he’d make sure that when the stories were written, your name came first. he wanted the masses to know that he was yours and that his every waking moment was spent in your presence.
satoru was sure the stars were shifting to accommodate for the two of you, and that it would only take years before he’d look up to see you there with him, splattered across the night sky.
“as much as i’d like you to,” you kissed his neck, enjoying the way he writhed beneath you, knowing that only you had the luxury of seeing him like this, “i wouldn’t want any spillage of blood to be traced back to me. i’d like for you to come home alive.” it’s not as if you doubted his talents, nor his strength, you doubted others.
“i’ll always find my way back to you,” he promised, tilting his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss.
it was slow, as if he wanted to savor every moment with you. satoru was cheeky, smiling whenever he’d pull slightly away to hear your sweet whines. your fingers tugged at his hair, warning him to stop.
his tongue pushed its way into your mouth, and it didn’t take long before the kisses turned sloppy, spit staining your chin as you slowly move your body up and down on his.
“you drive me to shambles,” he said against your lips, a train of spit connecting the two of you together, and it was sinful the way he looked right now. lips rosy and plump, his hair messy and his smile cocky.
“me?” you ask slyly, coyly moving up and down his dick, enjoying the way he sucked in a breath through his teeth, his fingers digging into your ass as you tilt your head to the side, “really?”
his hands hiked up your skirt so that it bushed around your thighs, his fingers pressing against your heat as he felt the dampness seeping through your underwear, his own victorious grin plastered on his face.
“really,” he confirmed, grabbing a hold of your wrist as he guided it to his bulge, watching your eyes gloss over, your pupils widening at the feeling of him, never really getting used to just how big satoru was.
his finger hicked your underwear to the side, letting it sink into your warm walls, your eyes rolling back, your slick staining his skin as he brought it out, tapping your lips as he motioned for you to open your mouth.
you did, watching as he pushed his finger in, his eyes darkening at the way you closed your lips around him, sucking him hard as you tasted yourself on him, your hips shifting to ease your aching clit.
“taste yourself? see why i can’t get enough of you?” he prompts and you slowly nod, not breaking eye contact with him as he feels pride swell in his chest, as well as something else a little bit lower.
“see how i can’t get enough of you?” you ask, motioning towards his hand, and he chuckles darkly, drawing his finger out as he presses a short kiss to your lips, taunting you.
“be patient,” he murmured, fully enthralled with the way your tongue moved around him, his dick straining against his pants, painful as it wanted to be let free. you could feel him twitch beneath you, growing harder, if it was even possible.
he couldn’t even be patient himself.
“then hurry up,” you whisper, biting his ear as he groans, pushing all of the silverware and cups out from behind you, lifting you up by your thighs as he made room for you on the table, setting you down as he settled in between your legs.
he pushed down on your chest and you followed his movements, laying down on the table, your chest heaving up and down, the feeling something you’ve never experienced before. sex with satoru was unlike anything human, and he always left you with a taste of wanting more.
your top fell loosely against your shoulder, almost undone from all of his ministrations, and some of the wine from his cup had spilled, soaking your white fabric red. it was hard to come out of this dining hall without hiding what had happened inside.
his hand fisted the top that covered your chest, yanking it off with a swift motion, tearing it off of you in a split second. you didn’t have time to scold him for ruining yet another one of your shirts, taking in the way his breath came out in little puffs at the sight of your naked breasts.
“‘toru!” you yelled, swatting his hands away as you groaned, looking at what was now rags, not knowing how you were going to be able to leave this dining hall with your dignity intact.
“what?” he looked as if he truly had no idea why you’d be mad, and then looked at the remains of your top, sheepishly scratching at his jaw as he leaned down to peck at the corner of your lips, and you begrudgingly let him.
“‘m sorry,” he whispered against your lips, but he didn’t really sound like it, “i’ll cover you in my robes, yeah?” you rolled your eyes, flicking at his forehead. he whined, back caught your hand, kissing just above your wrist as he winked at you. you could never stay mad at him for too long because he knew just what to do to make you forget about it.
“you owe me a new one, alongside the four other ones you’ve ruined so far,” you say, eyeing it with a hefty sigh. satoru nodded insistently, his hands wandering down your torso as he got himself distracted. his hands were so large, and you would never get tired of the way he looked at you.
“how ‘bout i make it up to you, hm?” and you didn’t have any restraint in you as you nodded slowly, knowing that you were the only person who could make him like this, the only person who could have the gojo satoru in such a vulnerable and loving way.
he began bunching up your skirt once again, sinking down to his knees as your back arched off of the table, using your elbow to stabilize yourself as your head tilted backward at the feeling of his fingers pushing past your walls.
your underwear was thrown to the side, disregarded as his tongue poked at your entrance, his thumb flicking over your sensitive nub, knowing just the way to make you go crazy. he slurped up all you had to offer, the sounds too much for you to handle, cheek heating up.
he took his time, wanting to make you feel every pleasurable feeling known to man as he ate you out. you would never get tired of the way he could reach that spongy spot inside of you that your fingers never could.
“you taste like so fucking sweet,” satoru’s eyes found yours, glinting as his nose nudged at your clit. it was too much, the way he ate you like he had never tasted anything better. he hadn’t and he was sure that sin was below you.
his other hand found your tits, palming them, squeezing at the flesh as he rubbed at your nipples, hardening against him as you whined, fisting the tablecloth beneath you as you panted, it was just so hard to get used to this.
“f-fuck, ‘toru, please…” you could barely muster up any words, his thumb swiping at your clit in a delicious way, his tongue prodding at your walls.
“please what?” he teased, enjoying the way he could make you unravel, the way that nobody else could hear the way you’d sing just for him.
“faster, mhh, shit!” you liked the way he obediently listened to you, his tongue and fingers moving per your request, and you felt your stomach clenching, your release threatening to come at any moment.
it was embarrassing just how fast he could bring you to this sort of state, but he reveled in it. he knew what you liked and disliked, how to tease you to make you cry even louder for him. he was a master in everything he did, and he wasn’t one to fail.
“who does this to you?” he asked, knowing he was fucking you dumb even without his cock.
“y-you, you ‘toru,” you couldn’t look at him, everything hot as sweat dotted at your forehead, “only you.”
a cheshire grin found its way onto his face.
“come on, know you can do it,” he pushed you further, his fingers joining his tongue, and it was just too much, prodding at the place that made you see stars. he looked just as wrecked as you, with your own essence smeared all over his chin, mixing with his spit, but he couldn’t have had it any other way.
“‘m ‘gonna…fuck, ‘toru, i’m ‘gonna come…” you breathed out, and it didn’t take long till you did.
the feeling was unlike any other, your walls clamping around him, your release gushing out, your stomach clenched, and your back arched, spasming around his fingers. he didn’t stop until he was sure you had ridden out your orgasm, watching the beautiful way your tits moved up and down with your every breath, the way the light bounced off your skin. you were a heavenly being and nothing you told him could convince him otherwise.
he slowly stood up, his hands finding purchase on your hips as he gently pulled you closer to the edge of the table, giving you some time to come back down to earth as he slowly tapped his fingers on the expanse of your naked skin.
“you good?” you groaned, hitting his chest lightly as he chuckled, his eyes softening as he looked more at you. he was so sure that the love he held in his chest was going to seep out that it made him worried, knowing that others could love you the same way, selfishly wanting you just to himself.
“you’re so annoying,” you say, rubbing at your face, eyeing the bulge in his pants, feeling your mouth salivate at the sight.
“you love it though,” and you couldn’t even argue because you did. you loved all the little things about him, the things he hid away from the public eye and saved just for you. it reminded you that he was yours and you were his and nothing was ever going to change it.
“i put up with it,” you say, watching him pout, his white hair all messy and his cheeks rosy.
“you’re so mean,” he whined, but only kissed the tip of your nose as he said it. his swift fingers made use of unbuttoning the buttons of his pants, hooking a finger around them as he tugged it down, his cock springing free as it hit his chest.
he was long, curving to the right. his dick was pretty, just like the rest of him, and you would never get tired of seeing it flushed red, leaking pre as he shuddered against the cold, biting air. his mushroomed tip was aching to push past your walls, and you obliged him, slowly moving so that your hands found him.
he sucked in a breath as your fingers wrapped around his length, expertly moving up and down in a teasing manner, your thumb swiping at his head as his pre stained your skin. his chest was moving in a crazed pattern, as if his lungs weren’t working properly, and he watched as your hands moved up and down, up and down.
“s-stop, i don’t want to,” he scrambled before he embarrassed himself and finished from just your hands, tugging your fingers away from his aching cock as you looked up at him through your lashes, knowing just what made him go crazy for you.
“hurry up ‘toru, i need you sooo bad,” you whined, your voice laced with something that made him lose all sense of control, and he quickly nodded, his hands gripping your thighs as he tugged you closer to himself.
it would have been easier if he had you perched on the table with your back to him, but he couldn’t risk not being able to see your face, the way your mouth opened and your eyes squeezed shut, so he lined himself up with your entrance instead, knowing this was the only way he could fuck you.
his dick prodded at your entrance, his bulbous head pushing past your walls that were still tight, squeezing him as he slowly inched your forehead, the two of you moaning in unison at the snug fit.
“shit, you’re so tight, how,” his lip caught between his teeth, and his eyes flickered over to yours, “how are you so tight?” his grip on your hips was bruising, but you welcomed the marks, loving the fact that when you woke up the two of you would carry each other on your skin.
“stop talking ‘toru,” your hands hooked around his neck, tugging him in closer as your lips slotted against his, your teeth clashing as your pussy fluttered against him, your noses rubbing against each other, “fuck me…please.”
and he did, pushing all of himself in, and your head tipped backward at the sting, gripping onto his arms as he let you adjust to his size, his cock twitching in your heat, and his jaw clenched, refraining himself from moving just yet.
when you gave him the nod to move he slowly inched out, his dick shining in the light, before he slammed himself back in, your cries filling the vast space as he began to fuck you the way he wanted, his lips finding your neck as you thrust your hips against his.
it was always delirious when the two of you fucked, your bodies meeting at one point that drove each of you to your own euphoria. satoru tried to be slow and gentle, but after a bit, he couldn’t anymore, picking up his pace as his head kept hitting your g spot.
“love you s’much ‘toru,” your fingers curled in his hair, your other hand scratching lines down his back as the squelching sound resonated around you, “f-fuck-” he cut you off with a chaste kiss, dropping his head to your breasts as he sucked at them, positioning himself in and out of you with all his strength.
“i know, i know sweetheart,” he murmured against your spit soaked skin, rubbing gently at the marks he left, “i’m yours, all for you,” he promised, his thumb finding your clit as he swiped at it, enjoying the way you mewled for him to go faster.
your eyes fall all over his naked skin, at the way sweat dots on both of your bodies, and the way satoru can’t contain his moans and whines when he sinks in and out of you. the sounds he makes are for you only, and you want to damn anybody who longs to hear them too.
“you feel s’good,” you kiss at his chest, his tunic slipping down him as the buttons and knots become undone, your fingers tugging them down so you could have more area to kiss and suckle at, “s’big ‘toru.”
he loves how your voice gets breathy, the way you can’t keep your hands to yourself and can barely formulate a thought. he fucks you like he hates you, but that’s only because he doesn’t know how else to show you just how much you mean to him.
“yeah? this dick makes you dumb?” you nod helplessly, feeling like you were going to go insane with the way his veins dragged alongside your walls, at the way your pussy was molding to the shape of him.
“yes!” you cried out, nails digging into his skin, and he encouraged you to leave more lines, knowing that once he had to take off his shirt for training and the men around his eyes the scratches on his back they’d know who left them.
“are you ‘gonna come? come with me, know you want to,” his hips are shuttering as if he can barely keep his release at bay, “know you can sweetheart,” and you whine even louder, his thumb relentlessly attacking your clit as your legs wrap tightly around him, keep him from straying too far away from your body.
“mhh fuck, ‘toru m’gonna, fuck…!” you felt your release come before you could even stop yourself, spasming around his dick as you wailed, creaming around his dick as the tablecloth bunched beneath you, the wine spilling everywhere as your husband came just seconds after you.
you felt his hot release in you, your walls hugging him in as your eyes rolled back, white dotting your vision as he pumped himself inside of you, keeping his dick in for a little while longer. your orgasm was so powerful that you wondered if you were going to be able to walk after this, feel yourself pulse around nothing as satoru slowly pulled himself out of you, his cum seeping out and sticking to your doughy thighs.
it was a mess; wine and cum everywhere, but your laughter slowly filled the heated room, laughing at the entire prospect of this.
“what?” he nudged at your jaw, kissing your cheekbones as he smiled at the sound, “was that not to your liking?”
you snorted, shaking your head as your legs dropped from his waist, leaning back on your hands as you looked around, taking in the mess as you heaved out a sigh, knowing that there definitely wasn’t any way to hide what you had done now. especially since you were sure that anybody within a twenty-foot radius could have heard you as well.
“it was fine,” you teased, watching him huff in annoyance because the two of you knew that it was far from fine.
“just fine?” he asked, scooping a finger into your pussy, watching the way your head fell onto his shoulder, smearing his cum around just for extra measure, chuckling to himself when he felt you lightly bite his skin.
“you’re painfully full of yourself,” you comment, your skirt falling back down as it hid your fluttering pussy, making it seem as if he hadn’t just fucked you dumb seconds ago, and satoru tugged you closer to his chest, his hands sprawling across the naked expanse of your back.
“only because i love you so much,” and he wasn’t lying, but you knew that his cockiness stemmed from himself.
the two of you smiled, your rings shining and you looked out the window to see the moon up, a chill running through the curtains, ruffling them as it hit your skin and you shuddered.
as if he suddenly remembered your top was ruined, now resembling cleaning rags, he shrugged off the robe that was resting on the back of his chair as he settled it across your chest, buttoning up the buttons for you as you let him work.
it had some of his military rankings on it, a deep blue that resembled the clan's colors, and you instantly felt warmer in the wool.
“‘toru?” you twirled some of his baby hairs around your fingers, your voice hoarse but soft.
he looked up, feeling awestruck by the way you looked right now. he loved the glow you radiated after a round of him pounding into you, the way your skin was shining and you had a content look on your face, resonating deep within him.
“hm?” his thumb ran across your face, tracing your features as he did every night, committing them to memory.
“come home safe,” you whispered, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you held his unoccupied hand in yours, your fingers cradling his larger ones, “don’t do anything stupid, please.”
he went to make a joke but stopped himself when he saw your serious stare, his mouth opening and then shutting until he nodded, smiling carefully, holding heavy emotions as he gave you a smaller, more understanding nod.
“okay,” he murmured, but you shook your head, not satisfied with his answer.
“promise me,” and he hated and loved the fact that he couldn’t deny you anything.
“i promise,” he whispered against your lips, bringing you closer as his tongue swiped against yours, your lips swollen and plush, just the way he liked it.
and he held true to his promise, returning only a week later with a promise of no sort of war between the eastern clan. but according to suguru, your husband had shed off his clothes when he had to fight one of their men, everybody around him, including the girl, had seen the scratches and bruises you had left for him,
just as he intended.
taglist: @chieeeeeee, @yxnjvnnie, @ladytamayolover, @iheartlinds
[SOLVED] | nerdjo x reader
The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. The second was moving in with him anyway. Satoru Gojo is a gorgeous man and a terminally online incel who will explain exactly why a nice guy like him can't get a girlfriend. When you decide to weaponize your hotness against his incel worldview, you expect to break him and his “alpha male" ideologies. You do not expect to spend a random evening getting your roommate's dick out of a stuck cock ring.
pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader
warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, modern AU, roommate AU, nerdjo, incel!gojo, virgin!gojo, oral (m and f receiving), piv, creampie, light degradation, praise kink, cum in hair, cum eating, cum-drunk, pussy-drunk, cock rings, fleshlights, improper use of hair tie, improper use of yogurt (accidentally ??), oil and fluids everywhere, it’s a bit disgusting, light choking, groping, big time copium from reader, secondhand embarrassment you’d die, reddit, incel stuff, crack treated seriously, fluff, smut, slow burn but the burn is just pure cringe
word count: 17k
The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. Should’ve been a red flag, really. The second was agreeing to meet the guy in person.
You walked into the coffee shop, scanning the midday crowd for someone who matched the description — twenty-something, remote-employed, appreciates a quiet living environment. You were expecting a tired grad student, maybe. Or some tech guy in a Patagonia fleece. Something like that.
Instead, you found a gorgeous, gorgeous looking man. And you were confident it was him, since there were exactly two men present — him, and some grandpa having his afternoon caffeine fix.
And the guy was, objectively and objectifyingly speaking, probably the prettiest guy you had ever laid your eyes on. Way too tall, way too broad, the messy hair and the cute glasses adding the je ne sais quoi of the hot nerd aesthetic you were simply too weak for. Even hunched over his phone like that, he looked aggressively cute. But, let’s be honest, you weren't exactly against a cheeky roommates-to-lovers situation, if you catch my drift.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Oh no. Oh YES.
Your heart went thump thump thump! like crazy as you stood there, frozen between the door and the counter. Living with a man who looked like that was a direct threat to your peace. And his too, probably. You couldn't believe you had practically won a jackpot over freaking Reddit. And apparently Reddit was only full of weird people, as if. So you took a breath, adjusted your posture, and walked over.
But then the panic hit. Because someone who looked like that was probably bringing home a different girl every night. And you’d have to listen to the stupid Thump. Thump. Thump. of his bed through the thin drywall. Every single time.
Suck it and see, you never know, girl.
From his side of the table, Satoru had already run the numbers. His eyes tracked your movement the second you started walking over, assessing. You were cute, yes. Approachable hot, not intimidating hot. You didn’t look like the type who’d expect him to pay for everything or make fun of his personality. And most importantly — you had messaged him first on the housing thread.
That meant the dynamic was already set. You were practically already his. Why else would a girl willingly want to live with a man? The power balance was secured. Handled. Handed to him on a silver platter, just like all the podcasts had promised.
You slid into the booth across from him. "Satoru?"
"You're exactly two minutes and forty seconds late," Satoru announced, and you feared that wasn't a joke. He checked his phone screen. "Statistically speaking, women in their twenties are usually ten to fifteen minutes late to initial meetups to assert social dominance. Two minutes is almost negligible. I like the effort."
You stared at him. What the fuck. You hadn't even taken your jacket off yet.
"I got caught at a red light," you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows and eyeing his hands. Why were they so big?
“Right. Variables.” Satoru nodded, looking way too serious about the whole thing. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So — I brought the lease agreement. As I mentioned, I have a 780 credit score and I want dishes done within twenty-four hours. To prevent breeding grounds for fruit flies.” He slid the keys across the table along with the papers, completely unprompted. “I assume you don’t have a problem with basic hygiene? You shouldn’t have—” his eyes dragged over you, slow and sleazy, “—judging by your appearance.”
You looked at the keys. Then at his stupidly pretty, already supremely annoying face.
Your brain was trying to throw up big red warning signs, but you really needed the space. It was cheap. Close to work. And you’d have to survive maybe a year or two before you could afford a one-bedroom on your own.
You go, girl.
“I’m clean,” you said, picking up the keys. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out exactly what brand of lunatic you were about to chain yourself to. “Listen. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”
Satoru tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Define weird.”
You bit your lip.
There went those “quick” two years of your life.
You already knew the answer. You already fucking knew. Time for some hard coping. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe he’d snap out of it soon. Maybe he’d gone through a breakup and was just being salty. That was probably it.
And to be fair, the first few weeks weren’t actually that weird. You were getting to know each other, learning how to exist in the same space. It was quiet, even. You would’ve paid good money to keep it like that forever.
He mostly worked from his room, only came out for meals, did the dishes, and left you alone. He barely even talked to you, which should’ve been suspicious, but you chose to ignore it. You started to think maybe you’d read him wrong at the café. Maybe the breakup theory was right. Maybe he was just having a weird day.
But spoiler alert — you couldn’t have been more wrong.
Satoru had not gone through a bad breakup. You suspected he had never gone through any breakup at all ever. Once he got comfortable enough to drop the act, or perhaps as some calculated 4D chess move to trap you past the point of getting your deposit back, his true colors started showing.
Satoru didn’t bring girls home. He didn’t do any of the hot-man things you’d expected either. Instead, he spent most of his free time on Reddit, arguing with strangers about the state of modern dating, and why “nice guys” were being chronically overlooked by society.
After about a month, it clicked.
This man was chronically, terminally online. And an incel on top of it all.
The rule of never judging a book by its cover confirmed itself in the most jarring way possible. Would say, you played yourself there girl, but who am I to judge.
It started with the staring. You’d be sitting at the kitchen island in your sleep shirt, eating a bowl of Cheerios, and you’d look up to find him just… watching you. He never looked away when you caught him either. He’d just blink those big, stupidly pretty blue eyes at you, gaze heavy and analytical, like he was trying to calculate your exact molecular structure. Which, in a way, he was. Carefully assessing the harmony of your facial features, exactly like the looksmaxxing subreddit had probably told him to.
You were always the one who had to look away first, your face feeling weirdly hot.
Then came the rants. You’d come home from a brutal shift and collapse onto the couch, and Satoru would emerge from his room like clockwork. He’d drop down next to you, eyes glued to his phone, and start talking like someone had asked.
“It’s basic hypergamy,” he announced one night, to absolutely no one. “Men are biologically disadvantaged in the modern dating sphere because of the top-twenty-percent rule.”
You didn’t even look at him. You just kept staring at the TV and wondered how long you could keep nodding along before it would become suspicious.
And he would just keep going.
Spewing the most vile, stupid shit while you sat there, eyes flicking from the TV to him and back, nodding along because you genuinely did NOT care. Top twenty what percent? Wasn’t he objectively in the top ten at least? What the hell was he even talking about? Every time you didn’t answer, he probably took it as agreement. You just deadass had nothing to say to him.
Not because you lacked the energy to argue — though you kind of did, because talking to this manchild was like talking to a wall, and even that would’ve been more productive — but mostly because you weren’t even listening anymore. You’d learned how to tune him out pretty quickly.
You were tolerating him. That’s what you told yourself. You were tolerating him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that ever since you first laid eyes on him, your brain had decided to revert to its most embarrassing caveman settings.
Like that one evening when you were walking down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bathroom door opened.
Satoru stepped out, dripping wet. White hair plastered to his forehead, water still running down his chest, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. You shamelessly followed his happy trail. The way the towel barely clung on his hips.
Your brain stalled at the sight of his pretty body and your mouth went dry. You reminded yourself why you were tolerating him. Then berated yourself for doing exactly what he did — objectifying.
But hey. What's better than an incel asshole? A hot incel asshole. That's what's better. Congratulations to you specifically, really found a rock between a sea of gems.
You thought you had it handled. White-knuckle your way through the lease. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And then you walked past his partially open bedroom door and heard him on Discord.
"Yeah, I mean, the living situation is okay," Satoru was saying, sounding so perfectly reasonable. You thought he was going to say something nice. What a good roommate she is, how glad he was to have you there.
"She's clean. And yeah, she's hot, but she's not like super hot hot where it's scary, you know? She's cute hot. Next door hot, pretty hot. Just my type, you know my type, dude. I can definitely work with that."
You froze in the hallway.
Your face did something that could only be described as a visual representation of what the fuck.
Cute hot. I can definitely work with that.
What does that even mean? You knew exactly what it meant, unfortunately. He wasn't just a weird roommate. He was a weird roommate actively running some kind of deranged, incel-fueled long game on you. Casually. Over Discord.
You quietly backed away, went to your room, locked the door, and screamed into your pillow.
It was not like your roommate was describing you like a property investment to someone over Discord while you were standing mere feet away.
You hated this. You hated him. And you hated yourself for having been even remotely apologetic about it, for feeling your heart skip a beat when he said just my type. Curse you and your completely stupid and irrational attraction to someone you should probably be filing a restraining order against! But god, he was so so cute. If he could just shut the fuck up, or get lobotomized, or something. You could take him to Claire's over the weekend?
But to his credit, and you could not fucking believe you were giving him even some credit at all right now, he was sometimes tolerable, heavy on the sometimes. The man never missed a rent payment. He scrubbed the bathtub weekly. He always bought the expensive brand of paper towels, the ones with the little flower pattern you liked.
Good roommate, structurally speaking. Nightmare, every other way.
And the attraction was just a proximity issue. Obviously. Everyone would have this problem. It would go away. His personality was ass. Soon enough you'd look at him and convince yourself his looks were ass too. Start acknowledging his hotness the way you acknowledged anything asexual.
It was totally fine. You were fine. He was just a guy. A guy who happened to look like a Final Fantasy character rendered in 4K, but still just a guy. A nice guy.
And work with that, he definitely did. Because he was fine too! Just not in any way he would ever admit to his Discord buddies.
Because doing it the normal way guys in their sexual prime do was completely fine. He was in his twenties, so naturally, his mind wandered a bit when his head hit the pillow with passing thoughts about the way your sleep shirt rode up your bare thigh. There was absolutely nothing wrong with getting off while thinking about someone! It was just the normal biological need the podcasts yapped about! It was healthy to be sexually active, even if his only active partner was his fist.
And if that happened to escalate into jerking off to a completely innocent Instagram picture and coming all over his phone screen while staring at your pixelated smile? Also completely normal! Everyone dealt with new living arrangements differently; someone screamed into their pillow, someone else was jerking off every time you got said person inexplicably hard! He couldn't be expected to live like a celibate monk when he was just a poor, horny guy trapped in an apartment with a gorgeous roommate who also happened to be exactly his type. He wasn't being a creep! He was just adapting to his environment.
Goddamn.
It wasn't fine. He wasn't fine, you weren't fine either.
But as the weeks dragged on, he started getting worse.
The passive-aggressive creepiness turned into passive-aggressive entitlement. He had decided, completely on his own, that the two of you were basically already together. You could feel it in the way he hovered. In the way he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like a bill was coming due and he was just giving you time to find your wallet.
It started with the food.
Without any discussion, he started either making food for both of you or straight-up eating what you’d made for yourself. Like that was just the new normal now.
“Satoru, did you eat my food?” you’d ask, staring at the empty space in the fridge where your meal had been. The one you’d been looking forward to all day. And he’d just nod from the couch like it was the most normal, domestic thing in the world — not a direct violation of the rules you’d set when you moved in.
Or there was the night you came home completely drained, fully prepared to eat a sleeve of saltines and a bucket of ice cream for dinner, only to walk into the apartment smelling like garlic and roasted vegetables.
Satoru was actually at the stove, cooking. A rare sight — the man usually survived on takeout and DoorDash. And he’d used your expensive dried tomatoes. The ones you’d been saving for a special occasion. The ones you’d deliberately shoved to the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t find them.
“Men in the kitchen are a rare sight, I know,” he said, not looking at you as he stirred, trying to look like the eighth world wonder. “But I thought — what if I made pasta? It’s the one my mom used to make. Figured I’d make it for myself. Made a lot though, so… you can have some too, I guess.”
He was already plating a portion for you as he spoke, trying and failing to look casual while clearly nervous you wouldn’t like it.
You watched him for a moment and felt something shift in your chest. You immediately labeled it as hunger and moved on.
He didn’t ask if you liked it. He just assumed you would. And he was right, yeah you ate it, but that wasn’t the point. The pasta wasn’t even that good. Way too salty. But it sat warm in your belly, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth.
You thanked him for the meal but didn’t acknowledge the grand gesture you hadn’t agreed to in the first place. You didn’t make conversation and went straight to do the dishes.
When you glanced back, he was watching you with that look again.
You looked away first.
And of course an incel like that would have opinions about your love life too.
You’d been seeing someone — nothing serious, just a guy from Hinge. Two dates in, and you were still on the fence. He didn’t make your heart do that stupid thump thump thump, and his hairline wasn’t all that great either.
You made the mistake of mentioning a possible third date while making coffee, trying to have a normal, boring conversation about your respective lives.
“I think I’m going to see him again on Saturday,” you said, mostly to your mug.
Satoru looked up from his phone. He was always on his phone doing gods know what.
"The architect guy?"
"Nah, I ghosted that one. Different guy."
A pause. He furrowed his eyebrows the way he did when he was assessing something. “How many are there?”
You gave him a warning look.
"I'm just asking."
"And I'm not answering," you said, rolling your eyes.
He put his phone down, which was never a good sign. You turned back to the coffee machine.
“I just think,” he started.
“Don’t,” you muttered, already regretting bringing it up.
"—that you're not being strategic about this."
You turned back around, mentally preparing for what was about to come.
“About dating. Statistically speaking, cycling through too many low-value options in a short period of time actually decreases your own value. If you want to attract a high-value man—”
He didn’t just mean men. He meant himself. Which, bless him, but also fuck him for putting it like that.
You stared at him for a moment, seriously considering yelling and throwing your mug at his stupidly symmetrical face.
“Satoru,” you said. “Did you just tell me I’m getting ran-through?”
He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. His ears went pink — he had probably clocked his own stupidity, apparently, which was a first.
"No! It's not — that's not what I—" he started, hands coming up like he was surrendering.
"Where did you even hear that phrase?"
"It's a concept from—"
"No." You held up a hand. "No, I don't want to know, actually. You just made me really upset."
You picked up your coffee and looked at him — standing there in his stupid nerdy sleep shirt, with his stupidly cute messy hair, genuinely confused about why this had gone wrong. Like he really thought you’d realize he was right and apologize on your knees for even mentioning other men.
You felt furious. Tired. And something else you weren’t going to name.
You couldn’t believe you’d ever imagined getting railed into oblivion by this man. Instead, you had to talk to him like he was a toddler. You had a feeling you were going to become a cautionary tale. A PSA about what happens when you move in with an incel.
You went on the date that Saturday anyway. It was fine. The guy was fine-ish — less fine after the weird-ass conversation you’d had with Satoru prior. You came home to find him on the couch, waiting. Expecting something. But neither of you said a word. You just went to your room, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.
You were so fucking tired.
Tired of dates that were just fine. Tired of coming home to this. Tired of the whole thing.
So you cancelled the next one. And the one after that.
Men were mediocre anyway, you told yourself. You needed peace. You needed to stop cycling through low-value options — god, you couldn’t believe that phrase was living rent-free in your head now. You were going to find whatever podcast invented it and send the hosts very ugly, very threatening email.
And maybe the apartment really was full of questionable worldviews, because somewhere between the sexual marketplace value speeches and his creepy behavior, you developed one of your own.
You became morbidly into the idea of breaking his incel resolve. Like you’d accidentally discovered a new kink.
Not even in a romantic way. More like you’d started writing a very questionable mental screenplay about dismantling him piece by piece. Watching the podcast rot leak out of him in real time. Making the incel guy want you so badly he forgot every subreddit he was joined in, until he was pathetic enough to cry at your feet — and you weren’t even the dominant type!
Wasn’t there a term for that? There had to be. You’d read the fanfictions. You’d read the think pieces. And every time you’d wondered why women did this to themselves.
Now you knew exactly why.
It was like disaster tourism. Some people went to Chernobyl for the thrill. Some people chased storms. You were simply built different.
Because when a man looked you in the eye and said shit like, “It’s actually been studied. Women who wear revealing clothing in domestic settings are subconsciously signaling availability to increase their mate value. It’s an evolutionary response to competition,” and meant it — like he hadn’t just dropped full Andrew Tate shit on a random Wednesday night — you weren’t going to let it slide.
You were already stretched thin. And he was on very thin ice.
So you made a plan.
You were going to show him exactly what skimpy clothing did to a man like him. And you weren’t going to think too hard about why this was probably the stupidest idea you’d had in a while.
Because who would voluntarily wear less clothes when they could just put on three more layers to prove a point?
You, apparently.
You dug out the shorts you hadn’t worn since sophomore year. The ones that left half your ass out and the tank top that made your boobs look obscene. All to "prove a point."
Satoru was at the kitchen island when you walked in, like every morning.
You leaned against the counter, grabbed your yogurt from the fridge, and started eating your probiotic-balanced breakfast, like every morning.
He was still on his phone.
You were starting to think the plan had lowkey a flaw — mainly the part where he wasn’t even looking at you — when he stood up and walked over to the sink to put his mug away.
He reached past you.
The mug hit the bottom of the sink with a loud clang as he stood frozen and way too close. Staring at you with his mouth slightly open, ears going pink in real time as the color crept up from his jaw. He was looking at you exactly how you’d hoped he would… and now that it was actually happening, your stomach did a stupid little flip.
You went to put the spoon back in your mouth.
But your hand missed and the spoonful of Activia went down your chin, down your neck, and disappeared between your tits.
Satoru’s eyes followed it the whole way. You felt your nipples tighten under the thin fabric as he stared. Then his gaze dragged back up, slow, before dropping to what you were wearing.
When he finally looked at your face again, his ears weren’t just pink anymore. They were red.
“Uh. Y-you have yogurt. On your—” He gestured vaguely at your chest. “—on your b-boobs.”
You stared at him. He stared back — at your face, at your chest, at your legs, everywhere.
“Yeah,” you said. “I noticed, ‘Toru.”
You grabbed a paper towel and dragged it slowly down your neck, then slipped your other arm under your boobs to lift them higher, making the cleanup easier for you and significantly harder for him. You could tell by the way he was squirming.
He swallowed. A loud, audible gulp in the quiet kitchen. His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape.
“Right. G-good — you cleaned it up. I-it was very messy,” he managed to get out, voice a full octave lower and cracking at the end. His eyes were half-lidded, ears still burning red.
Then he fled. He turned so fast he clipped his hip on the doorframe and didn’t even react to the pain before disappearing down the hallway.
You felt victorious. You’d fried his alpha-male-rotted brain. You’d proven your point. You were the apex predator of this apartment!
But then you took a breath and noticed your hands were shaking.
Your nipples were still painfully hard against the thin fabric of your tank top. And there was a warm, insistent ache low in your belly, sending little shockwaves down to your toes.
Wait.
What the fuck.
You looked down at your chest, then at the empty doorway like he might still be there.
Why the hell were you horny?
You were supposed to be the disaster tourist here. You were supposed to be watching the meltdown from a safe distance. Disaster tourists didn’t usually get turned on by the radiation. They didn’t usually want the hazard to come back out of his room, pin them against the counter, and put his stupid big hands on their hips.
You threw the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary. It hit the side and did a pathetic little plop! pathetically to the floor.
You slammed your bedroom door and threw yourself onto the bed, burying your burning face in the pillows.
The plan had worked perfectly.
Even if you had to dig out your vibrator later just to make the weird tingling go away.
It was just a power trip. Just the adrenaline of winning. That’s all it was. Power trips made people horny. It was biology. It was science.
Take that, Satoru!
And oh, he took it.
Across the hallway, Satoru was melting into his mattress. A bruise was already forming where he’d slammed into the doorframe. The image of that yogurt dragging down between your tits was burned into his brain. He was throbbing, and it was fucking pathetic.
He tried jerking off like usual — fist tight, imagining you on your knees — but it wasn’t enough anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks, actually. His hand wasn’t cutting it.
So he reached into the back of his bottom drawer and pulled out the silicone toy he’d bought recently. He was embarrassed, but too worked up to care. At least now he could pretend it was your tight pussy he was fucking into.
It was a new low. He knew it was a new low. But he did it anyway, eyes squeezed shut as he used the fleshlight, imagining you on top of him, under him, beside him — it didn’t matter. Anything was better than coming on his own just from the memory of yogurt dripping down your skin.
But of course, once the post-nut clarity hit, he took the whole thing the completely wrong way.
Because really, what did you think was going to happen?
You thought parading around half-naked in front of a terminally online incel would make him fall to his knees and magically develop self-awareness?
No. Of course not.
He thought you did it on purpose. For him specifically.
And yeah, you did do it on purpose — just not for the reason he thought. You were trying to break his brain. Make a joke out of his worldview! Instead, all you did was make him hard for three days straight and give him a terrifying amount of hope.
It validated every single pseudo-scientific dating theory he’d ever read. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him. You were submitting to his superior frame. You were “signaling availability.”
You hadn’t broken his incel resolve. You’d accidentally reinforced it. Applause.
And now Satoru believed, with full Reddit-backed certainty, that he had won. He’d played the long game. He’d kept his alpha composure. And now the cute roommate in the tiny gym shorts was finally ready to yield.
And worst of all? He started being creepy on purpose.
Before, the hovering and staring had been unconscious. Now he was doing it with intention. It was time to “establish physical dominance” and “break the touch barrier,” according to whatever the fuck forum thread he’d absorbed that week.
He started finding excuses to be near you — reaching past you for things he didn’t need just to brush his chest against your shoulder, leaving you wrapped in his scent. He’d sit too close on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
And it was working. You hated that it was working.
Every time his hand brushed yours or his fingers grazed your waist, your skin broke out in goosebumps. You could feel yourself reacting to his nervous little attempts to mark his territory, and it was driving you insane.
You were sitting on the couch eating your well deserved Pad Thai straight out of the takeout box while a true-crime documentary played in the background.
Satoru emerged from his room, did his usual hover-routine like some awkward mating dance, and then sat down. Right next to you.
Without taking his eyes off the TV, he reached over and placed his hand on your bare thigh.
It was this weird twitchy movement between caress and a customs agent stamping a passport.
His fingers kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to either pull away or drag them higher. You sat frozen, staring down at his hand, silently daring it to move. Then mentally cursing yourself for even letting it happen in the first place.
A rush of heat flooded your chest and cheeks. It burned under his palm and shot straight down between your legs.
Ovulation. It’s just ovulation.
"Satoru," you said slowly.
He was staring straight ahead at the TV, posture stiff as a board and he was even redder than you.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He flinched, yanking his hand back into his lap and hunching over. “N-nothing.”
He cleared his throat but didn’t move away. His knee stayed pressed against yours. He took a breath, puffing his chest out as he tried to reclaim his “alpha” frame, then glanced at you as you took a shaky bite of noodles.
“So,” he started again, voice slipping into that pseudo-intellectual podcast cadence that always made your eye twitch. “I was reading a thread today. About proximity and domestic investment.”
You didn't look at him, listened to the Ted Bundy facts coming from the documentary narrator. Chewed and brushed him off. "Fascinating."
“It actually is,” he continued, completely unbothered. He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch and caging you in. “Because it highlights the flaw in modern female psychology. Women always say they want a nice guy. Someone who provides stability. Someone who pays his bills on time, remembers to buy toilet paper, and keeps a clean, optimal living environment.”
He paused, letting the weight of his own perceived perfection hang in the air.
“But,” Satoru said, turning his head to look at you, eyes locking onto yours with that same entitled certainty, “when that exact man is sitting right in front of them, offering unwavering loyalty and a high-value domestic partnership, they stay willfully blind. They friendzone him. Tease him. Cycle through low-tier guys from dating apps instead. It’s biologically counterproductive.”
The only sound in the room was the dramatic music coming from the TV now. You dropped your chopsticks into the takeout box, which suddenly felt too heavy in your lap.
He was so confident in his entitlement it actually made you sick. It was ruining your fucking appetite.
He thought doing the bare minimum — acting like a decent human being with basic hygiene — earned him loyalty points he could cash in for sex. Like some kind of fucked-up grocery store rewards program.
You turned your body toward him fully, voice eerily quiet.
“Let me get this straight,” you said. “You’re sitting here, in our living room, getting mad at me because your nice-guy vending machine is broken?”
Satoru blinked, his brow furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.
“I’m stating a statistical—”
“Shut up.”
The words came out sharp enough to cut. You weren’t playing anymore. One more podcast quote and you were going to rip the hair out of his stupidly pretty head.
His mouth snapped shut. He looked genuinely startled. You’d never told him to shut up before — not like that. You’d always just nodded, or rolled your eyes, or tuned him out.
“You think this is a transaction,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think because you scrub the bathtub and pay your half of the rent on time, you’re earning points? You’re keeping score. You did the bare minimum and now you’re waiting for me to drop to my knees in gratitude like you were providing for me?”
“I am a provider,” he argued, chest puffing out even as his voice lost some of its usual arrogance. “I bring high value—”
“You bring decency at best!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Doing your own dishes doesn’t make you a high-value alpha male, Satoru. It makes you an adult. But you don’t actually care about being a good roommate. You’re just dressing your entitlement up as niceness and acting like I owe you something because you haven’t been actively terrible to me.”
“That’s not—” He reached up to adjust his glasses, a nervous habit you’d never seen from him before. “I’m just saying that logically, the optimal choice for you—”
“There is no logic!” you snapped, standing up before you did something stupid like strangle him. “You don’t even like me! You just think you’re owed me because I’m convenient and I live here!”
Satoru flinched. All the color drained from his face.
You stood over him, breathing hard, looking down at this gorgeous, six-foot-three idiot who was staring up at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. He looked lost. Stupid. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“But you acted like—” he started, then caught himself, shoulders squaring like he was trying to hold onto his frame. “You know what, forget it. You’re just proving my point. A guy does everything right, stays consistent, stays present, and the girl just—” he gestured at you with a disbelieving laugh, “—moves the goalposts. We’ve been living together for months. Friends for just as long. I thought if I followed the steps exactly, I’d finally get to— we would— I don’t understand how this is supposed to work, okay?! How is a guy ever supposed to figure it out if the steps are a lie and I haven’t even—”
“Satoru.”
He stopped. Mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears suddenly burned bright red.
The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.
Oh my fucking god.
You’d suspected it once or twice, but the thought had always flickered and died. Now it all clicked into place.
He’d never gotten his dick wet.
Your roommate was a six-foot-three virgin who thought turning to men who felt entitled to sex was a reasonable solution to his problems. What an absolute fucking mess. You almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“You’re an incredibly good-looking guy, Satoru,” you said quietly. Sincerely. “Objectively hot. Get your shit together, touch some grass, and you’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But until you stop treating women like a math test you’re trying to cheat on, nobody is going to want you.”
You shattered his ego completely.
Or maybe, for the first time since puberty, Satoru actually formed a conscious, self-aware thought. Because he kept turning your words over in his head.
Objectively hot.
No one is going to want you.
What?
He tried to find the logical flaws. Tried to insert a counterargument, disprove your “emotional outburst” with cold data. He couldn’t find one. Not for days.
You were avoiding him completely now. Icing him out. Not talking to him. Not even looking at him. It was driving him insane. You used to search for his eyes, even if it was just to roll them. He’d only just realized how genuine your flustered blinking had been, and now he missed it. Embarrassingly so.
One night he walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, carrying a petty mix of rejection, confusion, and constant, unbearable horniness.
Your pink hair tie was sitting on the edge of the sink.
He told himself he was just going to pick it up and put it in your organizer tray.
So he picked it up. It smelled like your stupid, intoxicating strawberry shampoo. He hated it. Hated how the whole bathroom smelled like you after you showered. Hated how your scent followed you everywhere in the apartment, forcing him to breathe you in. The guys on Reddit had warned him about this. Pheromones. Dangerous.
He brought it closer to his face. Just to check. Just in case it wasn’t actually yours.
And what happened next stayed strictly between Satoru, the bathroom mirror, and god.
He clutched the sink, bracing himself against it, breathing ragged and humiliatingly loud. He stared down at the pretty pink elastic wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he fucked his fist like he was trying to punish himself, desperately trying to imagine your hands instead of his own.
It worked too well. It scared him.
He came hard, so so hard the hair tie ended up coated in thick, frothy cum.
He carefully nudged the sticky pink tie back onto the edge of the sink, exactly where he’d found it. Then he washed his hands under scalding water like he was trying to burn the shame off his skin and walked out of the bathroom like a man fleeing a crime scene.
Rejuvenated? No.
Good? Not even close.
He just felt like absolute shit.
Get your shit together.
But how?
He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. The fight was still eating him alive. The podcasts told him to take his frustration out on other girls or channel it into dominance and detachment. That’s what the current episode would’ve said.
But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. He didn’t want to be aggressive. He just… wanted.
And that was the problem.
For the first time in a long time, the alpha-male bullshit was starting to feel a bit too beta now. He was left with his own feelings like a normal person, and it was awful.
If he was truly a high-value male, he shouldn’t care. He should pivot. Download an app. Find some new, compliant girl to validate his stats. But the thought of calculating the facial harmony of a stranger made his stomach turn. He didn’t want a hypothetical female.
He wanted you.
He wanted you rolling your eyes at him. Laughing at him. Getting annoyed at him. Eating his pasta. Walking around in those mind-melting shorts. He wanted you to drop yogurt on yourself again just so he could lick it off your skin, linger on your neck, and kiss you stupid — the way he’d been fantasizing about since it actually happened.
He needed validation. He needed to be right.
His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop himself. He ignored his usual echo-chamber subreddits and opened r/AmItheAsshole instead.
r/AmItheAsshole
AITA for expecting my roommate (F) to reciprocate my (M) romantic advances after I provided optimal domestic value?
Throwaway. This is gonna sound bad but I need actual advice.
I (M) have been living with my roommate (F) for almost a year now. I’m not gonna lie, I’m objectively good-looking and I’ve been carrying a lot in this apartment. I pay my half on time, I keep shit clean, I do the dishes, I even cook sometimes. I thought I was doing everything right.
A few weeks ago she started walking around in these tiny shorts and tank tops. Like, really small. I took it as her signaling that she was open to something. That’s what all the advice says — if a girl starts dressing like that around you, it’s usually because she’s comfortable and maybe interested. So I decided to initiate kino escalation. Nothing crazy at first, just trying to break the touch barrier a bit.
While we were watching something on the couch I put my hand on her thigh. She freaked out. Got really upset and started yelling at me about how I was treating her like a transaction and that I only did nice things because I felt entitled to her. She even said I was basically calling her ran-through for going on dates.
I tried to explain it calmly. Like, statistically, if a high-value guy is right there doing everything right, why would she keep going on dates with random dudes from apps? It just doesn’t make sense. She told me to touch grass and hasn’t really spoken to me since.
I don’t get it. I’ve been consistent, I’ve been present, I’ve been providing a good living situation. I thought that was supposed to count for something. Instead she acted like I was the asshole for expecting anything in return.
AITA?
He hit post.
He sat in the dark on his bed, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He just had to wait. The logical thinkers would show up. They’d validate him with proper, objective analysis. They had to.
Ten minutes later, the notifications started rolling in.
He opened them expecting vindication.
Instead, he walked straight into a digital firing squad.
u/GrassToucherGeto · 308 upvotes
YTA. Holy shit. You did a handful of nice things and you think that means she owes you sex? You sound like an actual sociopath. I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming. She literally told you to get your shit together. What part of that are you not getting?
u/KentoTheNormalGuy · 291 upvotes
You're not alpha, man. Kino escalation? Are you trying to con her, or actually want her to want you? YTA.
u/NobaraJustice24 · 282 upvotes
YTA. She can wear whatever the fuck she wants in her own home, you creepy ass weirdo. I hope she breaks the lease and gets a restraining order.
u/RealityCheckChoso · 156 upvotes
This is the most pathetic thing I’ve read on this site in eleven years. This is straight-up incel fanfiction. Poor girl having to live with someone like you. YTA. Go outside.
u/yuji_8847362 · 124 upvotes
Genuine question, not trying to be an asshole: do you actually like her, or do you just think she owes you because you did some nice things? Those are two very different things, and your post doesn’t seem to understand the difference. YTA, but I hope you figure it out.
u/KingNaoya69 · 231 downvotes
NTA. She’s clearly testing you. The clothes were an invitation. Hold your ground, don’t apologize, and she’ll come around. Women don’t respect men who grovel. If she actually didn’t want you she would’ve moved out already. She’s still there, isn’t she?
Satoru stared at the screen in disbelief.
He’d expected validation. Maybe a few reasonable voices cutting through the noise, acknowledging the statistical validity of his position, maybe even offering some tactical advice.
Instead, he got hit with minus three thousand downvotes, a mod-locked thread, and three DMs telling him to go to therapy.
He thought it would give him clarity. Clear steps. A way to fix this mess.
It didn’t.
It just made him feel… nothing. Except for the creeping realization that he’d said something eerily similar to what u/KingNaoya69 had posted. Recently. Maybe even last week.
He threw his glasses off and stared into the middle distance.
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
He had no idea.
The days that followed were miserable. You were giving him the coldest shoulder imaginable — and honestly, he deserved it. You were weaponizing the silence. Slamming doors. Giving short, pointed answers. Moving through the apartment like he was just another piece of furniture. Looking through him instead of at him.
He kept going back to the comments on his post, rereading them like he could find a loophole somewhere.
Yes, of course he liked you. But how was he supposed to want nothing from you if he liked you? He wanted your affection. He wanted you to want him back. But wasn’t that also expecting something in return? What the hell was he supposed to do?
Still… the Naoya guy had been weirdly right about one thing. You stayed. You hadn’t moved out. You didn’t even seem like you wanted to. If you hated him that much, why were you still here?
On the nth day, he was sitting on the couch when you came out of your room for water. You glanced at him — just for a second. You couldn’t help it. The silent treatment was getting to you too, even if you’d never admit it.
Your eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them. Something expectant. Like you were waiting for him to do something. To fix it. To stop being an idiot so the two of you could move on.
Oh, he thought.
Truly the lightbulb moment of the century.
Oh.
That night he unjoined six subreddits. Unfollowed every podcast except Joe Rogan — because hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or was it unteach a new dog old tricks? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he’d discovered the internet, he was pretty sure he’d been an idiot.
And he was going to stop.
He made a plan. Simple. Walk out of his room, find you, and say sorry. Three steps. He’d been a person for over twenty years. He could do three steps. He had this!
You were in the kitchen. You were standing on the flimsy little step stool you needed to reach the top cabinet shelves, stretching up on your tiptoes for the glass Tupperware that Satoru kept putting up there, even though you had told him multiple times not to put it up there because you literally could not reach it.
"Hey," he said from the doorway, trying not to startle you. "Can we—"
You startled anyway, because what other outcome was ever going to happen here.
The stool wobbled under your socks. You gasped, swore something, grabbed for a shelf edge that wasn't there, and fully expected to eat the kitchen floor tiles before officially murdering your roommate from the afterlife.
But Satoru had surprisingly fast reflexes and caught you.
Well… almost.
He lost his balance as your weight shifted, and the two of you went down in a tangle of limbs and terrible timing. The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You landed sprawled over him, pressed against his chest, his arms secured instinctively around you—
Around your boobs.
You froze. He froze. The entire world seemed to fucking froze.
And as you laid there, from the adrenaline shock of it all probably, his fingers did a little squish!
Huh.
You didn't say anything. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. You slowly turned your head. His face was right there and so, so close to yours. You panicked and looked into his equally panicked eyes, his poor glasses askew.
He was searching for something in your eyes, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the blue. And then, as his chest was still heaving so heavily, his gaze dropped down to your lips.
You were suddenly very aware— Aware of his warm palms right through the thin fabric of your shirt. Aware of the way your tits swelled into his touch. Aware of how his thighs bracketed your hips, and how perfectly you fit against him.
His breath hitched. And then his fingers flexed. He made a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat and squeezed again — slower this time. Kneading right over your hardened nipples.
You parted your lips for a soundless gasp, and he huffed into your collarbone as the trance finally broke.
His arms slowly retreated, lazily dragged down your ribs, fingers grazing the soft of your tummy before finally falling away to rest on the floor, which somehow made it all worse.
"I—" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.
You scrambled off him like you had been electrocuted.
You sprinted down the hallway and threw yourself into your room, slamming the door behind you. You backed up until you hit something, you didn’t even care what, and slid down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest.
Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Your skin was buzzing. The ghost of his touch was still burning across your chest.
I fucking hate him, you told yourself. He’s a podcast-rotted incel. I hate him.
…Do you?
Because why the fuck had you wanted his hands to stay there? Why had that second squeeze made you want to straddle him right there on the kitchen tiles and fuck him stupid?
You were just touch-starved. That’s all this was. You were projecting onto your terrible roommate because he was being a sleazy little shit.
You grabbed your phone off the nightstand with shaking hands and unlocked it.
Hinge.
Your ol’ friend.
You needed a date. You needed a normal, boring, completely average guy with a decent hairline and zero opinions on hypergamy to save you from whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen.
You were in your room getting ready for your date, dressed to kill. Short dress, favorite lace panties — because after everything that happened in the kitchen, you were still weirdly, persistently horny. Might as well try to do something about it with someone normal.
Satoru was lingering in the hallway like always, doing his very obvious not-hovering hover.
"Going out?" he asked, clearing his throat, trying to act so aloof and unbothered.
You didn't even look at him properly. "Yeah. I have a date," you said smugly as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail. Hair down meant cute, but hair up meant business. And by business, I mean finally attempting to jump on some normal, average dick.
The second the words left your mouth, a wave of jealousy hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. But he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring at the pink hair tie holding your hair up.
He visibly gulped. His dick went from zero to painfully hard so fast he had to cross his legs just to hide it.
You furrowed your eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of response, but wasn’t entirely mad about it either.
"See ya," you chirped, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown, and walked out the front door.
The second the door shut, Satoru basically teleported to his room. He threw himself onto his bed, already fumbling with his pants, desperate to take care of the problem so he could think straight again.
But he spent exactly thirty minutes achieving absolutely nothing. What the fuck.
This had never happened before. Satoru was just staring at his ceiling, sweating, furiously gripping his aching dick, and completely unable to finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined you laughing at some beta joke a 100% mediocre guy had made, while his past-tense cum was proudly sitting in your hair. He was literally too jealous to finish.
But jealous or not, he was still agonizingly hard, his dick standing painfully stiff against his stomach, stubbornly refusing to just calm the fuck down. He let out a frustrated groan. Okay. Fine. No hand? No problem! He reached for the silicone fleshlight, but he hadn't washed it in quite a while, and when he picked it up, a funky smell drifted off it.
Okay, NEVER MIND.
Which left him with only one option.
Today’s the day.
He reached into the back of his bottom drawer again and pulled out a silicone cock ring.
He had bought it right after he absolutely demolished your cute little hair tie. Because what does a normal guy do in that situation? Grovel first? Solve the underlying interpersonal issue? Nah. He goes on r/sex to research why a piece of elastic felt so hella good around his dick!
He hadn’t touched it since. Post-nut clarity had done its job last time. But right now, staring down at his aching, neglected cock and feeling rejected, humiliated, and completely alone… it was time.
Fuck it.
He ripped open the packaging and wrestled the thick silicone down his shaft until it sat snug at the base.
Almost immediately, something felt off.
It was tight. Too tight. Not in a good way — just uncomfortable. Constricting. He tried to power through anyway, closing his eyes and stroking like he could force an orgasm out of sheer spite.
Ten minutes passed.
Nothing.
His brain was too far gone, and the pressure was quickly shifting from weird to genuinely concerning.
Fuck this.
He stopped. Tried to take it off. But it didn’t budge.
Satoru blinked. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. The skin stretched painfully, but the ring stayed exactly where it was.
Oh fuck.
A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his lube, and squeezed way too much directly onto the ring. He tugged and twisted like his life depended on it.
Nothing. Fucking nothing. It just made his hands uselessly slippery.
Okay, oh fuck. Wasn't lube supposed to work?! Okay, new plan. Something else, something more slippery, something more oily—
Panic seizing him, he stumbled to the bathroom, dug under the sink, found your baby oil, and slathered it on.
Still stuck.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Different oil! Not enough slipperiness! Trust the process!
So he waddled out of the bathroom, practically sprinting into the kitchen buck naked. He tore open the pantry, grabbing the vegetable oil.
This has to work.
It did not work.
Ten minutes later, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, coated in a slick, highly flammable mixture of lube, Johnson & Johnson baby oil, and Wesson canola oil, panting heavily.
Dick throbbing, but not the fun kind of throbbing anymore. It was turning a terrifying shade of angry red-purple, the silicone death trap literally suffocating his junior.
It was no longer just uncomfortable, nor just alarmingly stuck. At this point, it was a fucking medical emergency.
He was so fucked he might be patient zero of mpreg.
But what the hell was he supposed to do?
Call an ambulance?
Absolutely not.
The thought of a paramedic cutting a sex toy off him with trauma shears while asking for his emergency contact would genuinely kill him on the spot. He would rather die of necrosis.
Call his friends?
Fuck no.
If any of them found out about this, the screenshots would never die. They’d revoke his alpha card permanently and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.
He stared at his contacts.
There was only one person who could help without turning it into blackmail material or posting it online. The one person who lived in this apartment. The one person who was currently out on a date with some random guy. The person he had a massive, pathetic crush on and who would probably rather rip his dick off than help him.
He hit Call.
You stirred your gin and tonic while your date went on about his fantasy football draft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a perfectly fine date! The kind of fine that made you wonder why you even bothered.
You were nodding along, even though you had stopped listening roughly four minutes ago. Then, your phone vibrated on the table.
Satoru.
You ignored it. No, actually—you declined it. You smiled sweetly at your date, asked a vague question about tight ends so you would seem like you were actually paying attention, and took a sip of your drink.
Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Annoyed, you held up a finger to the poor guy who was currently rating wide receivers, excused yourself, and off to the bathroom, fully prepared to yell.
“What?” you hissed the second you picked up. “I’m on a date, Satoru. If you locked yourself out—”
"Please come home," he gasped. He didn't even say hello. He didn't sound aloof, and he certainly didn't sound alpha. He actually sounded like he was drawing his final breaths on this earth. "You have to come home. Right now."
"What happened? Did something catch fire? Did someone break in? Are you—"
“I can’t tell you,” he whined, voice high and shaky in a way you’d never heard from him before. “I physically can’t say it out loud. Just— please. Please come home.”
You were ninety percent sure this was some pathetic attempt to ruin your night. Some last-ditch manipulation tactic he’d picked up from a podcast or Reddit thread.
But the remaining ten percent made you ditch your date without a second thought and jump into an Uber.
You practically kicked the front door open, your heart hammering. The apartment was completely quiet, and it smelled all wrong.
Like babies and an industrial air fryer?
"Satoru?" you called out, dropping your bag. "Where are you? The apartment better be fucking flooding, or else I swear to God—"
A pained, muffled whimper came from down the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open so you pushed it wide, fully prepared to absolutely tear him a new one for ruining your night.
Satoru was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked, perched on a bath towel soaked through with some kind of glistening sludge. He was trembling, sweating, aggressively gripping the mattress. And his dick — very visibly, very aggressively hard — was pointing straight at you.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
You exploded the second you saw him, because an impromptu dick is still an impromptu dick! “Some pathetic plan to finally fuck me? You couldn’t even be decent about it — you just called me home so you could sit here with your cock out?!”
You expected some sleazy line. Some smug little smirk. Instead, Satoru looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes behind his smudged glasses and let out a broken, wet sob.
"I'm not—" his voice cracked terribly. "I'm stuck."
Huh?
Furrowing your eyebrows, you stopped yelling and your eyes actually dropped down.
And then your stomach dropped with them.
Wait. Oh. He was so, so large.
But that wasn’t the problem. His dick was an angry, swollen red-purple, veins bulging like it had its own heartbeat. And at the base was a thick silicone ring, cutting into him so tightly it looked like it might actually burst.
And all the anger drained out of you in an instant. Suddenly, you felt the harsh reality of the literal medical horror you were now a part of.
"Oh my god. Satoru... what is going on?!"
“Fuck, it hurts— please help me,” he whined, voice cracking as he bounced his leg against the floor like that would somehow fix anything.
You stepped closer, the sheer absurdity of the situation making you drop to your knees between his spread thighs just to get a proper look. It was incredibly stupid and deeply awkward, being this close to his swollen, shiny dick.
“Is that… a cock ring?” you asked, horrified.
Satoru nodded frantically, a tear slipping down his cheek and dripping off his jaw.
"Satoru, you know there is a fucking size chart to these things?! You can’t just buy anything with the size of your dick! Are you fucking stupid?!"
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!" he wailed, hands flying up to cover his face in absolute humiliation. "Wait—" He suddenly froze, lowering his hands just enough to look at you. "Did you just say I have a big dick? Wait. Fuck. OUCH. It just fucking hurts! Please, please help me, I've tried everything but it just won't budge! It hurts so much!"
You squinted at the shiny, slick mess coating his thighs and soaking into the bath towel. "Did you try lube?"
"Yes!"
"Baby oil?"
"Yes!"
"Did you... did you use the cooking oil from the kitchen?!"
"YES! FUCK!" he sobbed into his hands again.
"Why did you even put it on?!" you yelled back, genuinely baffled by his astronomical stupidity.
“I was horny, what else?!” he cried and shook his hands. “You left with the cum tie in your hair—”
“THE WHAT?!”
Your hands froze in the air. Your brain forcefully restarted about three times trying to process the sequence of syllables he had just screamed at you.
The cum tie.
You suddenly felt the gentle pull of the pink elastic holding up your ponytail. The one that was your favorite. The one you had idly wondered before why it was suddenly so... crusty.
"You..." you whispered, a cold wave of fresh nausea washing over you. "You did what to my hair tie?"
“I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed, face red and streaked with tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I used it, and then you put it in your hair to go out with the guy and it made me crazy so I put the ring on!”
Your hand twitched toward your ponytail. You were going to rip it out. Burn it. Shave your head. And then murder him. A jury would probably let you off in seconds.
But then you looked down. His dick might actually pop! like a grease-filled water balloon. There was no time.
You took a deep, slightly deranged breath and shoved every horrifying thought into a box for later. You could have a full meltdown about having his reproductive fluids in your hair as an accessory after you made sure his dick didn’t fall off.
You aggressively ignored his stare, locking your eyes entirely on the crisis. "Okay. Okay, I've got this. This is a medical emergency."
Your brain started racing. You couldn't cut it off without risking severing something vital, you certainly weren’t a doctor, and the swelling was so so severe to just pull the ring back over the ridge. You knelt there, suddenly arriving at a horrifying conclusion that you were going to need a serious moment to accept.
Because there was only one way to get it off. And the only way to get it off was to get rid of the erection.
You had to make him cum.
“Okay,” you muttered. Then again. And again. Like repeating it would make it feel less insane. “W-we just need to… get it down.”
You bit your lip, giving yourself the quickest, most productive, and most threatening internal TED Talk in human history. Your hands twitched, but you finally reached out and wrapped them around his oil-slicked shaft.
“AGH— FUCK— NO!” Satoru immediately jerked back like you’d electrocuted him, slamming against the mattress.
"What the hell?! I barely touched it!"
“The skin’s too tight!” he cried out, practically hyperventilating. “It feels like a razor blade— you can’t use your hands, it hurts too much!”
You tried again anyway, slower this time, gripping him carefully. The skin was burning hot, painfully stretched over the trapped blood. You gave one experimental stroke.
“No— no no no, please stop—” His voice broke into a real whimper as fresh tears spilled down his face. He pushed at your shoulders, legs shaking. “Please, I can’t— it hurts so fucking bad—”
You yanked your hands back, heart pounding as your own panic officially set in. "THEN WHAT ELSE?!"
“I DON’T KNOW! I thought you might know!”
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!"
A beat of deafening silence fell over the grease-scented bedroom. You looked at him. Then down at the problem between his legs.
Wait—
Your brain scrambled for literally any other fucking solution. Ice? Cutting it completely off? Calling 911 and collectively dying of embarrassment on the spot?
Nothing.
There was nothing else.
God fucking help you. You might as well die from the cringe right here on the floor.
You stared down at his lengthy cock again. It was a pathetic mix of pre-cum against his oil-slicked stomach. Satoru was breathing in short, panicked gasps, tears still tracking down his flushed cheeks, glasses fogged and crooked, looking totally helpless.
“No,” you whispered to the empty space between his thighs, stomach twisting with reluctant acceptance. Coming to terms with your own fate. Girl, it’s your fault. Your fate had been sealed the second you decided to find a roommate on Reddit. “No, no, no.”
“What?” Satoru whimpered through his teeth, barely audible. “What ‘no’?”
If your hands were completely off the table…
A wave of heat flooded your face and dropped straight into your belly. Surely from disgust. Trust.
You shifted forward on your knees, your dress dragging through the oily mess on the floor. The fabric was already ruined and sticking to your skin. You braced one hand on his trembling thigh, leaned in, and took the swollen head of his cock into your mouth.
The taste was vile as hell.
Canola oil, baby oil, lube, and the bitter salt of his pre-cum all hit your tongue at once. You made a muffled, disgusted sound around him as your lips stretched and you sank down. The mixture mixed with your saliva and slid down your throat as he pushed deeper than you expected.
Satoru’s entire body jolted as the mushroomy head hit the back of your mouth.
“Whoa— oh my fucking god—” His voice cracked into a broken, high moan. His stomach flexed like he was trying not to fold in half. Both of his hands flew to your hair, oily fingers catching in your ponytail, clutching without quite pushing or pulling. I mean, you already had cum in your hair anyway. What was a little more oil and lube?
His hips twitched. His thighs trembled under your hand. He clearly had no idea what to do with himself.
You started moving, and it was messy from the first second.
Everything was slippery. Your lips kept sliding, saliva mixing with the grease until it dripped down his shaft in shiny, frothy strings. You had to suck harder just to keep any kind of rhythm, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in messy circles under the head every time you pulled up. The wet sounds filled the room — slick sucking, soft gagging when you took him too deep, his broken little whimpers.
You hated the taste.
You hated how your knees already ached against the hard floor.
You hated that your dress was ruined, soaked through and sticking to your skin.
And you hated the way he was looking down at you — in pain, in complete disbelief that you were actually sucking him off.
ANd what you really hated the most was that you were looking up at him while you mouth was licking him up and your body was already starting to betray you.
Tingly heat was spreading low in your belly. Every throb along his length, every broken moan that slipped out of him, made you wetter. You weren’t supposed to be horny! You should’ve been so so disgusted. But the scent of him, the taste of his pre-cum coating your tongue, made your pussy clench around nothing. Your nipples were hard, rubbing against the inside of your dress. Your cunt felt hot and slick — whether from your own arousal or the oily sludge on the floor, you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
You bobbed deeper, taking him until your nose brushed the base and the ring dug into your skin, then pulled back with a wet gasp. A thick and slimy string of saliva and oil connected your lips to his cock before it broke.
Satoru was staring down at you like you’d personally broken his brain.
His chest was heaving. Tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes — pain, pleasure, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it didn’t matter. His mouth hung open, glasses sliding down his nose.
Then his eyes dropped to your chest.
His gaze followed the way your dress had slipped lower during all the movement. Your tits were threatening to spill out completely. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
His hands left your hair and reached down. Big, warm palms cupped your breasts through the thin fabric first — almost careful. But then he yanked the neckline down hard, dragging the fabric under your arms, practically rrrrripping it open, until your tits spilled free.
A fresh tear tracked down his cheek as he stared at them like they were something holy.
“Holy fuck— your tits—” he breathed, cupping them fully. His thumbs brushed over your hard nipples before he started kneading with desperate, greedy hands. Squeezing, lifting, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers exactly like he had in the kitchen — except this time there was nothing holding him back, because you certainly wouldn’t make him stop.
The moan you let out around his cock was involuntary and absolutely nobody’s business, alright? Your teeth grazed his sensitive skin and the vibration, combined with the impromptu bite, made his hips jerk violently. He let out a breathless gasp, hands tightening on your boobs almost painfully before he loosened his grip again, thumbs flicking over your nipples in a way that sent sparks straight between your legs.
The lace of your panties was useless now, clinging to your soaked pussy lips.
But the dress had become a real problem, at least that’s what you were telling yourself. It was restricting your movement, getting in the way every time you tried to take him deeper. It was uncomfortable as hell, which was actually true.
You pulled off his cock with a wet pop!, lips shiny and swollen.
Fuck this dress. And probably him too.
You sat back on your heels and yanked it over your head, kicking it away. Now you were kneeling in nothing but your ruined lace panties — the ones you’d specifically worn because you were hoping to get laid tonight.
Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, now were you?
Satoru made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. His wildest dream had just come true in the most deranged way possible.
You leaned back in and took him into your mouth again, sucking with more purpose now. One hand stayed wrapped around the base near the ring while your other hand stroked his thigh and lower stomach — anywhere to try and soothe him.
His clammy hands were right back on your bare tits, rolling them between his fingers like he was trying to memorize their exact shape. You moaned around him because it felt so fucking good. Unfairly good.
The taste was still awful. The room still reeked of canola oil. Satoru was still quietly crying above you — overwhelmed, terrified, and so turned on he could barely think straight. But the way he was touching you, the way he was falling apart in your mouth…
You were dripping straight through the lace right onto his fucking floor.
One of your hands snaked down your body. You pushed your panties aside and started rubbing desperate circles over your poor clit while you kept sucking him.
What a development.
Righteous ideologies and all. Now you were naked on the floor of your incel roommate’s bedroom, sucking his cock while fingering yourself. Truly the most progressive way to handle this type of man.
Your pussy felt hot and aching. Your fingers slid through your own slick, making your hips twitch and another moan vibrate around his dick.
Satoru’s breathing sounded like a kettle about to boil over. His hands kept slipping on your oily skin, smearing the mess across your chest and shoulders. He was trapped in the most surreal, humiliating, perfect moment of his life — your mouth on him, you naked and touching yourself while the whole room smelled like a deep fryer.
He was half-sobbing, half-moaning.
“You’re— nghh— you’re actually getting off while—” His voice cracked as he looked down at you. You glanced up through your lashes, a little scowl on your flushed face, fingers still working between your legs.
You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. The absurdity had burned straight through your shame. You were horny. Stupidly, painfully horny. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.
Filthy sounds filled the room. He was crying. You were crying. Sweat was mixing with the oily mess coating your skin. You could taste your own tears mixed with the mess on his cock as they slid down your face. One of his hands was tangled in your ponytail, greasing it up nice and disgusting.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I can’t— ngh— I can’t believe this is real—”
You pulled off just enough to breathe. “Shut up and let me finish this,” you muttered, then sank back down, taking him as deep as the ring would allow.
His other hand relocated to your shoulder.
Then his dick throbbed hard against your tongue. Swelling, twitching and you knew he was about to blow.
You started to pull back, but his hands moved faster. One fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripped your shoulder hard. He held you in place. Rough. Desperate. But he didn’t mean to!
You made a surprised, muffled sound around him as his hips jerked.
“W-wait—fuck—I’m—!” he gasped, betrayed by his own body.
You felt the first big pulse against your tongue.
You manage to wrench your head back at the last second because there was no way in hell you were swallowing a mixture of cum and baby oil — popping off just in time. But it was too late to get completely clear.
Satoru came hard.
The first thick rope hit you across the cheek and lips. The next few painted messy white stripes across your chin, your chest, and down your neck. It kept cooooming in hot, twitchy pulses until he’d almost emptied his aching balls.
And suddenly you were back in the kitchen. Only this time it wasn’t a freaking Activia dripping down your tits.
It was him.
You stumbled backward onto your ass, cum cooling on your skin as he finally let go of you. You wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing it further. He just stared down at you like he’d died and gone to heaven — you, sprawled on his floor, covered in his cum, panties twisted half-off your hips, your blushing cunt smiling up right at him and your panicked eyes unblinking.
Holy fucking nirvana, right there.
You felt disgusting. You felt filthy.
And somehow, you were still throbbing between your legs.
“Fuck— shit, fuck, fuck!” Satoru cursed, trying to stand up too fast. He slipped on the oily towel and nearly ate shit before catching himself on the edge of the bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you there, I just— it was too much, I panicked—”
He stumbled toward you on shaky legs, one hand reaching out like he was going to help you up, the other still hovering near his softening cock.
“Satoru,” you said, voice low. “Pull it off.”
He froze for half a second, then looked down.
And it was finally, finally softening. The angry red-purple was fading. The skin wasn’t stretched as tight anymore and there was a very small, very dangerous window before he’d be hard again and back in square one.
His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He grabbed the cock ring with both hands and yanked.
The sound that tore out of him was somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was violent, painful, and made you cringe so so badly. The ring caught on the ridge for one horrible second before it finally slipped off with a wet smack and skidded across the floor.
For a moment, Satoru just knelt there, breathing hard through the fading pain. Fresh tears tracked down his flushed face as the relief finally hit him.
Then he looked at you. Really looked. At the mess he’d made across your pretty face and chest. At the absolute state of the room. At everything.
“I’m the worst,” he whispered. “I know I’m the worst. You should kick me out. You should call the cops. I didn’t mean to make it worse. You probably hate me—”
He looked like he was about to start ugly crying for real. His shoulders were shaking as he braced himself for you to slap him.
And look — you wanted to. You wanted to go back in time so you would’ve never answered that fucking Reddit post, never answered his call, never come home tonight. Or maybe… go back just a little bit. To when your tongue was sliding over his frenulum and you’d never been so turned on in your life.
Either way, you weren’t sure anymore. Your brain was more scrambled than the eggs you’d had for breakfast.
So instead of slapping him, you surged forward, grabbed his face with both of your hands, smearing his cum and your own arousal all over his jawline and kissed him hard enough to shut him up.
For half a second he stayed completely frozen — stunned that you were kissing him instead of murdering him on the spot. You nudged your tongue against his lips, urging him to kiss you back, because the last thing you needed right now was sucking your incel roommate off and then having him refuse to kiss you afterward. That would’ve been a new low. Truly historic.
But then he let out a shaky breath and kissed you back.
He kissed you desperately, messily, like he was trying to crawl inside your mouth. Saliva, cum, tears, and oil all mixed together as your tongues slid against each other. Teeth clicked. His hands came up to grab your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his own. He whimpered needily into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours like he was starving for it.
His glasses got knocked even more crooked.
When you finally pulled back to breathe, you reached down and started yanking your ruined lace panties off. They were twisted around your thighs and sticking to your skin from all the mess.
Satoru, still breathing hard and clearly trying to regain some sense of control, decided this was THE moment, HIS moment to be useful.
“Here— let me help,” he muttered, reaching down with both hands.
The two of you fumbled together in some weird horny trance, his fingers sliding against your thigh as he tried to tug the lace down your leg.
But his hand slid right off your slick skin and he lost his balance completely. With a startled gasp! he pitched forward and crashed down right on top of you, pinning you to the floor.
His full weight pressed you into the cold hardwood. Chest to chest, hips slotted between your thighs. The kisses making him hard again, dick now twitching insistently against your tummy.
Then Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked down at you. His hair was a mess, but there was something almost determined in his expression now.
“I’ve got it,” he said. Yeah. He definitely got this. He’d seen the porn. He’d read the r/sex threads. He was a man, the man! He knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Fluent in the dickology! Show you what a high-value male can do. You'll respect it. You’ll want it!
You stared up at him and raised one eyebrow.“…Are you sure?”
He looked faintly offended, but reached between your bodies anyway, grabbed his cock, and lined himself up against your slick folds. The blunt head nudged against your entrance before he pushed in with one unsteady thrust and you were honestly surprised he found your hole on a first try.
The stretch was intense. His cock bullied its way into your tight cunt, the sudden fullness making your back arch slightly off the floor. And it made you think that maybe… just maybe he’s a virgin incel but he somehow actually knows how to fuck?
Satoru made a choked sound above you. He braced his hands on either side of your head and started moving, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he was following some mental checklist of “how alpha males fuck” or something.
His hips snapped forward, rolling against yours. On a few of his clumsy thrusts, the sharp angle of his hipbone dragged right across your swollen clit.
A spark of pleasure shot right through you, made your breath hitch and his dick catch inside of you. Your fingers scratched on his shoulders and for a second you were hopeful, hopeful that perhaps incels were just involuntarily celibate men with a dick game like this.
It died almost instantly. His rhythm fell apart just as the plushy walls of your pussy enveloped him fully in the slick warmth. His movement turned erratic as his hips started stuttering.
“I—fuck—I can’t—ngh—!”
So… He lasted exactly forty-five seconds.
With a humiliated groan he slammed into your cervix one last time and came haard, painting your walls in thick, sticky white. His wobbly arms gave out again and he collapsed on top of you not very gracefully, face buried right back into your neck as he rode out the pathetic orgasm. He was breathing hard, the sound mixing with the wet squelching of oil, cum, and sweat between your bodies every time either of you shifted.
You stared sideways at the messy white strands of his hair currently tickling your pulse point, feeling his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock. The frustration burning hot alongside with the ghost ache right in between legs.
If he had just let you ride him instead. Ugh.
“…Really?” you said flatly.
Satoru, mortified, made a small devastated noise into your neck and laced his fingers with yours like that would somehow make it better.
You hadn’t come from the fingering earlier. You definitely hadn’t come from his forty-five-second marathon.
You shoved at his shoulder.
“Satoru.”
He made a small, satisfied noise.
“Satoru. Did you just cum inside me?”
His eyes flew open. The bliss drained from his face instantly. He slowly nodded, guilty, not knowing if he should be terrified or glad.
You pushed him off you. He rolled onto his back with a wet squelch.
You sat up, cum and oil smeared across your skin, and stared down at him.
“You ruined my date,” you said, voice low. “You were stupid enough to trap your own dick in a death trap and made me come home to deal with it. You came all over me without letting me cum, and then you creampied me in under a minute.”
He opened his mouth, “I was just claiming what’s mine—”ready to say something even more stupid.
You cut him off, because you were not listening to that right now and ever fucking again. “Don’t. I swear to god, if you say one more word of that pseudo-alpha, podcast-bro bullshit right now, I can promise you this will be the first and last time you ever have your dick in any pussy. Ever.”
He froze.
You leaned in, eyes narrowed, pussy suddenly drying up at high speed.
“I’m serious, Satoru. All that ‘high-value male,’ ‘she’ll respect dominance,’ ‘women secretly want to be put in their place’ garbage? It’s not cute. It’s not hot. It’s not working. It makes you sound like a loser. You’re only lucky that I’m stupid enough to actually fucking like you.”
And Satoru deadass had nothing to say, because it didn’t make sense, yet it made all the sense. And in the middle of the gears grinding he blinked up at you because… did you just tell him you like him?
Before he could grab your chin and kiss you stupid again, you pointed between your legs.
“Since you made this mess, you’re going to clean it up. Now.”
The color drained from his face as he stared at you. “Y-you want me to eat out my cum?”
“Did I stutter?”
He was too stunned and properly terrified to argue. He knew that if he didn’t get his shit together right now, this really might be the first and last time he ever saw pussy in real life. So he scrambled down between your thighs without another word.
He’s going to do it for the love of the game. Can’t be that bad, right?
He gulped as he nestled between your soft thighs, eyeing your tight little hole as a little trail of his cum mixed with your frothy slick leaked onto the floor below you. And it was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.
The reluctant pout on his face made it clear he was weighing eating his own cum against the very real possibility of never getting to fuck you again, so you made it easier for him. You grabbed a fistful of his white hair and yanked his face straight against your pussy. His nose immediately buried right between your wet folds, tickling the sensitive flesh.
And maybe he was currently terrified of you, or it was the fact that he finally smelled your sex up close — either way, he was now desperate to please you.
The first drag of his tongue through your folds was experimental, almost cautious.
He did it again, licking with too much pressure and in all the wrong places, clearly thinking he was doing something impressive, missing your clit. Again. And again. And again.
And or fuck’s sake, you lasted maybe fifteen seconds. You reached down, grabbed his silky hair again, and yanked his head up to adjust him.
He furrowed his brows at you, confused and a little offended, like he was about to argue — until his tongue accidentally flicked right over your clit.
His eyes widened slightly.
He did it again, slower this time. A testing little flick. Eyes wide, as if asking what the hell just happened, feeling the little knob jumping.
You let out a shaky moan, fingers tightening in his hair.
“That’s my clit, Satoru.”
His eyes darkened and he dove back in with completely different energy. Okay, he knew where your cute little clit was. Now onto figuring out how to make you come on his tongue.
He started with the licking, up and down, until he pushed into your leaking hole. He almost immediately tasted his own cum, still warm, thick, and disgustingly bitter against your sweet pussy juices, and he made a guttural sound right against you.
He should have been disgusted, appalled, mortified through his militant incel brain. But why did it taste so wrong, it tasted so so right?
Eating himself right out of you — it was so pathetic, so raw, so hot. And you couldn’t fucking believe you actually made him do it.
Your pussy fluttered and he dove in like a man possessed.
A desperate whine vibrated against your clit as he started licking in earnest. Messy, unrestrained, starving. He was slurping loudly, tongue pushing deep to get more of the mixture, swallowing it down like he couldn’t get enough. Every time he tasted more of himself leaking out of you, another broken moan escaped him.
His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open as he buried his face deeper. He was whining and whimpering into your cunt like tasting his own cum inside you had flipped some primal, pathetic switch in his brain neither of you even knew existed.
“Fuck— you taste so good— I taste so good on you—” Every few seconds he would pull back just enough to breathe, drooling, and mutter broken little things against your skin. And you were once again left wondering where all the skill came from.
Then he’d dive right back in, tongue flicking over your clit before dragging down to lap at your hole again, like he was trying to clean you out and make you messy all over again at the same time.
It was deranged.
It was filthy.
And it was fucking working.
Your hand fisted in his hair, gripping tight. He moaned loudly at the rough treatment, the sound muffled against your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, biting then sucking on it, then flattening to drag it through your folds like he was trying to devour you whole.
You were gushing at this point, and not a drop ever spilled on the floor as he slurped you like his favourite boba flavour. His touch spread across your entire body as the orgasm built after getting edged the entire evening to fucking oblivion.
“‘Toru—” you cried, thighs starting to tremble around his head. And he bit down gently on your inner thigh when you tried to close your legs on instinct.
Look, it’s not like you did it on purpose — who the fuck would want to close up shop when business was this good?
He kitten-licked your poor clit, sending sparks right to your lower belly. Your back arched off the floor as his hand snaked up at the right damn time to flick your nipple.
Oh.
“Holy— ngh— fuck, ‘Toru—!” you screamed and came all over his poor face, thighs clamping around his head as you tried to suffocate him with your spasming pussy. You shook like you’d been electrocuted and he kept licking and licking, to the point you weren’t sure if you came again or if it was just one big orgasm. He wanted to taste every damn second of you falling apart because of him, for him.
His face was a mess. Half of it was shiny and wet with your slick, lips prettily swollen. He’d thrown his glasses somewhere on the floor in the middle of it. His pupils were practically heart-shaped, and he looked so wrecked it was beautiful.
He was so cum-drunk he only stared up at you with his mouth open, resting his cheek against your inner thigh, waiting.
And your eyes might’ve been heart-shaped too, because the sight of him made you throb all over again.
“Fuck,” you almost moaned, reaching down to grab his shoulders. “Come here.”
Satoru didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled up your body like he was starving for it, for you. He crashed his lips against yours and the kiss was fucking messy. You could taste yourself on him as he smeared your slick across your chin, tongues sliding sloppily against each other like you were trying to devour one another.
His hands found your waist. He shifted his weight and rolled the two of you until his back was against the bed and you were straddling him in his lap.
You broke the kiss just long enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. And he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Everything was still disgustingly sticky, but the way he looked at you made your heart go thump thump thump in a way it never had before. So you reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion.
Satoru’s head tipped back against the bed with a broken groan that made the muscles in his neck jump. His hands immediately gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your ass like he needed to anchor himself.
“Fuuck—” he slurred, voice so dazed. “Oh my god— you’re so warm— so fucking tight—tighter—”
You started moving, rolling your hips in frantic circles. Every time you sank down, you could feel the tip kissing your cervix, nudging right up against the entrance of your womb as he completely bottomed out.
It didn’t take long before his hands tightened on your ass and he started helping you. He pulled you down onto him faster, guiding your hips with desperate hands while lifting his own to meet you halfway.
“Shit— just like that,” he whimpered, kissing all over your jaw as his tip kissed your poor cervix again and again and again. “Ngh— you’re milking me so good—”
He was completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, babbling whatever came to his mind as you rode him. And every time you clenched around him, another broken sound slipped out of him.
His mouth searched for yours again, licking into the corners of your lips before kissing you deep. You slipped two fingers into his mouth and he immediately sucked on them, tongue rolling around your fingers with a needy moan that made your pussy flutter and squeeze around him even harder. Your swollen clit dragged over his lap and lower stomach with every roll, his happy trail tickling your sensitive folds and sending sparks up your spine.
Satoru whined around your fingers, hips twitching up helplessly.
One of his hands stayed on your hip while the other slid up and wrapped around your neck. His thumb brushed along the side of your throat as he started moving you faster, pulling you down onto his cock with more urgency. The sound of your skin loud.
“I’m so close,” he warned desperately against your lips. “Fuck— I’m gonna cum— you feel too good—”
His hand squeezed, holding you in place as he helped you bounce on him. Every time you sank down, he lifted his hips to meet you, fucking up into you until your jaw rattled. He was panting hard, forehead pressed against yours, completely pussy-drunk.
Satoru came with a broken, drawn-out moan, hips jerking up into you as he spilled deep inside. He held you down against him, grinding up as he pumped his cum into you like he was unconsciously trying to fuck it into your womb. His hand on your neck tightened just enough to pin you down against him while he trembled through it.
Both of you were breathing hard. He held you close and kissed the side of your head as he hugged you.
“D-did you cum?” he mumbled against your skin, still dazed and half out of it.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, deadpan.
“WHAT?”
He blinked up at you, still glassy-eyed and fucked-out. “You squeezed me so hard I thought you did! Okay then— cum then!”
You stared at him for a second, somewhere between offended, frustrated, and fond, before letting out a short laugh.
“You’re actually so fucking stupid.”
You were still softly rolling your hips, using his softening cock like a dildo while you were still determined to cum again. Satoru just watched you, half-intently, half blissed-out, still breathing hard, feeling his cum escaping your pussy and pooling in his lap. After a moment, one of his hands slid down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit easily this time and started rubbing you.
“Fuck— you’re still so wet,” he mumbled, eyes locked on where you were grinding against him. “Keep going… I’ve got you.”
So you kept moving on his semi-hard cock while he fingered you, the combination making your thighs shake. Your breath started hitching and Satoru was watching your face closely now, still drunk but trying to focus.
When your mouth fell open so prettily and your eyes fluttered as he just hit that spot inside you with the angle of his cock, his other hand moved to your hip almost automatically. He gripped you and started moving you himself, guiding you in short, deliberate rolls so his cock and his fingers kept pressing right against that same sensitive spot from both sides.
“There?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Right there?”
You could only nod, a broken whimper slipping out of you as you started tipping forward, head on his sweaty shoulder until your thighs were trembling hard and you felt like a jelly.
You came with a sharp, shaky moan, clenching around his soft cock as the overstimulating orgasm tingled through you. Satoru held you through it, still moving you gently and praising you until you completely slumped forward against his chest.
He hugged you tight, face buried in your neck.
And you stayed slumped against Satoru’s chest for a long minute, both of you just breathing each other in. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and reality slowly started to creep back in.
The room was in fucking ruin. You were both coated in a sticky mess, the mattress behind you was most likely ruined, and the floor was dangerously slippery. It smelled like greasy sex.
“Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he answered quietly.
You slowly peeled yourself off his chest, shivering as the cool air hit your slick, overheated skin.
You looked down at him and he still looked completely fucked-out, and you decided you could get used to that look. As you stretched, you felt his cum trailing down your inner thighs. Satoru’s eyes followed it from the front row, his spent dick giving a weak twitch at the sight.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you said softly, breaking the quiet. You paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “…Wanna join?”
Satoru’s heart practically stopped. His eyes widened and for a second he looked like he was going to follow you like a lost, oily puppy. But then he glanced around at the absolute state of his bedroom and reality hit him again.
“I’ll, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean this up a bit first. You go ahead.”
You pouted but gave him a soft, understanding nod. “Don’t take too long, ‘Toru.”
You grabbed one of his random t-shirts from the floor and padded down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Left alone on the floor, Satoru stared at the opposite wall for a long time. He was deadass completely re-evaluating his entire existence.
He had just experienced the most surreal, life-changing two hours of his life, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely whipped for you. For once, he didn’t care what his old incel education had to say about it.
He reached over to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and wiped a smear of baby oil off the screen before opening Reddit.
r/relationship_advice
I (M) think I’m in love with my roommate (F) and I might have just completely fucked everything up in the most humiliating way possible
Throwaway because if she ever sees this she will murder me.
I’ve been living with this girl for almost a year. She’s my roommate. For the longest time I thought I had everything figured out. I believed that if I just kept doing enough, she’d eventually see me as a potential mate. She didn’t, obviously.
Tonight I did something so fucking stupid I still can’t believe I’m typing this. I got a cock ring stuck on my dick. I panicked and called her while she was on a date and basically begged her to come home. She helped me. She got it off. And then… something else happened. Something I didn’t expect at all. And now she’s in the shower and I feel like I fucked up our friendship beyond repair. My entire worldview feels kinda off.
I think I’m in love with her. I’ve been a terrible roommate. I’ve been a terrible person tbh. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t even know if I have the right to ask. But I think I love her. And I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
Please help. And be nice this time.
u/GrassToucherGeto · 183 upvotes
Is this the same guy who posted that viral “AITA for expecting my roommate to fuck me because I did the dishes” thread a few weeks ago?
u/KingNaoya69 · 56 upvotes
You fucked her? Good shit bro. Don’t fuck it up this time.
Satoru looked up when you walked out of the hallway wearing his t-shirt, your hair still damp and smelling like strawberries. Something in his chest went soft at the sight.
He was still sitting on the floor, holding a bottle of kitchen cleaner in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. He looked like he had no idea what he was doing.
You sighed and gave him a soft, tired look.
“‘Toru,” you said gently. “You’re not going to be able to clean this mess up right now. Just go wash up.” You paused, biting your lip. “Let’s just sleep in my room tonight, alright?”
He blinked up at you, panicked and hopeful all at once. You tilted your head, giving him the softest smile you’d given him yet. That was all it took. He dropped the cleaner without a second thought and basically sprinted down the hall.
He took the fastest, most aggressive shower of his entire life, scrubbing the residual oil and shame off his skin like he was trying to erase the last few hours.
When he finally crept into your bedroom, the lights were already off and you were in bed. He climbed in beside you and the sheets smelled like you. It was warm. It was safe. It made something in his chest loosen.
You shifted over without opening your eyes, throwing an arm across his chest and tucking your face into the crook of his neck with a soft, contented sigh. You fell asleep almost instantly.
Satoru lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, gently nuzzling the top of your head with his cheek. A quiet, overwhelming sense of peace settled over him.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reached for his phone on the nightstand one last time.
He opened Reddit and went back to his post. The comments had already blown up again — some people calling the story fake, others demanding more details about the cock ring, a few calling him a simp.
Satoru smiled to himself.
He typed out one final edit.
Update: nvm, she’s tucked into my side. Take this as a PSA to all the other incels out there. Admins, please flag this as SOLVED.
── Dividers from petalpx and fairytopea and melocor!
FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO
synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.
word count; 4.2k
contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3
a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3
”what are you listening to?”
your seat is close to the heater.
it was nothing but a lucky draw, really. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks when you transferred, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching on to the chair in the very back, right by the window, right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes.
so there you sit. a warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs. your feet tap and tap, on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, spinning like a planet in orbit.
through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones covering your ears, safe and snug, muffling all noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.
”… hey. did you hear me?”
gojo is being particularly chatty, today.
out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.
with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. meeting his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.
”what are you listening to?”
you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one one of the heavy ear cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper.
it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.
gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.
with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.
”… do you like music?”
the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.
then he gives you a shrug.
”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”
ah.
your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.
silence overtakes you both, once more.
”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”
(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)
before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats.
on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street.
and then he’s strolling away.
gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.
but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams.
”page 27, from the top.”
your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.
but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.
without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.
nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.
then he’s leaving, again.
that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.
if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.
(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)
the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.
but now you wish you had.
(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)
with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.
”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”
you nod.
geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.
”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”
…
you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.
”… what kind of music does gojo like?”
silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.
then he parts his lips.
”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”
heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.
”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”
you can’t help but deflate, at that.
geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”
a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him.
”… huh?”
”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”
…
(you haven’t got a clue.)
geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”
(… that’s a good question.)
he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing.
thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.
”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”
but that’s where he’s wrong.
satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour.
geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions. that’s all.
when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world.
that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…
(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)
”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?”
geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to the situation he finds himself in. a chameleon.
… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.
”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.
”… okay,” is all you end up whispering. ”i’ll try. thank you.”
geto rewards you with a full smile.
”don’t mention it.”
spring is closer than you thought.
it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw.
in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.
”did you bring your card?”
your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence.
it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.
”huh? was i supposed to?”
”… are you kidding me?”
you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers.
someone taps your shoulder.
geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.
a silent cue.
he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.
and then you realize what he’s done.
gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing.
more importantly…
it’s just the two of you, now.
you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, again, for you to follow, staring ahead while taking your place right beside him. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it.
”… that’s so unfair.”
gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.
”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”
you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.
he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.
”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”
”… mm.”
from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again.
”… i can buy some for you, though.”
you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought. he clears his throat.
”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”
you can’t help but blink, at that, lashes fluttering in rapid succession — wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out.
”… why?”
it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.
(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)
gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.
gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does.
”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”
another series of blinks.
gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.
”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”
you stay silent.
he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be.
geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.
(why do you think that is?)
gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so.
(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)
geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway.
if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?
would that be okay with you?
(words that should be left unspoken.)
”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck.
all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —
” — i don’t listen to anything.”
gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.
he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him.
”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”
you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down.
”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”
the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.
but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.
white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side.
if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.
”i see!”
a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.
”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”
a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.
(… if you can even call it that.)
geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.
”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”
”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.
you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.
spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.
you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter.
you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay.
”i’ll take it things went well, then?”
geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.
you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.
”i’m glad.”
the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.
”won’t that moron get cold?”
ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing.
you’re wondering the same thing.
geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders.
”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”
you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.
an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”
… another tilt of your head.
geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.
”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”
ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe.
ah.
gojo can keep himself warm.
the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…
(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.
gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)
…
you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks.
as if sensing your thoughts, geto laughs, soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.
in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.
(spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in.
but you aren’t worried.)
corporate damage control can’t stop me from riding it
pairing — rock star satoru x pop star reader
synopsis : satoru gojo is currently performing a masterclass in silent, theatrical suffering, and the soundtrack is your chart-topping new single. he wrote you a bleeding-heart ballad; you wrote him a three-minute restraining order set to a pop beat. now he’s trapped in a self-inflicted auditory torture chamber, replaying your music video on a loop while his bandmates document his descent for what sukuna calls 'profoundly marketable art.' he tells everyone it's 'research,' but what he's really looking for is a crack in your perfect pop-princess facade—a single sign that you're lying, and that he's not, in fact, the world's most famous delusional fanboy.
wc — 31.6k ࣪ ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, porn with plot, satoru has a big dick and a dick piercing, secret relationships, public humiliation via synth-pop, miscommunication, light angst with a happy ending, so much yearning and pining, satoru gojo is a dramatic idiot, humor, angry sex, makeup sex, rough sex, nipple play, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, brat taming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, dacryphilia, humiliation kink, spanking, hair pulling, light choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dumbification, breeding kink, creampie, emotional hurt/comfort, aftercare, fluff, domestic fluff, confessions, getting together, happy ending.
athy says, it's finally here! thank you so much for being patient with this monster. i'm not gonna lie the porn-to-plot ratio got a little out of hand, my bad. i've stared at this for so long i'm convinced it's underwhelming but i'm hoping that's just my overthinking ass talking. anyway, i hope you enjoy this absolute filth of a fic <3
what, in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, is a man supposed to do when the woman he has willingly, foolishly, and perhaps terminally written a love song for responds not with a tear-stained text, or a late-night call full of whispered confessions, but with three minutes and forty-seven seconds of the most exquisitely produced, aggressively catchy, bubblegum-pop denial ever to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public?
the answer, apparently, is this.
satoru gojo, lead guitarist for a band so globally recognized they have their own line of ironically terrible merchandise, is currently performing a masterclass in silent, theatrical suffering. he isn’t so much sitting on the ridiculously expensive black leather couch in their practice studio as he is being absorbed by it, a long-limbed puddle of designer despair.
he’s a kicked puppy, yes, but a puppy wearing four-thousand-dollar balenciaga boots that now feel less like a fashion statement and more like exorbitantly priced shackles.
on the massive wall in front of him, your music video is playing on a loop, projected to a scale that feels both epic and deeply, personally insulting.
the visuals are a weaponized assault of softness: sun-drenched fields, lens flares that bloom like ethereal flowers, and a color palette of sickly sweet pinks and baby blues that clash so violently with the gaping, slasher-film wound where his heart used to be, it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken out in hives.
his expression is a carefully curated mask of “i’m fine,” but it’s the kind of “i’m fine” a man says moments after walking into a glass door, dazed and concussed but determined to maintain a shred of dignity.
the song plays again. and again. and again. this is loop number… seventeen? eighteen? he lost count around twelve, when the synth intro started to feel less like music and more like the clinical, beeping prelude to his own emotional flatlining.
he has it connected to the studio’s main speakers via bluetooth, a self-inflicted auditory torture chamber. his thumb, a traitorous digit with a mind of its own, hovers over the replay button on his phone with the unshakable dedication of a monk performing a sacred, agonizing penance.
“it’s for research,” he claims, his voice a weak, papery thing, when he feels suguru’s gaze boring into the side of his skull. “i’m... deconstructing the melodic architecture of my own public execution. it’s fascinating, really. the use of the dominant seventh in the pre-chorus is a particularly vicious choice.”
no one believes him. the air in the room is thick with a secondhand embarrassment so potent it could be bottled and sold as a fragrance. least of all does he believe himself. he’s not researching. he’s searching. searching for a flaw, a crack in your perfect pop-princess facade, a flicker in your eye that says ’i’m lying.’ he hasn’t found one yet.
three minutes and forty-seven seconds. he’s counted every single, torturous second. he has memorized every beat drop that feels like a physical blow, every flawless vocal run that winds around his ribs and squeezes, every perfectly crafted moment where your voice dips into that honey-thick, late-night register that used to whisper his name in the dark like a secret, a promise, a prayer. now it just whispers, ’subscriber count: one less.’
“you’re a masochist,” sukuna states, his voice a monotone of detached amusement. he’s perched on a nearby amplifier, phone held aloft, the red dot of the ‘record’ button a malevolent, unblinking eye. he’s documenting this, naturally, in pristine, cinematic 4k.
“don’t look at me,” he instructs, like a seasoned director. “keep your gaze on the screen. yes, that’s it. let the manufactured light of her indifference wash over you. this is art. tragic, beautiful, profoundly marketable art. i’m thinking of titling it, ‘gojo satoru: the yearning years.’”
nanami doesn’t speak. speech would require an energy he simply does not possess in the face of this much concentrated foolishness.
instead, he just runs a hand down his entire face, a slow, weary gesture that suggests he has aged a full decade in the past hour. he looks like a man watching his dearest friend attempt to teach himself to swim by leaping into the deep end of a pool filled with piranhas, all while the lifeguard station is not only in full view, but is also on fire.
satoru, oblivious to his role as the subject of an indie tragedy, leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his focus narrowing on the screen. on you. you’re twirling across the screen now, in that cream silk slip dress that seems to have been spun from moonlight and his own personal tears.
it catches the manufactured golden-hour light like liquid sunshine, the fabric moving like a second skin, a whisper against your body. it’s paired with a few delicate, layered gold necklaces that glitter and flash as you gesture dismissively at the camera—no, not the camera. at him. he knows it. it’s a gesture you’ve used a thousand times, a little flick of the wrist that says ’oh, you.’ only now it says ’oh, you poor, delusional fool.’
your smile is a masterpiece of modern dentistry and practiced innocence, the kind that belongs on magazine covers and in the tormented dreams of men who should have known better.
“she’s so pretty,” he says, and the tone is all wrong for a band meeting. it’s the hollow, reverent tone one uses at a funeral, contemplating the beautiful, cruel finality of it all. his voice cracks, just slightly, on the word ‘pretty,’ as if the very act of acknowledging your beauty while it’s being used as a weapon against him is physically painful. “why is she so pretty while systematically dismantling my public image and my private will to live? it feels disproportionate. there should be a law.”
suguru, who had been attempting a state of meditative transcendence in the far corner, finally cracks. a long, beleaguered sigh escapes him, the sound of a man whose patience has been stretched, frayed, and finally snapped. he bites down on what might be a laugh, or might be a scream of profound concern.
“because, satoru,” he says, his voice dripping with the weary wisdom of a man who has seen this exact train wreck happen in slow motion for months, “the universe has a wickedly dark sense of humor, and you, my friend, are the punchline. you’re the whole damn joke.”
the scene in the music video changes. this is the part he hates the most. the part that feels like swallowing glass. you’re sitting at a ridiculously quaint outdoor café, a single perfect rose in a tiny vase on the table.
you’re stirring sugar into a demitasse of coffee with one perfectly manicured finger, your nails painted a soft, innocent pink. and you’re maintaining direct, unwavering, almost obscenely intimate eye contact with the camera.
it’s a simple shot, innocent enough on the surface, until you pause, lift your gaze ever so slightly, and offer the camera a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.
the shrug. the goddamn shrug.
it’s a gesture that holds years of history. it was the shrug you gave him across a crowded green room that meant, ’your move, hotshot.’ it was the shrug you offered during a painfully boring press junket that meant, ’let’s ditch this and get ramen.’ it was your silent, secret language, a dare wrapped in nonchalance.
now, it’s been co-opted, sanitized for public consumption, and repurposed into the universal symbol for ’denied.’ ’next caller.’ ’thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled.’
satoru lets out a sound that is a truly unholy fusion of a chuckle and a dying breath, a wheezing, hiccupping noise that speaks of a spirit that has not only been broken but has been stomped on for good measure. his head falls back against the couch with a soft thud, as if gravity, after a long vacation, has suddenly remembered he exists and has decided to exact its revenge.
god.
he wrote a song for you. not just a song. the song. the one that musicians are supposedly only given once in a lifetime, the one that falls out of the sky fully formed, a divine and terrible gift.
it was the first time he’d ever written something that didn’t have a protective layer of irony or a wink-and-a-nudge bravado. it was just… his. raw, terrifyingly sincere, and now, apparently, the catalyst for his public execution via synth-pop.
and you… you wrote this back. a three-minute and forty-seven-second masterpiece of plausible deniability. a bop. an undeniable, chart-topping, soul-crushing bop.
he remembers the night he wrote it with a searing, high-definition clarity. the kind of memory that feels less like a memory and more like a scene he can step back into at any time, a ghost-filled diorama of his own undoing.
it was a thick, humid tokyo night in late july, the kind where the air itself feels heavy and charged with secrets. his apartment, a sterile glass box high above the glittering, sprawling chaos of the city, was his sanctuary.
the windows were thrown open, and the distant, sleepless hum of shinjuku drifted in, a constant, low-level thrum against the silence. the neon glow from a thousand billboards across the skyline painted his walls in fleeting, watercolor strokes of magenta and electric blue, making the whole room feel like it was underwater.
his guitar, a battered telecaster that was more an extension of his own nervous system than an instrument, was balanced on his lap like an old, patient lover. but the melody that was taking shape under his fingers wasn’t coming from the guitar— it was coming from the echo of your laugh, a sound from a video call that had ended hours ago but refused to fade.
it had taken up residence in the hollow space in his chest, a second, phantom heartbeat that was completely out of sync with his own.
you’d been wearing his hoodie.
the gray one. the one with the faded, cracked print of tour dates from their first big arena tour, a relic he rarely wore anymore. on him, it was fitted— on you, it was a cavernous, cozy tent. it swallowed your frame whole, the sleeves falling so far past your fingertips that you looked like a child playing dress-up in her father’s clothes.
the sight of you, so small and lost in something that was so unequivocally his, had done something fundamental and probably irreversible to his brain chemistry. it was an act of quiet, domestic claiming, and it made his heart do a series of stupid, frantic backflips.
you’d spent the call pretending to be deeply, profoundly bored by the whole process, feigning dramatic, put-upon sighs. “satoru, is this really necessary? some of us have eight-step celebrity skincare routines to attend to. we can’t all stay up until four am serenading inanimate wooden objects.”
but he could see the bright, engaged spark in your eyes, and he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach swoop, that you were secretly screen-recording the chord progressions.
then he played the bridge. the part that felt less like he’d written it and more like he’d opened a vein and let it bleed out onto the fretboard. the melody spilled out of him, raw and a little unsteady, full of unresolved chords and a yearning so potent it felt flammable.
on the other end of the line, you went quiet. he watched your small, pixelated form on his screen as you pulled the ridiculously large hood over your head, burrowing into the worn gray cotton until only the tip of your nose was visible. a long, charged silence stretched between tokyo and wherever you were in the world. when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, stripped of all its playful armor.
“play it again,” you’d said, your voice a sleepy, muffled thing from inside the hoodie cocoon. “the bridge… it’s pretty.”
pretty.
you called the exposed, frayed wiring of his soul pretty. and in that singular, universe-altering moment, he had felt like he could levitate. he felt like he could conquer countries, write symphonies, solve cold fusion, all fueled by the quiet, devastating power of that one, simple word from you. he was a god, and his gospel was a g-major chord progression.
he’d been so, so stupid. a beautiful, glorious, once-in-a-lifetime kind of stupid.
he was love-struck, a terminal condition for which the only cure seemed to be a public humiliation set to a catchy beat. he was drunk off the tinny, digitized sound of your voice and the intoxicating sight of you wearing his name on a piece of faded cotton, claiming space in his life so naturally, so effortlessly, it felt like you had always been there.
suguru and the others had known, of course. they had seen the train coming down the tracks from a mile away, and they knew he was standing there, smiling, waiting to be hit. they had been exchanging loaded, weary glances across the studio for weeks, a silent, three-part harmony of concern, watching him stumble over easy chord changes because his brain was no longer in the room— it was on a facetime call, completely mesmerized by the way you hummed along, slightly off-key, to their demos.
“that bridge, satoru,” suguru had said one afternoon, his voice gentle but firm, like a doctor about to deliver some very bad news. “that’s not a song bridge. that’s a ‘i would burn my entire multi-million dollar career to the ground for her’ bridge. you are so far past whipped you’re in a different dimension of whipped. you’re a smoothie.”
“nah,” satoru had grinned, a dopey, besotted expression he was sure was deeply unattractive but was physically incapable of stopping. his fingers had danced across the frets, the notes spelling out your name in a language only they understood. “i’m just honest.”
honest. what a fucking joke. looking back, it wasn’t honesty. it was a complete and total systems failure of his self-preservation instincts.
the song, once it was unleashed upon the world, was a soft-rock confession. it was satoru gojo, the hot himbo guitarist who was famous for his thirst-trap instagram stories and chaotic interview energy, suddenly standing emotionally naked in the middle of times square.
it was so jarringly sincere, so devoid of his usual brand of flirty detachment, that it was impossible to ignore.
the fans went absolutely apoplectic. they were used to songs about summer nights and fast cars, not… feelings. they took the raw, bleeding vulnerability he’d served up and immediately put it under a microscope.
they became a global army of forensic analysts, dissecting metaphors and melodies with the precision of surgeons. they cross-referenced his lyrics with your old interviews, a grainy video of you from three years ago mentioning you liked the rain, the one time you’d both been spotted by paparazzi outside the same sushi restaurant (a full eight minutes apart).
there were twitter threads longer than most doctoral theses, complete with footnotes and annotated bibliographies. there were tiktoks where girls with perfect eyeliner broke down the guitar solo note by painful note, claiming they could “hear his tears in the string bends.” youtube video essays with dramatic thumbnails and titles like “the gojo satoru confession: how a pop princess broke our favorite himbo (with receipts)” garnered millions of views.
the comments sections were a digital warzone, a chaotic symphony of parasocial projection and stan-on-stan violence.
“he’s obsessed, this is actually creepy. she needs a restraining order.”
“he’s a walking red flag but the song is a banger so i’m conflicted.”
“she’s way too clean for his image. remember when sukuna set that reporter’s car on fire? she can’t be associated with that mess.”
“is no one going to talk about the brand shift?? where did our chaotic, slutty golden retriever go?? who is this sad poet??”
“he is so down bad it’s almost romantic. i respect the sheer audacity of this level of public pining.”
“this is what desperation sounds like with a million-dollar production budget and zero shame.”
satoru, ever the professional performer, pretended not to see any of it. he played the part. he shrugged off the deeply personal questions in interviews with a wink and a well-rehearsed one-liner. he acted like this raw, exposed nerve of a song was just another track, just another piece of art, not a page ripped bleeding from his diary.
he played it cool, treating his very public heartbreak like it was just another fashion accessory he wore exceptionally well, like a vintage watch or a particularly good leather jacket. he spun his vulnerability into a punchline, his pain into a brand.
but in the quiet moments, the ones without cameras or an audience, the truth was a suffocating, lead-lined blanket.
in the hollow, echoing silence of a venue between soundcheck and doors, surrounded by the ghosts of past performances and rows of empty seats. in the ringing aftermath of an encore, when the adrenaline had evaporated and all that was left was a buzzing in his ears and a cavernous, aching emptiness in his chest. under the slow, cooling haze of the stage lights, his sweat turning cold on his skin like a fever finally, mercifully breaking.
in those moments, he clung to the memory of writing the song. to the sincerity of it. to the terrifying, unvarnished softness he had only ever shown to you, the parts of himself he’d guarded his whole life with jokes and charm and a blindingly bright smile, and then handed over to you like a set of house keys, trusting, with a fool’s faith, that you wouldn’t be the one to rob him blind.
until you dropped your song.
it arrived without warning. no pre-save campaign he was aware of, no cryptic tweets hinting at a new era. just a sudden, cataclysmic shift in the digital landscape.
one moment he was scrolling through instagram, admiring a particularly good thirst edit of himself from the last tour, and the next, his phone was vibrating with a text from suguru. it was just a link. a single, solitary link to spotify, followed by a single, solitary skull emoji.
his heart plummeted into his designer boots.
your response wasn’t a diss track. it wasn’t vicious or angry or full of the fiery, passionate emotion he had secretly, pathetically, been hoping for. anger would have meant he mattered enough to be angry at.
no, this was worse. so, so much worse.
it was polite. it was breezy. it was dismissive. it was a three-minute and forty-seven-second, perfectly executed, condescending pat on the head, set to a beat so infectious, so diabolically catchy, it immediately became the global soundtrack to his public humiliation.
the first thirty seconds were a masterclass in sugarcoated denial. a shimmering synth intro, like spun sugar and broken glass, bubbled up before a clean, crisp beat dropped in. and then, your voice. laced in silk and a certainty so absolute it could move mountains, it danced over a production so clean, so precise, it could have performed open-heart surgery.
in the video, you looked directly into the camera. you weren’t angry. you weren’t sad. you just looked… knowing. you were wearing a simple, pale yellow sundress, your hair clipped back loosely, looking like the girl next door if the girl next door was a multi-platinum recording artist with a team of lawyers on speed dial.
you tilted your head, just enough to catch the soft, golden light, and gave the lens an expression he knew all too well. it was the look that said, ’nice try, but no.’
the full track? a doctoral thesis in saying nothing while saying absolutely everything.
you never confirmed. you never denied. you just sang around the satoru-shaped hole in the narrative like he was a particularly inconvenient pothole you’d gracefully learned to navigate on your morning commute.
the lyrics were a weaponized form of cotton candy, all innocent confusion and wide-eyed, ‘who, me?’ energy. they spoke of “stories people tell themselves,” and “building castles in the air from a single, stolen glance,” and “sometimes a whisper is just a whisper, not a promise you can keep.”
you didn’t call him a liar. you just gently, sweetly, and with a voice like honey, implied he was completely, utterly delusional.
you turned his grand, romantic gesture, his bleeding-heart ballad, into a reddit thread he couldn’t possibly win. you reframed his love song as a slightly unhinged fan theory, a fever dream he’d wake up from eventually if he just tried hard enough, maybe drank some water and touched some grass.
and everyone knew.
oh, god, everyone knew.
the fans who had been there from day one, the ones who had built entire timelines of your ‘friendship,’ the ones who remembered when you used to like his instagram posts at 3 a.m. and comment on his stories with inside jokes that no one else understood—they knew.
they were now furiously deleting their old shipping threads, their mood boards, their compilation videos, all in a mad scramble to get on the right side of this new, devastating narrative.
the casual listeners, the ones who just showed up for the drama, ate it up with a spoon. it was the celebrity gossip equivalent of a royal wedding and a public execution happening at the same time.
the radio hosts, with their fake, concerned voices and the barely contained glee dancing in their eyes, played the two songs back to back, dissecting the “he said, she said” of it all for their morning drive-time audiences.
you never said his name. you didn’t have to. your lyrical evasion was a work of art, gps-precise in its ability to navigate around any direct accusation while still making it perfectly, painfully clear who you were talking about. your voice, so soft and sweet, was a guided missile aimed directly at his credibility.
it was vague enough for your lawyers to defend, but specific enough to leave him completely, utterly exposed. checkmate.
and the worst part? the truly soul-crushing, existentially horrifying part that made him want to crawl into a hole and cease to exist?
it was good.
like, disgustingly, chart-toppingly, “this is my official anthem for summer and i will be singing it into a hairbrush while subtweeting my ex” good. the hook was an earworm, a parasite that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave. the production was immaculate. his own bandmates were probably, secretly, adding it to their gym playlists as they spoke.
it was the kind of good that made you hate yourself for humming along under your breath while you were supposed to be stewing in your own misery.
and he heard it everywhere. it became the inescapable soundtrack to his life.
he was in a twenty-four-hour grocery store at midnight, trying to buy cereal in peace, when your voice cascaded from the ceiling speaker system, serenading him in the dairy aisle about how he’d built a “castle from a grain of sand.”
he was in his favorite, painfully hip coffee shop, and the barista, a girl with pink hair and a septum piercing, was singing your chorus at the top of her lungs while steaming his oat milk latte into a sad, lopsided heart.
he got into an uber, and the driver, a cheerful man in his fifties, immediately turned up the radio. “you heard this new track?” he’d asked, beaming. “it’s my daughter’s favorite. it’s a real vibe!” and satoru had to sit there for a twelve-minute drive, dying a slow, silent death in the backseat, bathed in the sound of his own romantic incompetence.
he was put on hold with his credit card company, and the hold music was a tinny, instrumental, elevator-music version of your song. that was a new low. that was a fresh, unexplored circle of hell.
he even caught suguru humming the pre-chorus in the shower one morning at the studio. when satoru confronted him, pounding on the door like a madman, suguru didn’t even have the decency to sound guilty.
he’d poked his head out, a towel wrapped around his hair, and said, with the deadpan seriousness of a cult leader, “it’s a reverse exorcism, satoru. i have to flood my brain with the melody to neutralize its power. it’s about fighting fire with fire, purging the demon of her catchy hook through repetition and vocal mimicry. i’m doing this for my own sanity.”
“it’s not even a bad song, objectively,” nanami admitted one evening, looking up from his ipad, his voice as flat and clinical as if he were delivering a quarterly financial report. “the production is clean. the hook is effective from a commercial standpoint. the lyrical content is simply… professionally humiliating for you, specifically, when one is aware of the context.”
“when one is aware,” satoru echoed dramatically, the words catching in his throat. he collapsed backward onto the leather couch, a boneless heap of despair, as if gravity had finally remembered how much he deserved to suffer.
his wrist flopped against his forehead with all the limp, tragic grace of a victorian woman succumbing to the vapors. “i can’t live like this,” he wailed to the ceiling. “i’m becoming a cryptid. a cautionary tale they tell young, emotionally vulnerable musicians around the campfire. ‘don’t be like satoru, kids—he wrote his feelings into a melody and got metaphorically murdered by a pop princess with a team of swedish super-producers and a heart made of stone.’”
the music video played again. was this the nineteenth loop? the twentieth? he wasn’t sure. time had dissolved into a meaningless, syrupy cocktail of synth-pop and artistic betrayal. on the giant projected screen, the scenery shifted. gone was the quaint café of condescension, replaced by a sun-drenched, windswept beach that looked suspiciously like the private cove in malibu you’d dragged him to one weekend.
the screen was a kaleidoscope of neon filters and manufactured summer heat. there were rooftop shots where the wind, a paid actor in its own right, caught your hair in a way that looked both accidental and perfectly choreographed by a team of meteorologists.
you were dancing at the water’s edge, barefoot, wearing a ridiculously cute and deceptively simple white linen two-piece set that hinted at the long, tan lines of your legs and the curve of your stomach.
it was the kind of outfit that was both adorable and devastatingly sexy, a combination you had weaponized with terrifying precision. he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach ache, that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. you never did at the beach.
you danced like you were teasing someone specific. your movements weren’t for a faceless audience— they were intimate, playful, a series of inside jokes set to music. the little hip sway you did when you were trying to distract him from his guitar. the way you’d bite your lip and look over your shoulder, a silent dare.
it was all calculated casualness, an effortless perfection that had probably taken forty-seven takes, a team of professionals, and a small army of assistants holding reflectors.
and it was all for him. obviously. it was always, somehow, infuriatingly, for him, even when it was a public declaration that it absolutely was not.
a low, guttural groan escaped his throat. he snatched a decorative velvet pillow from the couch and slammed it over his face, muffling the sharp, boyish sound of pure, unadulterated heartbreak that clawed its way out of his chest.
it wasn’t just that you were breaking his heart— it was that you looked so damn good doing it. it was an insult to his suffering.
“she’s lying,” he muttered from beneath the pillow, his voice soft and muffled, like a prayer spoken underwater. the words were a desperate mantra, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of evidence on screen. “i know she is. we—i mean, there were… things. real things. moments that weren’t for cameras or fans or anyone else but us.”
and his mind, a traitorous archive of his own happiest moments, started playing a highlight reel.
late-night phone calls that stretched until the tokyo skyline began to blush with the first hints of sunrise, your voice growing thick and sleepy until you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, and he’d stay on the line for twenty minutes just listening to the soft, even rhythm of you breathing, a sound more calming than any song he’d ever written.
the way you’d steal his hoodies, not just for airport paparazzi shots, but for lazy sundays spent tangled up in his sheets, the worn cotton smelling more like your skin and your perfume than his own cologne. the memory of waking up to you in his bed, a small, warm lump wearing his faded tour shirt and nothing else, made a fresh, sharp ache bloom in his chest.
inside jokes whispered on red carpets that made interviewers deeply uncomfortable, a secret language spoken in glances and tiny, imperceptible shifts in expression.
the kind of sizzling, undeniable chemistry that launched a thousand fan compilation videos and sparked conspiracy theories so elaborate they involved secret marriages and hidden love children.
he remembered the warmth of your skin under his hands, the specific, infuriatingly perfect way your body fit against his, the sound of your laugh—the real one, not the polite one for the cameras—when he’d kiss that sensitive spot just below your ear. those things weren’t fan behavior. they weren’t a fever dream.
“clearly not things she wants to be public knowledge,” suguru said, his voice dry as a desert. he wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore, just scrolling through his phone, his tone carrying the immense weight of a man who had held back his judgment with both hands for months and was starting to get a serious workout.
satoru threw the pillow aside with a surge of frustrated energy and shot upright. his hair, already a mess, now stood on end as if he’d been electrocuted by his own turbulent emotions. his eyes, usually so bright and clear, were rimmed with the tell-tale red of exhaustion and wounded pride.
“i thought we had something, man,” he said, his voice cracking with a genuine, pathetic bewilderment. “a connection. chemistry. that goddamn soulmate shit you read about in books, the kind that’s supposed to transcend corporate contracts and carefully crafted pr strategies. and now? now i’m a trending topic for being the world’s most publicly delusional boyfriend-who-wasn’t-a-boyfriend.”
“you sent her voice memos of your unfinished lyrics at two in the morning,” nanami said without looking up from his phone, his voice carrying the calm, patient tone of a saint and the quiet, crushing judgment of a deeply disappointed father. “you rhymed the word ‘forever’ with the word ‘whatever’ and expected to be lauded as the next shakespeare.”
“that line was vulnerable,” satoru hissed, genuinely offended by the artistic criticism. it was one thing to have his heart broken, it was another to have his songwriting questioned. “the raw, emotional inflection on the word ‘whatever’? heartbreaking. i put my whole chest into that ‘whatever’—it was a symphony of dismissive pain, of casual devastation. that’s advanced songwriting, nanami. it’s called nuance.”
suguru snorted, a sharp, ungracious sound. he finally looked up from his iced americano, a glint of something that looked suspiciously like amusement in his eyes. “and now you’re the internet’s favorite sad boy meme. congratulations. in the span of one week, you’ve managed to out-brood me and completely steal my entire aesthetic. my brand is in shambles.”
“i’m beautiful while suffering,” satoru proclaimed, his performer instincts kicking in. he pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, as if pledging allegiance to his own personal tragedy. “like a greek statue, but with better hair. if euripides had an electric guitar and an instagram account, i would be headlining the athens festival of emotional destruction.”
“you’re emotionally constipated,” sukuna called from across the room, his eyes still glued to the screen of his laptop, where he was no doubt editing the footage of satoru’s breakdown into a viral tiktok. “and it’s starting to affect the brand. seriously. your thirst edits are becoming yearning edits. the comments sections are starting to look like online support groups. it’s killing the ‘hot himbo’ vibe you worked so hard to cultivate.”
it was true. and that, somehow, might have been the worst part of it all. sukuna wasn’t just being an asshole for the sake of it— he was delivering a depressingly accurate brand analysis.
somewhere in the chaotic, humiliating gulf between his song release and the current moment, satoru’s carefully cultivated online presence had undergone a seismic, deeply unwelcome shift. his brand, once a reliable engine of “chaotic hot guitarist energy,” had sputtered, stalled, and morphed into something else entirely.
he was no longer the flirty, untouchable rock god with a penchant for expensive sunglasses and questionable life choices. he was now “sad boy who needs a hug and possibly intensive, long-term therapy.”
the ecosystem of his own fandom had turned on him. fan accounts that used to post supercuts of his most egregious thirst traps—close-ups of his hands on the guitar neck, slow-motion shots of him sweating on stage, compilations of his most chaotic interview moments—had pivoted.
now, they were creating soft-focus, aesthetic mood boards of his most melancholy expressions, usually overlaid with lyrics from a bon iver song.
the tiktoks. my god, the tiktoks. what was once a steady stream of edits celebrating his himbo energy, set to hyper-pop songs about being hot and reckless, had become a series of amateur film studies theses.
girls with names like @gojosgirl were now analyzing his “wounded artist era” with the somber, intellectual dedication of film students dissecting tarkovsky. they’d slow down footage from recent concerts, drawing red circles around the “micro-expressions of pain” on his face as he sang the bridge.
one particularly brutal compilation, titled “the evolution of a man’s heartbreak (a visual journey),” had managed to get three million views in twelve hours. it started with old clips of him looking at you with undisguised adoration during joint interviews and ended with recent paparazzi shots of him looking like his dog had just died. the comment section was a sea of virtual pity.
a tweet from a popular fan account, @satruthereal, had gone viral: “he’s not serving slut anymore he’s serving profound, bone-deep sadness and somehow it’s worse for my mental health.” it was accompanied by a string of seventeen crying emojis.
his own spotify wrapped, he imagined, probably looked like a suicide hotline’s weekly report. his most played song was, without a doubt, your song. followed closely by his own song. followed by a lot of the national and old, sad taylor swift albums. it was a playlist of self-destruction.
“this is character development,” he announced to the room, suddenly sitting up straighter, as if struck by a bolt of divine, delusional inspiration. he adopted the posture of a man about to deliver a ted talk. “i’m becoming multidimensional. complex. i’m moving beyond the simple archetypes the public has assigned me. shakespeare wishes he could write this kind of arc.”
“shakespeare’s dead,” nanami pointed out helpfully, his voice utterly devoid of inflection.
satoru waved a dismissive hand. “so is my dignity, but you don’t see me complaining about it.”
“that,” nanami said, finally looking up from his ipad, his eyes flat and weary, “is literally all you have done for the past three weeks.”
and the tour. the goddamn tour continued its relentless march across the country, a traveling circus with him as the main, miserable attraction. his descent into madness wasn’t just happening in the privacy of the studio—it was happening every night, on stage, in front of twenty thousand people. each show had become a public autopsy of his emotional state.
the press coverage turned vulture-hungry. headlines no longer focused on the music, but on the melodrama. they dissected his every pained facial expression like they were tea leaves, predicting the future of his career from the slump of his shoulders.
“gojo satoru’s heartbreak tour: art or exploitation?” asked one magazine. “why satoru gojo’s public pain is our collective gain,” pondered a popular blog. a late-night news program even ran a segment titled, “pop princess breaks rock star’s guitar… and his heart: more at eleven.”
every venue sold out within hours. fans were clawing for front-row seats, not just to hear the music, but to witness his unraveling in real time. his pain had become a commodity. his public breakdown was a marketing goldmine, and the ticket sales had never been better.
and that verse—the one he had carved from the softest part of his ribs, the one he’d written for you in a moment of pure, stupid, unfiltered honesty—refused to leave his throat intact.
every single night, he’d get to it, the lights would dim, a single spotlight would find him, and the words would catch. his voice would crack on the same line, every time, like a promise he couldn’t keep, like a prayer spoken in a dead language no one else could understand.
the music editors called it raw. the internet called it art. satoru called it hell, but with better lighting and a live audience providing the soundtrack of his own screams back at him.
your face, your voice, your song—they haunted him like a beautiful, relentless ghost. you were on every screen he tried to avoid. spotify ads featuring your smiling face would pop up while he was trying to listen to angry german metal.
youtube pre-roll ads for your perfume would play before he could watch a tutorial on how to fix a faulty guitar pedal. a times square billboard of you, sixty feet tall and impossibly gorgeous, made him want to never leave his apartment again.
you’d smile in slow motion on tiktoks that appeared on his ‘for you’ page, videos he never liked but somehow still ended up saved to his phone, usually at 3 a.m. when his impulse control was at its weakest and the hollow ache in his chest was at its loudest.
even the damn gas station down the road from the studio was a hostile territory. he’d gone in to buy a questionable amount of energy drinks and shame-purchased junk food, and your voice was on a constant, cheerful loop over the store’s speakers.
the cashier, a pimply teenager who couldn’t have been older than seventeen, was humming your chorus while scanning his items, completely oblivious to the fact that he was serving the very man being lyrically eviscerated.
satoru had even caught himself, in a moment of pure, horrifying muscle memory, singing along under his breath. your lyrics, your polite, smiling denials, curling off his tongue as naturally as if they were a song he’d written himself. it was a new, exquisitely tailored form of psychological torture.
it made him sick.
the constant, low-grade thrum of your voice in the background of his life, the way his own brain had memorized the lyrics designed to dismantle him. it was a slow-acting poison, and he was willingly, pathologically, taking a dose every single day.
but it wasn’t sick enough to make him stop. not yet. he was still a masochist in the research phase of his own destruction, picking at the wound just to see if it still hurt. it did. every time.
and then came the festival. the one that would forever be known in fan lore and his own personal hall of shame as the great emotional immolation of satoru gojo.
the morning after, he woke up not to the gentle california sunlight streaming through his hotel window, but to the apocalyptic buzzing of his phone on the nightstand. it sounded less like a notification and more like a swarm of angry, digital hornets.
a quick, blurry-eyed glance confirmed his worst fears. seventeen missed calls from his manager, each one presumably more frantic than the last. forty-three text messages from suguru, a journey in itself, starting with a concerned, “you good?” and escalating to a mildly threatening, “if you don’t answer this phone i will hire a skywriter to broadcast your therapist’s home address.”
and then, the final nail in the coffin: a twitter notification informing him that his name was the number one trend in north america. right alongside “public meltdown,” “career suicide,” and, for some reason, “#gojosatoruisoverparty.”
he’d seen you backstage. that’s where it all went wrong.
it wasn’t some planned, dramatic encounter. it was just a moment of terrible, beautiful serendipity. he’d been walking from his trailer to the stage for soundcheck, a cloud of his own melancholic angst trailing behind him, when he saw you.
you, standing in a patch of that perfect, golden-hour california sunlight, looking like a champagne-soaked dream. you were dressed in a sparkling, sequined crop top the shade of pale rosé, paired with a tiny pleated skirt that swished around your thighs like it had been made to catch the light. rhinestone barrettes pinned back your hair in loose, glossy waves, and glitter dusted your cheekbones so every tilt of your head sent a thousand flecks of gold scattering into the air.
you looked like a festival poster come to life—sugar-sweet, dangerous in the way only the truly beautiful can be, the kind of girl who could wreck a man with nothing more than a laugh. you were talking to someone on your team, hands flying in that animated, passionate way you did, your layered charm bracelets chiming like little bells every time you gestured.
you looked every inch the pop star—glittering, untouchable, the kind of dazzling that belonged on a jumbotron and not within arm’s reach. but then you laughed at something your assistant said, quick and bright and so achingly familiar that for a split second he thought he’d imagined it. it wasn’t the glossy, camera-ready smile the world knew— it was yours, the one that had once been his private treasure.
for one stupid, treacherous moment, he swore the stage lights dimmed and the festival noise fell away, leaving only that smile and the memory of what it used to mean. his heart, that battered and bruised organ, performed a series of dazzling acrobatic routines.
hope, that stubborn, idiotic weed, bloomed in his chest like it had been watered by sunlight itself—reckless, impossible, a hallucination he couldn’t stop believing in.
and then you saw him. your conversation faltered. your smile tightened just a fraction. and you started walking towards him.
you approached him during his soundcheck, moving with a purpose that made your own team part like the red sea. you dodged a roadie carrying a tangle of cables and sidestepped a harried-looking assistant with the practiced, nimble skill of someone who had been navigating these chaotic backstage environments their entire life.
he watched you get closer, and he noticed something else. there was a flicker of what looked like genuine nervousness in your movements. your fingers were playing with the delicate hem of your dress, twisting the fabric. your teeth were catching your bottom lip, a nervous habit he knew meant you were thinking too hard, running a thousand different scenarios in your head at once.
“satoru,” you’d said, your voice so quiet he could barely hear it over the distant thud of a kick drum being tested. your voice, saying his name. it was the first time he’d heard it live, not from a speaker, in weeks. it hit him like a physical blow. “can we—”
“don’t.”
the word shot out of him, colder and harsher than he’d intended. it was a shard of ice, sharp enough to cut through the festival noise, and it sliced right through the fragile, hopeful expression on your face.
he saw you flinch. it wasn’t a big, dramatic movement, but it was there. a slight, almost imperceptible recoiling, as if he’d physically struck you. he watched, in what felt like agonizing slow motion, as the hope in your eyes flickered and died, instantly replaced by a carefully constructed, professionally blank mask. your face went from open to closed in a split second.
“just... don’t, okay?” he continued, his own wounded pride a roaring, ugly beast in his ears, drowning out every rational thought. “whatever publicity stunt this is, whatever your team told you to do for the cameras, i’m not interested.”
you stared at him, your mouth slightly parted in disbelief. your hand, which had been reaching out as if to touch his arm, froze mid-gesture. “satoru, it’s not—”
“save it,” he’d cut in, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “save it for someone who still believes in fairy tales.” he turned away then, a sharp, jerky movement, because he couldn’t bear to see the full extent of the damage his words had caused reflected in your eyes.
he’d walked away. he had actually, physically turned his back and walked away from you. from the one conversation he had been dreaming about, obsessing over, for weeks. all because his pride, his stupid, shredded, pathetic pride, was apparently more important than his own sanity.
it took a full twenty minutes for the adrenaline to fade and for the cold, horrifying reality of what he’d just done to settle in his gut like a stone.
by the time he’d spun around, his heart pounding with a sudden, desperate need to take it all back, you were gone. and he was left alone on the dusty backstage asphalt with nothing but the echoing sound of his own monumental stupidity and a growing, sickening certainty that he’d just ruined the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
the videos surfaced within hours. of course they did.
grainy, shaky phone footage from a dozen different angles, filmed by crew members and other artists’ assistants. the internet’s self-appointed body language experts went to town, dissecting every frame.
“satoru gojo snubs pop princess at sundown festival!!!” screamed the headlines. “he said WHAT to her??? watch the shocking video!” “the audacity of this man is actually breathtaking...”
his notifications became a digital disaster zone, a toxic waste dump of opinions and accusations. comments ranged from his loyal fans defending his “right to set boundaries” to absolutely vicious attacks from your fanbase, who were now calling for his public cancellation.
fans were picking sides like it was a brutal custody hearing, and he was being painted as the villain in a story he hadn’t even understood.
the internet had opinions about his opinions, think pieces about his think pieces, discourse about his discourse, until the original, painful, stupid moment was buried under a mountain of hot takes and hashtags.
but the worst part wasn’t the online backlash. it wasn’t the angry tweets or the think pieces or the trending hashtags.
it was the look on your face.
in every single one of those grainy videos, from every single angle, it was there. that split second of raw, unguarded hurt. the way your entire expression just… crumpled for a moment, like a carefully folded piece of paper suddenly crushed in a fist, before you caught yourself.
before the walls slammed back up, before the mask of professional poise slid back into place. before you walked away with your chin held high and your dignity perfectly intact, while he just stood there, looking like the world’s biggest, cruelest asshole in a pair of four-thousand-dollar boots.
that look. that single, fleeting expression of pain. that’s what haunted his dreams. that, and the sound of your voice saying his name—so soft, so hesitant, almost vulnerable—playing on a continuous, torturous loop in his head like a broken record he couldn’t turn off.
the label, being a soulless corporate entity, had of course noticed his downward spiral. there were a series of increasingly concerned emails from the pr department, all with vaguely threatening subject lines like “a quick check-in regarding brand synergy” and “managing the narrative moving forward.”
his manager had cornered him after the festival disaster, speaking to him in the gentle, placating tones one might use on a spooked horse or a toddler having a tantrum in a crowded supermarket.
but the real intervention, the one that actually mattered, came from his friends. and it came in the form of an ambush.
he’d shuffled into the studio one afternoon, running on three hours of sleep and a litre of iced coffee, to find them all waiting for him. not practicing, just… sitting. watching him. it was deeply unsettling.
suguru was the first to speak. he was leaning against an amp, arms crossed, his usual serene expression replaced with a look of profound, theatrical exasperation. he looked like a disappointed parent who was about to say “i’m not mad, i’m just disappointed,” which was somehow infinitely worse than him just being mad.
“satoru,” he began, his voice dangerously calm. “we need to talk about your brand.”
satoru, who had just collapsed onto the leather couch like a marionette with its strings cut, blinked at him. “my… brand?”
“yes. or should i say, my brand,” suguru said, pushing off the amp. “the one you seem to be systematically stealing, piece by pathetic, heartbroken piece.” he began to pace, the very picture of aggrieved artistry. “i have a very specific role in this band’s ecosystem, satoru. i am the dark, mysterious one. i am the brooding intellectual who writes cryptic lyrics about the duality of man. my fans expect a certain level of melancholic aesthetic from me. it’s a delicate balance.”
he stopped and gestured wildly at satoru. “and then you come along. you, mister ‘sunshine and chaos,’ mr. ‘i’ve never had a thought i haven’t immediately posted on instagram.’ and you’ve not only dipped your toe into my pool of existential angst, you’ve done a cannonball and splashed all the water out.”
sukuna, from his corner, snickered into his phone. “he’s not wrong. the sad boy market is oversaturated now. you’ve created a bubble.”
suguru shot sukuna a glare before continuing. “the edits, satoru. the fan edits are a disaster. my fan accounts—accounts that are supposed to be dedicated to artful, black-and-white photos of my side profile—are now posting split screens. me, looking pensive, next to you, looking like a kicked puppy in slow motion. they’re putting lana del rey songs over footage of your guitar solos. you have completely disrupted the delicate symbiotic relationship between our respective fandoms. it’s chaos.”
“i’m not trying to be sad,” satoru mumbled into a cushion, his voice thick with a misery that was, unfortunately, one hundred percent authentic. “i just am.”
“we know, man,” nanami said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. he put his phone down, a sign of true seriousness. “that’s the problem. this isn’t an act for you right now, and it’s… getting a little scary.”
“scary?” satoru pushed himself up, looking between them. “what’s scary? i’m fine. i’m just… evolving.”
“evolution is for darwin. you’re not evolving, you’re spiraling,” suguru said, his frustration finally softening into something that looked a lot like genuine concern. “you look like you haven’t slept in a week. you’re living off gas station coffee and your own tears. and on stage… you’re somewhere else entirely.”
he was right. the tour had become a blur of sold-out arenas and hollow, echoing hotel rooms. his public pain had become a bizarre, marketable commodity, but the person underneath it all was starting to fray at the edges.
“the internet thinks it’s some kind of tragic, romantic performance art,” nanami added, his tone flat but not unkind. “we know it’s just you being a fucking idiot and breaking your own heart in public every night.”
“my point,” suguru cut in, re-railing the conversation back to the most important issue at hand, “is that this ‘fallen angel’ era of yours is deeply infringing on my carefully curated brand identity. but also,” he sighed, the fight going out of him, “we’re worried about you, you dumbass.”
“your thirst edits have officially become yearning edits,” sukuna chimed in, not looking up from his phone. “and frankly, the secondhand embarrassment is becoming overwhelming. you need to get a grip. for all our sakes.”
before satoru could even begin to mount a defense—a flimsy, transparent shield of excuses he didn’t even believe himself—a cheery, pastel-colored envelope was unceremoniously slapped into his hands. it felt less like a gift and more like a beautifully packaged restraining order from his own life.
vacation time! the cover proclaimed in a swirly, offensively cheerful font. mandatory rest and relaxation!
satoru stared at it, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and deep, personal offense. “what is this?” he asked, his voice flat.
“it’s a one-way ticket to okinawa,” nanami stated, his voice devoid of inflection. “the label has ‘graciously suggested’ you take two weeks off at your villa. it is, and i quote the email, ‘an opportunity to disconnect, recalibrate, and rediscover your core brand values.’”
his villa. the words landed like a stone in his gut. not some faceless corporate retreat, but his place. your place. the one he’d bought two years ago under a shell corporation, a sun-drenched, secluded hideaway tucked into a private cove where the cicadas sang louder than the world and time always seemed to move slower. his escape. your escape. where the walls were so saturated with your ghosts he ought to start charging them rent.
“you’re being exiled,” sukuna clarified helpfully. “to the scene of the crime, no less. deliciously ironic.”
“it’s not an exile, it’s a strategic retreat,” suguru said, his voice softening into something almost brotherly. he clapped a hand on satoru’s shoulder. “look, man. we cancelled everything for the next two weeks. go somewhere familiar. lick your wounds. try to remember who you were before you decided to publicly detonate your own heart.”
he squeezed his shoulder. “go to the beach. get some sun. go yell at the ocean. just, for the love of god,” he leaned in closer, “don’t check her social media.” a pause. “and don’t livestream your crying.”
with that, he turned and walked away, the air of a man who had successfully completed his good deed for the day.
satoru, of course, posted about it immediately. his phone was in his hand before the studio door had even swung shut.
an instagram story. a stark, black screen with simple, lowercase white text: gone fishing. don’t text unless you’re a mermaid or carrying good news about my emotional stability.
the caption on the follow-up post—a blurry, deeply melancholic picture of his designer suitcases by the door—read: sometimes healing looks like running away to a beach house and pretending your problems can’t swim. the lie tasted like ash in his mouth. he wasn’t running away to heal—he was running directly into the heart of the hurricane.
he packed like a man preparing for his own haunting. he shoved expensive, designer clothes and a mountain of emotional baggage into his suitcases with equal, chaotic disregard. oversized sunglasses to hide the exhaustion in his eyes.
a collection of ridiculously soft hoodies to disappear into, including the gray one. the gray one. he packed it with the reverence of a holy relic. and his guitar, because he was a masochist of the highest order, bringing the very instrument of his own destruction along to the crime scene.
his toiletry bag was a cry for help—half a pharmacy’s worth of hangover cures and the other half dedicated to various over-the-counter sleep aids, because consciousness had become a liability and his dreams were too dangerous, too full of you, to be trusted.
within five minutes of posting, it had two million views. by the time he reached the airport, a fan cam of him looking utterly miserable at baggage claim was already circulating on twitter, tragically set to a slowed-down, reverb-heavy version of chappell roan's “the subway.”
he turned his notifications off.
he told himself this was a good thing. exposure therapy. confronting the ghosts head-on. becoming the man he was before you’d turned his life into a chart-topping pop song and his heart into a trending topic.
he repeated it to himself like a mantra, a desperate, flimsy prayer. during the long, transatlantic flight. during the silent, humid taxi ride from the airport, a ride he'd taken with you sleeping on his shoulder more times than he could count.
but healing was a scam, and satoru gojo was a hypocrite of the highest, most spectacular order.
how did the bridge of your song go again? the part that twisted the knife with a polite, dismissive smile?
you replay my laughter like your favorite show, turned three little words to the gospel you know, drowning in a crush you refuse to outgrow, that’s not normal, just so you know
damn right.
it starts, as most of his worst decisions and best nights always have, with whiskey.
the good stuff. the hibiki, aged twenty-one years, a bottle he saves for either a celebration or a funeral. tonight, it’s both. he is mourning the death of his own heart, and celebrating his commitment to giving it the most lavish, expensive wake imaginable.
he’s three days deep into his okinawan exile, his glorious, sun-drenched prison of memories, and his entire existence has been distilled into a pathetic, repeating, and deeply luxurious loop.
wake up, stare at the ocean until its endless blue starts to feel like a personal accusation, drink whiskey that costs more than most people’s rent, and eventually, pass out. rinse, repeat.
he’s a mess. a beautiful, exquisitely tailored mess, but a mess nonetheless. a fine, pale layer of stubble is beginning to artfully obscure the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw, softening his edges, making him look less like a world-famous rockstar and more like a disgraced poet-aristocrat who has been banished to his country estate.
he’s living in the gray hoodie. it smells like stale, expensive whiskey and old heartbreak now, but underneath it all, buried deep in the worn cotton, is the faint, lingering ghost of you. it is, at once, the most comforting and most torturous garment he owns.
tonight’s special activity in this prison of memories he built for himself is a new, particularly exquisite form of self-punishment.
he’s sitting on the edge of the sprawling wooden deck, the one where he once watched you dance in the moonlight, his bare feet dangling over the edge, the warm, humid night air doing absolutely nothing to sober him.
his phone, a sleek black mirror of his own misery, is propped up against the now half-empty bottle of hibiki, and from its small, tinny speakers, a sad, reedy voice is singing your song.
it’s a cover. some kid on youtube with a cheap acoustic guitar, a condenser mic, and a palpable sense of secondhand angst.
he’s stripped away all the shimmering, bubbly, fuck-you-very-much production of your version, leaving only the raw, brutal architecture of your lyrics.
and satoru, in his drunken, masochistic haze, is forced to admit that the chord progression is actually quite clever. a devastatingly effective use of a minor-to-major key shift in the chorus that makes the denial sound almost triumphant. he hates it. he’s listened to it five times in a row.
this is his pathetic paradise. it was once your shared paradise, their secret, but he’s single-handedly turned it into a high-end emotional prison, where every grain of sand on the private beach below, every gust of sea-salted air, is a ghost of you.
he takes another long, slow pull from the bottle, the whiskey burning a familiar, welcome path down his throat, a controlled demolition.
and then, a sound.
it’s a buzz. a sharp, intrusive, offensively electronic noise that cuts through the sad acoustic melody and the gentle, rhythmic shushing of the waves. the intercom at the front gate.
satoru freezes, the bottle halfway to his lips. his entire body goes rigid. no one knows he’s here. not really. the label knows, his band knows, but no one else. it’s not a delivery person— it’s nearly midnight. his drunk, celebrity-addled brain, a finely tuned instrument of paranoia and melodrama, leaps to the one and only logical, cinematic conclusion.
it’s a sasaeng. a crazy fan. someone has found him. someone has breached the invisible walls of his secret, sacred hideaway. a tiny, shameful, deeply bored part of him is a little bit thrilled by the drama. it’s a welcome distraction from the main feature of his own suffering.
he stumbles to his feet, a low, animalistic growl rumbling in his chest. he fumbles for his phone, the sad acoustic cover still playing from its tinny speakers, and stabs at the screen to stop it. the sudden silence feels almost as oppressive as the music had. he shoves the phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and grabs the bottle of whiskey—his only weapon and his closest confidant—before making his way unsteadily through the dark, cavernous living room to the video intercom panel by the door. he stabs at the screen with his thumb, his movements clumsy.
the camera feed flickers to life, a grainy, stark black-and-white image of the front gate. and there, standing under the single, weak security light, is a figure.
it’s a person, he can tell that much. but they’re wearing the most ridiculously, conspicuously conspicuous outfit he has ever seen in his life.
a giant, floppy straw hat, the kind a wealthy widow would wear to a garden party, so wide it obscures their entire head and shoulders like a personal, portable awning. massive, dark sunglasses, the jackie o kind that cover half the face, even though it is the dead of night. and, most bizarrely of all, a full-length, beige trench coat, buttoned all the way up to the collar, an item of clothing so profoundly out of place in the thick, humid okinawan heat that it borders on performance art.
this is not a fan. this is a cryptid. a fashion-conscious mothman.
he presses the talk button. his voice comes out as a low, whiskey-soaked, and he hopes, intimidating slur. “yeah?”
a voice crackles back through the speaker. it’s muffled, high-pitched, and so obviously fake it’s genuinely insulting to his intelligence. “is this the residence of gojo satoru?”
definitely a fan. the tiny spark of thrill evaporates, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated annoyance. his private pity party had a strict “no uninvited guests” policy.
“nope,” he says, leaning his tired forehead against the cool, smooth wall beside the panel. he decides to lean into the absurdity of the situation. it’s more fun than being sad. “sorry, private property. satoru’s not here.” he straightens up, a spark of drunken, chaotic genius igniting in his brain. “he’s… in antarctica. for research. important research. about… penguins. you know.”
there’s a long, charged pause on the other end. then, the squeaky, fake voice again, now laced with an audible thread of deep, simmering frustration. “open the gate, satoru.”
the sound of his name, even in that stupid, cartoonish voice, sends a strange, unwelcome signal down his spine. it’s a frequency he knows, buried under layers of bad audio and bad decisions. she’s good. she’s committed to the bit. but he’s not falling for it.
“look, i don’t know who you are, but you need to leave before i call the police,” he says, trying to sound menacing and probably just sounding drunk and tired. “i’m not kidding. they take trespassing very seriously here. especially by poorly disguised cryptids.”
“i’m not leaving until you open this damn gate!” the voice shrieks, losing some of its artificial squeakiness and gaining a familiar, fiery, and deeply unsettling edge that sends a confusing jolt through his system.
that’s it. he’s had enough. his privacy has been violated, his meticulously planned evening of drunken self-reflection has been interrupted, and his sanity is hanging on by a single, frayed, whiskey-soaked thread. he’s going to go out there and confront this… this trench-coated menace in person.
he takes one last fortifying swig from the whiskey bottle, and yanks the heavy front door open, letting it slam against the interior wall behind him with a satisfying thud. he stumbles out into the warm, salty night, the sharp gravel of the long driveway crunching unpleasantly under his bare feet.
the walk to the gate feels like a mile. the single security light illuminates the bizarre figure, and as he gets closer, he can see the way the thick fabric of the trench coat is already starting to look damp and heavy in the humidity. a small, dark part of him hopes they’re suffering in there.
“alright, show’s over,” he slurs, stopping a few feet from the tall, wrought iron gate. he holds up the whiskey bottle like a makeshift club. “i’m giving you ten seconds to get off my property before i call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing and for crimes against fashion, because what even is that coat? are you a detective from a 1940s film noir?”
the figure just stands there for a second, a statue of pure, vibrating frustration. and then, with a sudden, violent movement of pure exasperation, you rip the giant, floppy hat off your head, sending it sailing to the gravel with a soft, defeated rustle. you follow it with the oversized sunglasses, yanking them off with such force that they almost fly from your hand.
and it’s you.
it’s. you.
you look furious. your hair is a mess, flattened by the hat and sticking to your skin, which is flushed a deep, angry pink and gleaming with a thin layer of sweat from the ridiculous, suffocating coat. you are breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged movements, and you look absolutely, incandescently, nothing like a crazy fan.
you look like his own personal ghost, his most beautiful and terrible haunting, come back to torment him in the flesh.
satoru’s brain does a full, catastrophic system crash. it’s a blue screen of death, a fatal error, a complete and total shutdown of all cognitive function.
the whiskey, the exhaustion, the weeks of unrelenting misery, and the sheer, unadulterated shock of seeing you standing right there, in front of him, creates a perfect storm of cognitive dissonance.
he can see you, his eyes are taking in the information, but his brain is flatly refusing to process it. is he hallucinating? is this a whiskey-fueled mirage? has he finally, officially, gone completely and irrevocably insane?
the silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the distant, mocking sound of the waves. he just stands there, whiskey bottle dangling forgotten from his hand, his mouth hanging slightly open like a fool.
and before he can form a single, coherent, romantic thought—before he can say your name, or “i miss you,” or “what the fuck are you doing here?”—you unleash.
but you’re not crying. you’re not there to apologize. you are radiating a fury so pure, so potent, it feels like it’s raising the temperature of the air around you. your opening line is not “i miss you.” it is delivered with the sharp, cutting edge of a woman who has been profoundly, personally, and absurdly scorned.
“you didn’t recognize me.”
your voice is low, seething with a rage that seems completely disconnected from the situation at hand. you stare at him through the bars of the gate, your hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists at your sides.
satoru is baffled. his drunk brain is trying to catch up, but it’s like trying to catch a bullet train on a tricycle. “what?” he manages, the word a stupid, confused puff of air.
“you didn’t recognize me!” you repeat, your voice rising in volume and sheer, theatrical disbelief. you take a step closer to the gate, your knuckles bone-white where you’re gripping the cool iron bars. “you promised me, satoru. right here, on this property, probably on that very deck. you promised.”
he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. he’s still stuck on the fact that you are physically here, in okinawa, at his gate, looking like you want to both kiss him and kill him.
“you said,” you continue, your voice now trembling with a rage that is so much more terrifying than sadness, so much more confusing, “you said, and i quote, ‘i would know it was you even if you were a worm.’ a literal, dirt-eating, slimy little worm! you said you would see a worm wriggling on the sidewalk after a rainstorm and you would just know, in your soul, that it was me! but you can’t recognize me in a stupid fucking hat? was the worm thing a lie, satoru?! was it just another one of your pretty, empty, poetic lines that you feed to girls?”
and there it is. the central, catastrophic conflict. it is not your public, lyrical betrayal of his heart. it is not the weeks of radio silence and public misery.
it is his failure to live up to a ridiculous, probably-drunken, and deeply sincere worm-related promise he doesn’t even remember making. the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it is so you, and so him, and so you and him, that for a split second, a hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat.
but then his own bruised ego, his own deep, festering well of hurt, finally catches up. his brain reboots, and the confusion curdles into a hot, indignant, and deeply satisfying sulk. oh, no. he’s not just going to let you steamroll him with this… this invertebrate-based accusation. not after everything.
he straightens up, a slow, deliberate movement, and a dark, humorless smirk curls his lips. he takes a slow, deliberate sip from the whiskey bottle, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent, theatrical pause.
“a worm, huh?” he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr that’s dripping with sarcasm. “that’s a high bar.” he lowers the bottle, his smirk widening into a full, sharp-edged grin. “you released a song that is essentially a three-minute restraining order set to a pop beat, a song that has been the soundtrack to my own personal, waking hell for three weeks, and you show up here, at my private, secret hideaway, dressed like carmen sandiego’s depressed, heat-stroked cousin, and you’re mad—you’re mad—that i didn’t immediately recognize you because of some bullshit promise about a worm?”
“it wasn’t bullshit!” you shoot back, rattling the gate in your frustration, the sound sharp and angry in the night. “it was a metaphor for unconditional recognition! a literary concept you clearly don’t understand because you’re too busy being a himbo!”
“oh, i understand recognition,” he says, taking a step closer to the gate, his voice dropping, the sound of it a low, intimate growl. “i recognize the girl who wrote a chart-topping song implying i’m a delusional, obsessive stalker. that girl, i recognize perfectly.”
“i had to!” you shout, and for the first time, a crack appears in your furious facade. a flicker of something desperate and real and deeply hurt flashes in your eyes. “i had no choice!”
“a choice?” he laughs, a short, ugly, humorless sound that scrapes his own throat. “you always have a choice. you could have called. you could have texted. you could have sent a fucking carrier pigeon.”
“with what phone?!” you scream, your frustration boiling over. you finally find the keypad on the gate post and punch in the code—the code you still remember, his birthday, 1-2-0-7—and the gate clicks open with a soft, final buzz.
you storm through, shoving past him without a glance, the ridiculous trench coat flapping around you like the wings of a large, angry bird. “you think this is what i wanted? you think i enjoyed any of this?”
he follows you as you march up the long, gravel driveway, his angry, stomping footsteps a stark contrast to the quiet of the night. he can’t help but watch the sway of your hips, even when you’re furious. “i don’t know what you wanted! you made that pretty clear in your little hit single!”
you spin around to face him in the middle of the driveway, your face illuminated by the warm, golden light spilling from the open front door of the villa. “satoru, your song was… it was the most charming, reckless, stupidly romantic thing anyone has ever done. and it forced my agency’s hand!”
you take a step towards him, your voice lowering, becoming more intense. “they see ‘gojo satoru’ and they see ryomen sukuna setting a reporter’s car on fire. they see him getting into bar fights in foreign countries. they see him as ‘brand kryptonite’ for a pop princess whose biggest controversy to date is wearing mismatched socks. your song put a giant, glittering, neon sign on ‘us,’ a thing they didn’t even know existed, and they panicked, satoru! they went into full crisis mode.”
he just stares at you, the whiskey buzzing in his veins, your words finally, slowly, starting to penetrate the thick fog of his own self-pity.
“that’s why i came to the festival,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly, the anger finally giving way to the hurt underneath. “they took my phone, they had a ‘handler’ following me everywhere. it was my only chance to find you, to try and explain anything before they forced me into a recording studio to sing that… that corporate, soulless, pr statement of a song. and you… you looked right through me and told me to save it for a fairy tale.”
the blow lands. right in the center of his chest, a clean, sharp, and deeply deserved hit. the memory of your crumpled face flashes in his mind, and for the first time in weeks, the anger he feels is directed entirely at himself..
but he’s hurt. and he’s drunk. and he is absolutely, categorically not ready to surrender the moral high ground he has been so miserably occupying for the past three weeks.
your explanation, as logical and painful as it sounds, is an inconvenient truth that his pride is refusing to process. it’s easier to be the victim. it’s easier to be the one who was wronged.
he just stares at you for a long, heavy moment. the air in the driveway is thick with the ghosts of your shouted words and the scent of the sea. your face, illuminated by the warm light spilling from the villa, is a mask of exhausted frustration, your eyes pleading with him to just, for once, understand.
a part of him, the sober, rational part that is currently locked in the basement of his skull, knows you’re telling the truth. but the rest of him, the part that’s been marinating in hibiki and self-pity, just sees the woman who broke his heart on the radio.
“so that’s it?” he finally says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. he takes a step towards you, closing the space you’d put between you, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him. “you just expect me to say ‘oh, okay, that makes sense,’ and just… what? forget the past months? forget the song? forget the fact that you turned my heart into a international pop anthem about how i’m a delusional clinger?”
“i’m not asking you to forget it, satoru,” you say, your voice weary. you don’t back down, don’t flinch from his proximity. “i’m asking you to listen for five seconds without making this entire thing about your wounded pride. i missed you. i was scared. and i was completely alone.”
the words “i missed you” hang in the air between you, a fragile, shimmering thing. they should be a balm, a key, the thing that ends this. but his pride is a fortress, and he’s not ready to lower the gates.
“you don’t get to say that,” he whispers, the words sharp and cruel. “not now. not after you stood by and let them do it.”
he turns away from you then, a sharp, jerky movement, and stalks into the house, leaving you standing alone in the driveway. he needs to move, needs to pace, the restless, angry energy in his veins too much to contain.
you follow him in, closing the door softly behind you. the sound clicks with a quiet finality. your anger has momentarily cooled, replaced by a deep, aching sadness as you take in the state of the room. it’s a mess. his mess. empty ramen cups on the expensive coffee table, a discarded shirt slung over a chair, the half-empty bottle of whiskey standing sentinel on the floor.
it’s the physical manifestation of his heartbreak, and it makes your own chest ache with a fresh wave of guilt and longing.
“satoru, stop,” you say, your voice soft now, pleading. “just stop and listen to me.”
“i’ve been listening!” he snaps, spinning around to face you. he’s pacing now, a caged tiger in his own home, gesturing wildly around the room, at the mess, at the ghosts, at the empty space beside him on the couch. “i’ve been doing nothing but listening! to your song, on the radio, in grocery stores, in my own fucking nightmares! what more do you want me to listen to?”
“to me! the real me, not the version my label wrote a press release for!” you take a step closer, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “i told you, i tried to talk to you at the festival—”
“oh, the festival!” he laughs, a short, ugly, humorless sound. “yeah, let’s talk about that. what did you expect me to do? you think i didn’t see the cameras? the phones? everyone from crew members to other artists had a video of that little moment. of me snubbing you. you know what would have happened if i’d let you ‘explain’ right there? it would have been career suicide. for you.”
he stops pacing and faces you, his expression a twisted mask of self-righteous fury and genuine pain. “your song was the biggest hit of the summer. a song all about how you don’t know me, how i’m some delusional fan. for you to turn around a week later and say ‘just kidding’? you would have looked like the world’s biggest hypocrite. i did the right thing. i saved your precious fucking career for you.”
“don’t you dare,” you say, your voice dangerously quiet. you close the distance between you until you’re only a few feet apart, the air crackling with everything unsaid. “don’t you dare pretend that was for me. that was for your pride. that was you, hurt and angry, and lashing out because it was easier than listening.”
you take another step, close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him. “i get it,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “i do. i know what my song did. i know it hurt. but it hurt me too. and you don’t get to decide what’s best for me or my career. you just get to decide whether or not you’ll listen when i’m standing right in front of you, trying to tell you the truth.”
your words land like a clean punch. he’s got nothing. no sarcastic retort, no angry denial. he just looks at you, his jaw tight, his beautiful face a mess of conflicting emotions. he knows you’re right. he’s lost the argument, and the sudden loss of his righteous anger leaves him feeling raw and exposed.
his brain, a frantic and unreliable narrator fueled by alcohol and pain, casts about for a new grievance, a new anchor. it needs to find some ground, any ground, where he can be right, where he isn’t the asshole.
and then, his wild, desperate eyes land on the open door to the master bathroom. and in its infinite, irrational wisdom, his brain finds it. the perfect, petty, indestructible piece of driftwood.
“you know what?” he says, his voice dropping, a sudden, bizarre shift in tone. “this is just typical. this is what you do.”
you stare at him, your expression a perfect mask of utter bafflement. the whiplash from the conversation is almost audible. “what are you talking about?”
“you just waltz in here,” he continues, taking a step towards you, his voice rising with a new, completely unhinged wave of indignation, “back into my life, into my—our—house, and you just expect everything to be exactly how you want it. you don’t think. you just do.”
“satoru, you’re not making any sense,” you say, taking a cautious step back, looking at him like he might have actually, finally, lost his mind.
“oh, it makes sense,” he says, and he points a long, accusatory, and slightly trembling finger towards the bathroom. “it makes perfect sense. because you’re the same person. you’re the same person who never, not once, puts the cap back on the toothpaste!”
the accusation hangs in the air, so profoundly, wonderfully stupid it feels like a physical object.
for a moment, you just stare at him, your mouth slightly agape. the sheer, unadulterated audacity of the pivot is almost impressive. you look from his wild, accusing eyes to the bathroom and back again.
and then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across your face.
“the toothpaste cap?” you say, your voice a low, incredulous purr. you cross your arms over your chest, a gesture of pure, familiar defiance. “you want to talk about the toothpaste cap, satoru? after everything, after weeks of silence and public humiliation, that’s the hill you want to die on?” you don’t wait for an answer. “fine. let’s talk about it. and while we’re at it, let’s talk about how you squeeze it from the middle like a goddamn barbarian.”
his eyes narrow. “i do not—”
“you absolutely do! and you leave your contact case open on the counter with the solution evaporating, and you use my expensive face wash as body soap!” you take a deliberate step forward. “the one that costs more than your stupid designer socks that you leave everywhere like some kind of textile breadcrumb trail!”
“those socks cost eight hundred dollars!” he yells back.
“then maybe don’t treat them like disposable napkins!” you shout, throwing your hands up. “there’s probably one fossilized under that couch cushion from march! and don’t get me started on how you eat cereal—who the hell puts the milk in first?!”
“it prevents splashing!”
“it’s psychotic behavior, satoru! and you leave exactly one sip of coffee in the pot every morning like you’re marking territory!”
“i was saving it for you!”
“for three hours while it turned into battery acid!” you’re pacing now, and he’s mirroring you, both of you circling like wolves. “and you reorganize my spotify playlists! without asking! i had my shower songs in a very specific order!”
“your shower songs made no sense! you can’t go from chopin to cardi b!”
“it’s called range!”
you’re close now, close enough that your chests are almost touching. he can smell your perfume mixed with travel and fury. you can see the gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
and then, the shouting stops.
his eyes drop from yours to your mouth, still parted from yelling at him about cereal protocol. and you know, with a terrifying, primal certainty that starts as a low thrum deep in your belly, what’s about to happen.
satoru doesn’t know who moves first. it doesn’t matter. one moment you’re locked in a standoff, and the next, in a surge of pure, frustrated energy, you shove him. both your hands flat against his chest, a futile, desperate attempt to create space, to regain some semblance of control.
it’s like pushing against a marble statue. he doesn’t budge an inch, just absorbs the impact with a low, dark chuckle that vibrates through his chest and into your palms.
and then he’s the one moving.
he flips it, the dynamic shifting so fast it steals the breath from your lungs. one of his large, warm hands tangles in your hair, gripping the strands at the nape of your neck, not painfully, but with an absolute, undeniable ownership that makes your knees feel weak.
his other arm snakes around your waist, yanking you flush against the hard, unyielding length of him. and he’s crashing his mouth down on yours.
it is less a kiss and more a collision. it’s angry, and messy, and full of teeth. there is too much tongue, a slick, hot invasion that seeks to dominate, to silence, to consume. it tastes like expensive whiskey and the salt on your skin and weeks of pent-up, unspoken frustration.
he walks you backwards, his steps sure and deliberate, while yours are a clumsy, stumbling retreat. your back hits the cool, smooth surface of the wall with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the wet, open-mouthed chaos of the kiss. he cages you in, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle in front of you, his size, his sheer presence, filling your entire world, your entire vision.
your hands, of their own accord, fist in the soft, worn fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him closer, as if that were even possible. you’re both panting into each other’s mouths, the fight not over, just changed.
“you have no idea…” he growls against your lips, the words a rough, broken thing.
“…what you put me through,” you manage to gasp back, your insult lost as he bites, gently but firmly, at your bottom lip, pulling a low, involuntary moan from your throat.
the warmth of his palm lands first, a heavy, possessive brand on your thigh, just above the knee. you feel the distinct, rough texture of his callouses, a geography you know by heart, as he begins a lazy, torturous crawl upwards.
it’s the touch he’s been fantasizing about for weeks, and the reality of your skin, warm and real under his hand, makes a shudder run through his entire body.
your breath hitches, a tiny, involuntary sound you can’t hold back, and he feels it against his mouth, a silent gasp that tastes like victory. he watches your eyes flutter shut as his hand finally settles high on your leg, his thumb pressing into the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your hip.
his fingers find the lapel of your ridiculous trench coat, and for a moment, he just toys with the fabric, his cerulean eyes, dark with whiskey and something much more potent, fixed on yours. then he starts on the buttons.
you feel the clumsy, frustrated pressure of his large fingers against your stomach, a stark contrast to the usual grace you know he possesses. a low, frustrated growl rumbles in his chest, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours, making your stomach flip with a dizzying mix of anticipation and dread.
“get this thing off,” he mutters, his voice a rough, gravelly thing against your mouth. he gives up on the buttons, his patience snapping. he grabs the coat on either side and yanks it open, the force of it making you stumble a step closer, your body colliding with his.
you let out a soft ‘oof’ as you land against the hard wall of his chest, your hands coming up to brace yourself against his shoulders. he shrugs the heavy, sweat-dampened fabric off you, letting it fall in a heap on the floor behind you, a discarded skin.
and then he sees you. really sees you. not on a screen, not in a memory, but here. real. just you in a dress, now wrinkled from your journey.
he lets out a low, appreciative sound, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, his eyes raking over you, a slow, possessive inventory. this is the image he’s been replaying in his head in the darkest hours of the night, and the reality of you is a thousand times more potent.
his hand comes back to you, this time to the delicate strap of your dress. he doesn’t slide it down. he hooks his finger under it, his gaze locked on yours, and pulls. the sound is a short, sharp, satisfying rip, and you jolt, a shocked little gasp escaping your lips. the sound, your sound, makes his grin turn feral. he does the same to the other strap, spurred on by your reaction.
he shoves the ruined bodice of the dress down, bunching the fabric around your waist, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the room. your nipples pebble instantly, a betrayal your body offers up without your consent.
his mouth detaches from yours with a wet, sticky sound and follows the path of his hands, his tongue a hot, wet brand against the swell of your breast. he laves the peak, the rough texture of his tongue sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure straight to your core.
he draws it into his mouth, his teeth gently scraping, and a full-body shudder wracks through you. your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud as a low, helpless moan escapes your lips. your fingers, which were braced against his shoulders, fist in the thick fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer, a silent, desperate plea for more.
that’s the sound he’s been waiting for. that’s the sound he’s been imagining.a low, triumphant growl vibrates in his chest, and his other hand finds your thigh, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he lifts your leg, hooking it around his narrow hip, granting himself the access he so clearly craves.
you gasp as the cool air hits your wet, exposed skin, your thighs clenching involuntarily. his mouth is on yours again, deeper this time, wetter, a frantic, desperate thing. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting of whiskey and himself and the desperation he can now taste on you. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.
“you know,” he begins, his voice a low, conversational purr, as if you were just chatting over coffee. his hand, which had been on your thigh, slides inwards. he lets his fingers brush lightly over the thin, damp fabric of your underwear. you flinch, a tiny, involuntary jerk of your hips. he smirks. “for a girl who wrote a whole, chart-topping song about me being a delusional clinger…”
his fingers press down, just slightly, and he feels it. the undeniable, shameless proof of how wet you are. his smirk widens into a full, sharp-edged, triumphant grin.
“…this is a little inconvenient for your narrative, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice dripping with playful, condescending victory. he chuckles, a low, dark sound against your throat. “funny. the lyrics didn’t mention anything about this part.”
he hooks a finger under the elastic of your underwear, not to pull them off, but just to feel the wet, slick heat of you directly. “i’ve heard enough of your singing voice on the radio for a lifetime. let’s hear what you really sound like when you’re being honest.”
he hooks his fingers into the side of your underwear and rips them away, the sound another satisfying tear in the quiet of the room. and then his fingers, bare and slick with your own wetness, are on you.
the reality of you, slick and hot under his hands, is a thousand times better than the memory he’s been clinging to for months. one finger at first, then two, slipping inside you with an easy, familiar glide.
the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, makes another low moan rumble in your chest, and you press yourself down onto his hand, a silent, shameless offering. he groans at the feeling, the feeling he’s been chasing in his own hand for weeks.
he starts to move, and at the same time, he starts to grind against you. his erection, thick and hard and straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants, presses against your thigh, a steady, rhythmic friction that makes your head spin.
you can feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and the promise of it makes a low, needy whine escape your throat. every time you whine, every little desperate sound you make, he grinds a little harder, his fingers moving a little faster, a cruel, perfect feedback loop of pleasure.
his fingers move with an impossible, dizzying speed, a frantic, desperate rhythm that mirrors the chaos in his head. he finds that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl, and he starts to work it, a relentless, focused assault. he adds his thumb to the mix, a rough, calloused pressure against your clit, and the combination is devastating.
your hips start to buck against his hand, actively trying to fuck his fingers, to grind your clit raw against the rough pad of his thumb. the pleasure is too much, a sharp, white-hot wire coiling tight and low in your belly, making your legs tremble uncontrollably.
a constant, broken stream of noise is torn from your throat—high, needy whines and choked, sob-like gasps of his name, “satoru, satoru, fuck—” the sounds are ugly, shameless, and a flash of mortification cuts through the haze. your free hand flies up, slapping over your mouth to stifle the next pathetic cry.
but his reflexes are faster. he snatches your wrist, his grip like a steel manacle, and yanks your hand away from your face, pinning it flat to the wall beside your head.
“no,” he growls, his voice a low, guttural command that vibrates through the wall and into your skull. he leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. “you don’t get to hide from me. i want to hear every fucking ugly sound you make. i’ve been jerking off to the memory of these sounds for months.”
a sharp, shocked gasp is torn from your throat. your hips slam down hard onto his hand, a single, involuntary thrust, and your inner walls give a deep, fluttering pulse against his knuckles.
he feels it. a low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound of pure, smug victory. “oh, you like that?” he murmurs, his thumb, which had been part of the frantic rhythm, suddenly slowing, pressing and grinding against your clit in a single, deliberate, torturous circle. “my needy little mess. getting all hot and bothered hearing about how i use you in my head. it’s not enough, though. the memories aren’t the real thing.”
his fingers inside you shift. instead of pumping, they press upwards, his knuckles finding that sensitive, swollen spot deep inside you and just holding, a firm, unwavering pressure that sends a dizzying shockwave through your entire system. a high, broken whine is torn from your throat.
“you know what’s even better than the memories?” he asks, his voice a low, filthy secret against your ear, while his thumb continues its relentless, circular assault. “your music video. yeah, that one. the one where you’re systematically dismantling my heart on a global scale.”
your whole body tenses, a wave of pure, exquisite humiliation washing over you.
“the part on the beach,” he continues, his voice a rough purr. “in that little white linen thing.” he pauses, and you can feel the smirk in his voice as he presses his knuckles just a little bit harder. “i was so fucking pissed watching it. and so fucking hard. you weren’t wearing anything underneath, were you? you never do at the beach.”
the intimate, secret detail, spoken aloud while he holds you pinned on the edge of a climax, is what finally makes you break. your entire body convulses, a choked, sob-like sound ripping from your throat as your hips start to move again, a desperate, mindless rocking against his unmoving hand, trying to create your own friction. you’re completely lost to it.
“that’s it,” he growls, his own control fraying. his hand finally starts to move again, a new, brutal rhythm. his fingers scissor inside you, stretching you, opening you up in a way that’s a completely different kind of overwhelming pleasure, while his thumb never leaves its relentless, circular assault on your clit. your moans get louder, higher, more desperate, shameless sounds of pure need.
and then he stops.
his fingers, buried to the knuckles inside your soaking cunt, go dead still. your inner walls, already spasming in anticipation, clench down hard around his motionless fingers. a raw, frustrated whine rips from the back of your throat. your eyes snap open, glaring, a petulant fire flashing in their depths before clouding over with that pathetic, desperate need he loves so much.
a slow, soft, fucking smirk touches his lips. his free hand comes up, his thumb gently stroking the tear track on your cheek, the pad of it coming away wet.
“what was that, princess?” his voice is a low, intimate purr. his other thumb, still slick with your fluid and pressed hard against your throbbing clit, makes a single, slow, deliberate circle. a sharp, broken gasp parts your lips on a silent plea. your hips buck hard against the tiny movement. “you want something? use your words for me. i need to hear you.”
“you’re a pervert,” you breathe, the accusation completely lacking any real heat, just a shaky, breathless statement of fact. “thinking about… that. while you watched my video.”
a slow, smug, triumphant grin spreads across his face. he doesn’t deny it. he revels in it. “am i?” he purrs, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “i’m not the one who’s completely falling apart right now.” to prove his point, his thumb grinds another slow, deliberate circle into your clit, and another gush of your slick leaks around his fingers, hot and thick, your body betraying you completely. “look at this mess. all because you found out a little secret.”
his tongue darts out, tracing the delicate shell of your ear, and a violent shiver wracks your whole body. his voice drops to a whisper, his hot breath ghosting against your skin. “you love it. you love knowing you make me this pathetic. now stop being a brat and earn it. beg for my fingers, right here, inside your cunt. ask me nicely.”
your jaw clenches so tight a muscle jumps under your skin. he knows exactly what to do. his fingers hook inside you, and at the same time, his thumb grinds a hard circle into your clit. a tiny, brutal movement that makes your body break.
a loud, shameless sob of a moan is torn from your throat, your eyes squeezing shut. there it is. the sweet little sound of his brat giving in.
“please,” you sob, the word thick with spit and desperation. “please, satoru. please, i need to… please…”
his smirk widens softly, almost fond. his own breath hitches. fuck, he missed this. “good girl,” he whispers, the words a rough, awestruck sound. his hand is a fucking blur. a punishing, piston-like rhythm begins.
two fingers pumping in and out, brutal and deep, while his thumb grinds your clit into a raw, throbbing nub. his hips start grinding against your thigh, his own thick, hard cock a constant, torturous promise against your leg.
your back arches off the wall as he pushes you harder, right to that dizzying edge. your voice cracks, degrading into a series of broken, pathetic mewls, his name a constant, breathy noise ripped from your throat.
a fresh gush of your slick soaks his hand, so much that it drips down his wrist. your inner muscles start to flutter around his knuckles. you’re about to come all over his hand.
and then he stops again.
the stillness is even more brutal this time. your body, already convulsing, seizes up. a choked, frustrated cry rips from your throat.
your hips keep trying to buck against his motionless hand, a frantic, mindless rhythm your body can’t stop, but his other hand clamps down on your hip bone, a firm, unyielding anchor pinning you to the wall, holding you still for his torment. hot tears stream down your face. he gently thumbs them away, his eyes fixed on your mouth, now open and slack.
“not yet,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress against your cheek. he’s panting now, his own cock aching in his pants. “i’m not done looking at you like this.” he leans in, his whisper a hot caress against your ear. “your pretty little cunt spasming around my fingers, trying to milk me. so greedy for it. now, use your words for me. you know what to do.”
a raw, frustrated, and deeply petulant sound rips from your throat. “i did!” you whine, the words a thick, angry sob. “i already said please! what more do you want from me?!”
a slow, condescending, and utterly delighted smirk touches his lips. he loves this. he loves when you try to fight him, even when you’re this far gone. he leans in again, his voice a low, patient purr, as if explaining a very simple rule to a very stupid, very pretty pet.
“‘please’?” he echoes, his thumb making a single, slow, deliberate circle against your clit that makes your hips give a violent, involuntary jerk against his restraining hand. “princess, ‘please’ is for asking for another glass of water. it’s not for this.” he looks you right in the eye, his gaze dark and intense. “i don’t want you to be polite. i want you to be a fucking mess. you know the word i need. the ugly one. the one that tells me you’re not just asking, you’re completely falling apart for it. say the word, baby.”
your mind scrambles, trying to find one last shred of defiance, one last smart-ass comment to throw at him. “what word…?” you manage, your voice a thin, reedy thing. “pretty please?”
a slow, dark, fucking dangerous smirk touches his lips. that was a mistake. his fingers inside you, which had been still, suddenly hook, and he drags them once, a slow, brutal scrape against that raw, swollen, perfect spot deep inside you.
it’s not pleasure. it’s a full-body, electric shock that short-circuits your brain and shatters your last bit of resistance into a million pieces. a loud, shameless sob is torn from your throat, your entire body going rigid for a second before completely breaking.
“please—fuck, satoru, it hurts, please just let me—” you sob, the words a jumbled, broken mess. “i need to come, i need it, please just fuck my cunt with your fingers, please i’m begging you, i’ll do anything…”
his grin is feral, but his eyes are soft with a deep, possessive fondness. he loves this. he loves you like this. “i know,” he says, and the two words are a promise and a threat, a confirmation that he heard your surrender and is about to reward you for it.
your thighs shake against his arm, the muscles quivering so uncontrollably it’s a miracle you’re still standing. his hand is a blur, a punishing, piston-like rhythm that feels less like pleasure and more like a frantic, desperate attempt to erase the last few weeks from existence. .
he hooks his fingers deeper, drags your g-spot directly across his knuckles with every brutal pump, while his thumb grinds your clit into a raw, throbbing, oversensitive nub. the pleasure is so sharp it’s almost pain, a white-hot wire coiling tight and low in your belly, making you see stars behind your closed eyelids.
your voice, which had been a series of pathetic mewls, finally gives out completely. the sound degrades into a thin, reedy keen, a high-pitched, hopeless noise that’s not quite a scream, not quite a sob, just the pure, unfiltered sound of a body being pushed past its absolute limit.
another gush of your slick, so much that it runs hot and thick down your own thigh, soaks his hand, his wrist. he feels your cunt contract violently around his knuckles, a frantic, desperate, pulsing rhythm that signals you’re right there, on the precipice of a climax so powerful you’re not sure you’ll survive it. this is it. he promised.
and for the third, and most brutal time, he freezes.
this time, the silence is a physical blow. you don’t even have the energy to whine in protest. a single, ragged, broken sob is torn from your throat as your body gives a violent, full-body twitch. your hips give a few weak, mindless rocks against his motionless hand, a pathetic, instinctual attempt to find the friction that has vanished. hot, silent tears stream down your face, not from sadness, but from pure, devastating frustration and sensory overload.
he leans his forehead against yours, his own breathing harsh and unsteady, the muscles in his jaw tight with the strain of his own denial. he watches as your pupils, blown wide and black, slowly, painfully, try to focus on him. you look completely undone. empty.
“look at you,” he whispers, and his voice is full of a strange, possessive reverence, the sound of a man witnessing a miracle of his own creation. “so fucking beautiful like this.” his thumb comes up, gently stroking the wet track of a tear on your cheek. “this is the real you, isn’t it? not the girl on the posters. this messy, crying, completely shameless girl who falls apart for me. this is the one i get.”
he closes the tiny space between you, his lips brushing yours, so close but not kissing you, another small, perfect cruelty. “your voice…” he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur against your mouth. “everyone in the world pays millions to hear you sing those pretty, perfect words. but this sound…”
he pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze devouring you. “this ugly, broken little keen you were just making? that’s mine. that’s the sound no one else will ever hear. that’s the price of admission for breaking my heart, baby. i get this part of you. forever.”
a tiny, broken sound escapes your lips, a pathetic, desperate plea. “please…”
that’s all he needs. the sound of that single, shattered word is his final permission. he gives you a final, brutal push, a punishing, piston-like rhythm designed to shatter you, his own breath coming in harsh gasps. he works you over, his fingers a relentless assault, until your body is convulsing again, the violent spasm of your orgasm finally, truly beginning to take you.
your inner walls clench and unclench around his knuckles in a frantic, desperate rhythm. a long, keening note of pure, unrestrained pleasure builds in your throat, a hopeless, reedy sound threatening to shatter.
and right as that first true wave of pleasure hits, he rips his fingers out of you.
the sound is a wet, slick pop that echoes in the sudden, shocking silence. the climax is stolen, a brutal theft that leaves a hollow, aching void where the light was about to break.
your back slams against the wall as your body convulses around nothing. your hips keep bucking, a frantic, pathetic, mindless rhythm, chasing the ghost of his touch, your cunt spasming on empty air. a raw, animalistic keen is torn from your throat—not a sound of protest, but of pure, thwarted instinct, the sound of a creature whose very soul has been denied.
“look at me,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl.
you force your heavy eyelids open, your vision blurry with tears of pure frustration. he’s fumbling with the drawstring of his sweatpants, his eyes never leaving yours, a desperate, hungry look on his face. he pushes them down, just enough, and he’s free. the dim light catches the glint of metal first—a familiar, brutalist glint of polished titanium.
he is, as you remembered with a sharp, visceral pang, big. so thick and long and impossibly, beautifully, him, made even more intimidating by the barbell that pierces him vertically, a deliberate, beautiful weapon you know all too well.
he doesn’t wait. he doesn’t ask. your hips give another pathetic, involuntary twitch, and that’s all the invitation he needs. he positions himself at your entrance, the blunt, hot tip of him pressing against your slick, throbbing folds.
and he pushes into you. all at once.
the initial invasion is a deep, soul-shattering stretch that fills you completely, but it’s the second, more subtle impact that detonates you. as he drives in, the small, cool, heavy bead of metal at the base of his cockhead slides past your g-spot, a specific, targeted pressure that your body remembers on a cellular level. the feeling of being so completely, utterly filled by him, punctuated by that perfect, brutal little point of contact after being denied for so long, is what does it.
your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike. a hot, flooding gush of your own slick erupts from you, not a leak but a shameless, undeniable fountain that soaks his cock, his thighs, the floor beneath you.
your whole body seizes, your inner muscles clamping down on him and the cool, unyielding metal in a series of violent, exquisite spasms, a greedy, desperate fist milking him dry before he’s even started. a long, keening moan is torn from your throat, your voice cracking on his name, degrading into a series of helpless, breathy whimpers.
it’s the sound he’s been chasing in his dreams for weeks, and the reality of it, coupled with the hot, slick feeling of your body coming apart and gushing all over him, is a thousand times more potent.
he groans, a low, guttural sound torn from the depths of his chest, his own control strained to its absolute limit. he hadn’t even started moving yet. a fresh wave of dark, possessive pride washes over him, so potent it makes his head spin.
“fuck,” he breathes against your temple, his voice a rough, reverent whisper, full of awe and dark pride. he nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. “that little metal bastard still does the trick, huh?” he murmurs, his tone a mix of smug satisfaction and genuine wonder. “didn’t even last a second. just gushed all over my cock the moment i was home.” he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin, right where a tear track is still damp. “wrote a whole song about how you didn’t want me, and you fall apart the second you feel me inside you. my perfect, needy girl.”
he expects you to go limp, to ride out the aftershocks.
but you don’t.
your body is still trembling, your inner muscles fluttering weakly around the length of him, but it’s not enough. you’re not done. a low, needy whine escapes your throat, and your hips begin to move. it’s sloppy, a desperate rock against him, a mindless, greedy attempt to get that perfect pressure again. your body, on pure instinct, is already chasing the next orgasm, even as the last one still shudders through you.
a slow, dark, fucking triumphant grin spreads across his face.
“look at you,” he murmurs, the words a low, reverent growl. he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a hot, filthy secret. “no self-control at all when it comes to this, do you? my perfect, greedy girl.”
his hands clamp down hard on your hips, anchoring you. he pulls back, just an inch, the thick head of his cock and the cool weight of the metal dragging with an obscene, delicious friction along your swollen, hypersensitive inner walls, before thrusting back in.
“we’re just getting started,” he promises against your mouth, his lips finding yours again in a slow, deep kiss that’s less about passion and more about branding you as his.
and then he starts to move.
it’s a frantic, needy, unfinished rhythm. every punishing thrust is a word he couldn’t say. he lifts you higher against the wall, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and the sound of your wet, slick bodies slapping against each other is a brutal, obscene rhythm in the quiet of the house.
with every deep plunge, the top bead of the apadravya creates an entirely separate, maddening friction against your clit, a constant, dizzying buzz of pleasure that layers on top of the overwhelming fullness.
you meet every one of his thrusts with a desperate, hungry tilt of your own hips, chasing the feeling, trying to grind yourself raw against the metal. he pulls back, his cock almost slipping out of you, and you cry out in protest, your hips chasing him. he grins, a feral, wicked thing, before slamming back into you, all the way to the hilt, burying the piercing so deep you feel it nudge your cervix.
“like that?” he growls in your ear, his voice a low, rough purr. “want me to go deeper?”
you can only manage a sobbed “yes,” the word a broken, shameless thing.
he’s about to lose it. the pleasure is a hot, tight coil in his gut, but he’s not ready. not yet. he pulls back again, his hand coming to rest on your stomach, his thumb pressing down lightly, right over your womb. “you on the pill?” he asks, his voice a low, serious rumble.
he watches your eyes, wide and hazy with pleasure, as you give a breathless, eager shake of your head.
a dark, dangerous look flashes in his eyes, a look of profound, unholy purpose. “good,” he says, his voice a low, possessive growl. the rhythm changes completely. he drives into you with a punishing depth, every thrust a clear, unhinged attempt to ram his cock and the hard bead of metal so deep inside you that he touches your soul.
the thought of breeding you, of filling you with his child, of leaving a mark on you that no song or contract could ever erase, sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through him.
the intensity pushes him over. his balls tighten, an agonizing, familiar warning that he’s close. but he won’t. not yet.
he grits his teeth, a low snarl escaping his lips as he forces a new, torturous rhythm. he pulls out of you slowly, almost all the way, the thick head of his cock and the cool metal dragging with an obscene friction along your swollen, sensitive inner walls. you whimper, a high, pathetic sound, and try to chase him with your hips.
he just grins, a feral, wicked thing, before pushing back in, inch by agonizing inch. “fuck,” he groans against your throat, the sound half-laugh, half-snarl. his hips roll slow, cruel, the thick drag of him inside you just enough to make your head spin. “feel that? the way you clench around the metal? keep doing that and i swear you’ll have me stamped on your insides.”
you whimper, and he stills just to hear it. “oh, that’s pretty. you want me to come? you want me to fill you up so bad it leaks down your thighs?” he pulls back a fraction, then slams back to the hilt in one punishing snap. “too bad. i like you desperate. i’ll keep you right here—messy, brainless, mine—until you can’t even say your own name without choking on it.”
with that promise hanging in the air, he starts again. he finds that perfect angle, that spot deep inside you that the piercing hits just right, and he starts hammering it. the pace is punishing, relentless, his powerful thighs slamming against yours, your head thumping against the wall. he watches your face, completely wrecked, your eyes rolled back, your mouth open on a continuous, broken moan.
the build comes again, stronger this time, a hot, unstoppable wave. he gives in, letting the feeling consume him completely. his own hips become frantic, uncontrolled, slamming into you with a desperate, final urgency, driving the piercing into you over and over again.
a low, guttural groan is torn from the depths of his chest as the first pulse of his orgasm hits him. he keeps fucking you, harder, faster, pounding into you as his climax rips through him. he feels the first hot, thick jet of his come shoot deep inside you, coating your cervix
you moan as your own orgasm finally crashes over you, triggered by the dual, overwhelming sensation of the piercing hammering your g-spot while he floods your womb. he keeps pounding, driving his softening cock into your spasming inner walls, pushing his seed in deeper with every last, desperate thrust until he’s completely, utterly empty inside you.
he collapses against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his entire body trembling with the force of his release. he stays buried deep inside you, his cock still twitching, the sticky heat of his come pooling in your womb, the faint, cool pressure of the metal bead a final, possessive brand against your cervix.
he pulls out of you with a wet, reluctant pop. the sudden emptiness makes your knees buckle, your whole body going slack. he catches you before you can slide down the wall, his arms strong and sure around you, scooping you up into his chest.
a soft, exhausted sound escapes your lips, a broken little sigh of pure, boneless surrender. you bury your face in the crook of his neck, your entire frame trembling with the lingering aftershocks of your release, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of his skin and his sweat. he carries you, his steps sure and steady, across the living room to the huge, plush sofa.
he gently lowers you onto the soft cushions, letting you sink into them, your body a boneless, quivering mess. he stays standing, towering over you for a moment, his presence a solid, possessive shadow in the dim light. the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and his come, a primal, intimate perfume that fills the entire room.
he reaches up, hooks two fingers into the collar of his gray hoodie—the hoodie—and pulls it over his head in one smooth, powerful motion, tossing it aside with a careless grace.
and you just stare. your breath catches.
he’s shirtless now, his skin gleaming in the dim light. and the art that covers the left side of his torso is a sprawling, breathtaking masterpiece, a river of black ink and vibrant, almost violent red. you’ve seen it a thousand times, traced it with your fingertips until you fell asleep, but seeing it now, after everything, makes your chest ache with a fresh, sharp pang of longing.
a magnificent, serpentine dragon, its scales a thousand tiny, intricate strokes of black and grey ink, coils possessively over his shoulder and across the hard plane of his pectoral. woven through and around the fierce beast are three enormous peonies, exploding in soft, decadent blooms of rich, feverish red. and hidden there, tucked away in the delicate, overlapping veins of a single peony petal, right over his heart, is your initial. a tiny, secret brand he wears over his heart.
your eyes trace the familiar path down his body, following the dragon’s tail as it disappears, and then find the second piece. a cascade of black and blood-red characters runs vertically down the hard, chiseled lines of his obliques. it’s not a neat, precise script— it’s calligraphy, painted onto his skin with a wild, deliberate energy.
“you tore my dress,” you mumble, your voice hoarse and raw, your eyes still lost in the ink on his skin.
“yeah,” he says, his voice a low, cocky rumble. he kneels on the floor in front of you then, bringing his face level with yours. he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, his stubble a delicious, rough scrape against your sensitive skin. “i’ll buy you ten,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands finding the ruined straps of your dress. “but this one’s done.”
his touch is completely different now. there’s no frantic, angry tearing. his movements are slow, deliberate, almost worshipful. his calloused fingertips brush against your shoulders as he gently pushes the shredded fabric down your arms. the dress bunches at your waist, and his hands follow, his palms warm against your skin as he pushes the ruined garment down over the curve of your hips, down your trembling thighs, until it pools in a sad, silky heap at your ankles. he kicks it away with his foot.
you’re completely naked now, exposed to him in the dim, forgiving light of the villa. he just stays there, kneeling, his eyes roaming over you, a slow, possessive inventory. his expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and hungry, and you can see his cock, already hard again, thick and heavy against the fabric of his sweatpants.
you reach out, your hand closing around his bicep, and pull. it’s a weak, pathetic tug, your body still a boneless, quivering mess, but it’s enough. it’s an invitation. he lets you guide him, allows you to pull him down to sit on the sofa beside you, the heat of his bare, inked skin a searing, welcome brand against your own.
he leans in, and the kiss is different this time. the raw, punishing anger that had driven the earlier ones is gone, melted into something slower, deeper, almost reverent.
his mouth moves over yours with a languid hunger, lips soft but insistent, parting you open with an ease that feels both tender and obscene. his tongue slips past your lips, unhurried but thorough, sweeping through your mouth like he’s savoring every inch.
his hands wander restlessly, unable to stay still. one slides up your spine, broad palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you closer, pressing you flush against the hard planes of his body.
the other roams lower, fingers tracing the dip of your waist before curling possessively over the swell of your hip, thumb stroking the sensitive ridge of bone there as though he’s memorizing it all over again. he squeezes, not rough, but firm enough to leave the ghost of his grip behind, grounding you in the reality of his touch.
he kisses you like he’s starving, like air is secondary, and when he finally tilts his head to deepen the angle, your breath catches, a dizzy rush flooding your chest. the wet heat of his mouth, the slow, filthy drag of his tongue against yours, the faint nip of his teeth at your lower lip before he soothes it with another open-mouthed slide—every second pulls you deeper into him, leaves you weak and shuddering, leaves you tasting nothing but him.
it’s a long, consuming kiss—loving in its slowness, filthy in its thoroughness—that leaves you lightheaded, lips bruised, chest heaving, and utterly wrecked in the best way.
he lets you, his body pliant under yours, his hands resting loosely at his sides. he’s giving you the illusion of control, and you both know it. it’s a game you’ve played a thousand times.
you brace your hands on his broad, hard chest, feeling the solid muscle flex under your palms. his skin is hot and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. slowly, with an agonizing lack of haste, you lower yourself onto his waiting cock.
it’s a familiar terror, a delicious, breathtaking moment you know by heart. you feel the blunt, heavy head of him stretch you open first, a deep, overwhelming pressure that makes you gasp. it’s the sheer, soul-stealing fullness of him, the feeling of your body making way for his size. and then, as you sink lower, comes the secondary shock: the single, sharp point of pressure as the bottom bead of his apadravya finds your clit, followed by the slow, brutal slide of the top bead past your g-spot. a helpless, broken moan escapes your lips at the dual sensation.
a low, guttural groan is torn from his throat, a sound of profound, soul-deep relief. he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that is both a sweet, familiar ache and an exquisite, overwhelming pleasure. his head falls back against the sofa cushions, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, surrendering to the sensation of being so completely enveloped by you, of feeling your inner walls clenching not just on metal, but on the thick, hard shaft of him.
you set a slow, deliberate rhythm. it’s a complex, two-part motion you know he loves: a deep, downward press to take every last inch of his length, feeling the stretch and the overwhelming fullness, followed by a slow, circular grind of your hips designed to drag the top bead across that perfect, swollen spot deep inside you. you milk a soft groan from him with every roll. you watch his face, a work of art in the dim light. his ocean eyes are heavy-idded and dark with a lust so potent it’s almost black, fixed on yours. a muscle feathers in his jaw as he fights for control.
his hands come up with a touch surprisingly gentle as they find your breasts. he cups the heavy, sensitive flesh, his thumbs stroking your already-aching nipples into hard, tight points. he leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your skin a second before his mouth closes over one nipple. he suckles, a gentle, rhythmic pull that sends a bright, sharp jolt of pleasure straight from your breast to your core, where your inner muscles clench around the entire thick circumference of him.
“ah—fuck,” he groans against your skin, the vibration of his voice a delicious buzz against your chest. he knows exactly what that felt like.
you arch into him, a silent offering, your rhythm becoming a little deeper, a little more purposeful. he gets the message. his suckling becomes more insistent, his other hand coming up to mirror the action, gently pinching and rolling your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. the combination is dizzying, a sweet, overwhelming torture that has a low, continuous whine building in the back of your throat.
this is it. this is the intimacy. him, completely focused, completely devoted to your pleasure, while you hold all the power.
you lean down, letting your hair fall forward, creating a soft, private curtain around your faces. you look him right in the eye, your hips still grinding down, feeling the deep, perfect pressure of both him and his piercing. a slow, wicked, and deeply fond smile touches your lips.
“look at you,” you whisper, the words a low, mocking, teasing purr, meant to be an endearment. “so completely focused. it's adorable. someone's a little obsessed with me, aren't they?”
it’s the wrong word.
it works like a switch being flipped, plunging the room into a sudden, dangerous darkness.
his mouth releases you with a soft, wet pop. his head snaps up, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. the heavy-lidded haze is gone, replaced by a look of sharp, dangerous clarity. his hands, which had been so gentle, suddenly clamp down on your hips, his grip firm, possessive, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. he’s pinning you in place, still buried to the hilt inside you, but the lazy game is over.
“yeah,” he moans, the word a raw, guttural thing. his hips buck up once, a single, involuntary, punishing thrust that drives his entire thick cock deeper, the piercing a final, brutal punctuation mark that steals a shocked gasp from your lips. he stares at you, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. “so what.”
a deep, hot flush immediately floods your skin, starting in your chest and creeping up your neck to the tips of your ears. your breath hitches in your throat.
he reaches for his phone. the movement is casual, almost lazy, but it shifts the entire atmosphere. his cock is still buried deep inside you, the sheer size of him a thick, hot anchor, but his attention is suddenly elsewhere. he unlocks it with his thumb, the cool, clinical light of the screen casting his face in sharp, alien angles.
“what are you doing?” you breathe, your lazy, rolling hips faltering for a second. a thrill, dark and dangerous, snakes down your spine. you know that look in his eye.
“research,” he says, his voice a low, smug purr that vibrates from his chest, through your hands, and into your bones. he opens instagram. his thumb scrolls with a practiced, deliberate slowness, and you feel a strange, hot flush of humiliation and excitement knowing he’s about to bring the whole ugly world into this secret, sacred space. he finds what he’s looking for.
“satoru gojo isn’t serving golden retriever anymore, he’s serving pathetic. it’s embarrassing.”
he reads it out loud, his voice a low, mocking drawl, savoring each syllable. his eyes, sharp and impossibly blue, flick up from the screen to meet yours. you’re still moving on him, a slow, defiant grind, your chin tilted up, but a nervous blush is creeping up your neck.
“am i being pathetic, princess?” he asks, his voice soft, almost conversational. “is this embarrassing for you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. his free hand comes up, fast and sure, and smacks your ass. hard.
the sound is a loud, sharp crack that echoes in the quiet room, brutally loud against the soft sounds of your fucking. a white-hot sting explodes across your skin. your rhythm shatters. a sharp, broken gasp is torn from your throat as your whole body jolts, your hips slamming down on him involuntarily. you lose your balance for a second, your upper body collapsing forward, your forehead bumping against his shoulder as your inner muscles seize around his cock, the pressure of the piercing a sudden, sharp shock deep inside you.
he groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure, possessive satisfaction torn from the depths of his chest, his own hips bucking up once against his will. a slow, triumphant, and utterly condescending grin spreads across his face. he looks down at you, a crumpled, gasping mess, and his voice is a low, smug purr, laced with honey and poison.
“funny,” he murmurs, lifting his hand—the one that just struck you—to gently, almost patronizingly, trace the line of your jaw. “the internet thinks i’m pathetic, but your cunt just tried to swallow me whole.” he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “doesn’t seem so embarrassing from down here, does it, baby?”
his thumb is already scrolling. he finds another comment. “someone needs to put a leash on him. spank him, maybe.”
he looks at you, a wicked glint in his eye. you can see the anticipation on his face, and your own body betrays you with a visible flinch, your hips stuttering in their renewed, shaky rhythm. he sees it. he loves it. “what do you think? do i need a leash? or do you?”
he doesn’t wait for your answer. he does it again. another hard, stinging smack, right on the soft, fleshy part of your other cheek, perfectly symmetrical. this time, you’re ready for it, and the sound you make is different—a high, helpless whine that’s equal parts pain and pleasure. your rhythm doesn’t break, but it becomes messy, uncoordinated, your hips moving in a sloppy, desperate circle that tells him you’re losing control.
“keep moving, baby,” he says, his voice a low, rough command. his gaze isn't on the phone anymore— it's fixed, with a hot, possessive intensity, on your flushed, tear-streaked face. “you’re in charge, remember? fuck yourself on my cock while i read.” he leans in, his voice dropping to a low, smug purr. “i bet you’re already turning red for me back there. let’s see if we can make your face match.”
you obey, not because you want to, but because your body has no other choice. your hips find a new, faster rhythm, a desperate, hungry pace as you chase the building pleasure, grinding yourself down on his thick cock, the piercing a constant, perfect point of pressure deep inside you. he finds another comment. “lmao he’s probably crying into a pillow rn writing another sad song about her.”
he chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates deep in his chest. “am i crying into a pillow?” he asks, his free hand coming up to your breast, his long fingers cool against your flushed skin. he doesn’t caress it. his fingers close around your nipple, just between his thumb and forefinger, and pinch, a sharp, electric sting that makes you cry out, a surprised, breathy sound. “no. but you are, aren’t you?”
your eyes are wet, you realize, a single hot tear spilling over and tracing a path down your temple. his other hand comes up, the rough pad of his thumb gently, almost reverently, brushing it away, his touch a shocking, tender contrast to the sharp pain still radiating from your breast.
“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice a strange, intoxicating mix of condescending praise and genuine awe. “the whole world wants to see you smile. me? i think you’re prettiest when you’re a fucking wreck for me. keep moving.”
the dizzying whiplash of it all makes your head swim. you start to move again, faster this time, your inner walls clenching and unclenching around him with every deep, downward thrust.
he finds another comment. “he’s so soft for her, a total simp.”
a slow, amused smirk touches his lips. “soft?” he echoes, the word a purr of pure disbelief. his hand returns to your breast, this time closing around the entire soft weight of it, squeezing, just a little too hard. your hips falter. then, his thumb and forefinger find your other nipple and give it a sharp, punishing twist. a shocked, helpless cry is torn from your lips as your body freezes for a second, completely overwhelmed.
“doesn’t feel very soft from where i’m sitting,” he whispers, his voice a low, satisfied growl. “feels like you’re the one falling apart.” he watches another tear trace a path down your face before wiping it away. “look at you, leaking for me. from your eyes, from your cunt. all for me. fuck yourself stupid for me. now.”
he finds another comment. “she would never. she’s too clean for him. a good girl.”
he laughs. a genuine, sharp, delighted sound. “clean? a good girl?” he asks, his gaze dropping to where you’re joined, to the wet, slick mess you’ve made of his lap. “doesn’t look very clean from here, princess. looks like a fucking mess. my mess.”
his hand, the one that had been on your breast, slides down your stomach, his long fingers tracing a line of fire over your skin. he doesn’t go for your clit. instead, they find the sensitive, quivering muscles of your inner thigh, right where it meets your hip, and he digs his fingertips in, a sharp, almost painful pressure.
you gasp, the unexpected sensation making you try to pull away, a futile gesture while he’s buried deep inside you.
“doesn’t feel very good, either. feels like you’re exactly where you belong.” he punctuates the last word with another hard, open-palmed smack to your already-reddened ass, the sound a sharp crack in the room. the combination of the sharp pressure in your thigh and the sting on your ass is too much. your controlled rhythm breaks completely, degrading into a frantic, mindless bucking on his cock.
“fuck,” he groans, his own hips bucking up hard to meet yours. “just like that. again.”
he keeps going, a relentless, beautiful, brutal assault. he reads another comment, something about you being an “untainted angel,” and his only response is to reach up with both hands, his fingers tangling in your hair at the scalp, twisting until he has a firm grip, and yanking your head back.
the sharp pull forces a cry from you, your back arching, the long column of your throat completely exposed to him. at the exact same time, he thrusts his hips up, a single, brutal, punishing movement that feels like it’s going to split you in two, the piercing a final, devastating blow deep inside.
“break for me, angel,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough command against your exposed throat.
you come apart on his cock, a long, keening, shuddering climax. there’s no scream, just a high, broken moan that cracks and dissolves into a series of helpless, breathy sobs. your body seizes, your inner walls spasming violently around him, milking him with a desperate, greedy rhythm. your head is still thrown back, held in his tight grip, your back arched off his lap, your body a taut, trembling bow being played by a master.
he just holds you there, his hips still, letting you convulse on his cock, watching your wrecked, beautiful expression with a look of pure, possessive victory.
when the last tremor finally subsides, he lets go of your hair and kisses the tears from your face. “good girl,” he whispers. “that was a good start.”
you don’t think you can move. your body is a boneless, quivering mess. you try to collapse against his chest, to hide, but he just waits, his cock still hard and buried deep inside you. you’re not done. he’s not done.
“come on, baby,” he coos, his voice a low, soft murmur against the shell of your ear, a sweet poison that bypasses thought and goes straight to your nerves. “don’t stop now. just a little more for me.” slowly, shakily, you start to move again, your rhythm sloppy and weak, a pathetic little rock on his lap.
he finds another comment. “he’s probably got a whole folder of her pics he jerks off to every night.”
he grins, a feral, sharp-edged thing. he leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. “a folder?” he asks, his voice a low, intimate growl that sends a fresh shiver down your spine. “why would i need a cheap copy when i’ve got the masterpiece right here, on my cock, crying and falling apart for me? this is better than a picture, isn’t it?”
he doesn’t wait for an answer. his hand finds your ass again, another hard slap that makes you cry out and clench around him. “isn’t it?” he insists.
“yes,” you sob, the word a broken, shameless admission.
“good,” he says. he brings you to another, even more intense orgasm, his fingers and his words a relentless battery on your senses. you’re crying, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming, humiliating pleasure of it all. your body is so sensitive that even the brush of his thumb against your hip is enough to send a fresh shockwave through you.
you try to collapse, to stop, to find an end to the endless pleasure, but he won’t let you. “you’re not done yet,” he says, his voice a low, non-negotiable command. “one more for me. make it pretty.”
you can barely move, your legs trembling so hard they can’t support you. you manage a few weak, pathetic thrusts on his cock, your body completely spent. it’s not enough for him. not even close.
he reaches up, his large hand closing around the soft flesh of your throat. his grip is firm, not enough to choke, but enough to own. his thumb presses against the frantic, fluttering pulse at the base of your neck. he watches your eyes widen, a flicker of fear and excitement in their hazy depths.
“i said, make it pretty,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous command. he uses his grip on your throat as a handle, his other hand clamping down hard on your hip, anchoring you to him. and then he starts to move, using his own powerful hips and his grip on you to lift your body up and slam you back down onto his cock.
the motion is brutal, a deliberate, punishing bounce. it’s not you riding him anymore— he is riding you on his cock. with every downward slam, he feels the thick head of his cock smash into you, the piercing a merciless, perfect weapon against your g-spot. he feels you stretch, feels you clench, feels the wet, slick heat of you envelop him. the sound is a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, a rhythm he dictates completely.
he watches your face. he watches the shock melt into a dazed, mindless pleasure. he watches your eyes lose focus completely, the pupils blown wide and black, staring at nothing. he watches your mouth fall open on a silent, broken o, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips as you pant. you are completely his, a doll he is fucking into oblivion, and the sight is the most beautiful, intoxicating thing he has ever seen.
he starts slow, a deep, deliberate plunge that makes you whimper, then he quickens the pace. he starts hammering into you, his hips a relentless, powerful piston, bouncing you on his cock harder and faster. he feels your thighs, trembling and weak, start to fail. he just tightens his grip on your hip, holding you in place, forcing you to take it.
“that’s it, baby,” he grunts, his own control starting to fray. the feeling of your cunt, so hot and wet, clenching around his cock with every forced bounce is pushing him closer to the edge. “so good for me. take it. take all of it.”
he watches the exact moment the pleasure becomes too much for you. your back arches like a bow, your breasts pushed out, your nipples hard, aching points. a long, keening cry is torn from your throat, a beautiful, broken sound of pure, unrestrained release. and he feels it. he feels your inner walls spasm violently around his cock, a frantic, desperate, pulsing grip that milks him, threatening to pull his own orgasm from him.
his own control is a frayed rope, his cock aching and ready to burst, but he holds on, gritting his teeth. he wants to watch you. he wants to feel every last tremor of your climax while he’s still hard and deep inside you. he keeps up the steady, punishing rhythm, fucking you right through your orgasm, pushing you even higher.
only when the last violent tremor has faded from your body, when your inner muscles are just a weak, fluttering memory around his cock, does he finally let go of your throat.
your legs finally give out completely, your entire body going limp. you collapse onto his chest, a boneless, sobbing, quivering mess, completely and utterly spent.
the stillness settles not like peace, but like a physical weight. the only sounds in the cavernous living room are your broken, hiccupping sobs and the harsh rasp of satoru’s breathing slowly evening out beneath you.
satoru’s brain is doing something catastrophic. the adrenaline high, the whiskey-fueled rage, the triumphant, sadistic haze—it’s all dissolving like sugar in water, leaving behind a cold, sick clarity that coils in his gut. he can feel the damp heat of your tears soaking his chest. he can see, from the corner of his eye, the faint, perfect bruises his fingers left on your hips, the angry red handprints blooming across your ass like twin blossoms of his loss of control.
your breathing is a shattered, uneven thing, and you’re clinging to him with a desperation that feels less like post-orgasm bliss and more like you’re drowning and he’s the only solid thing in a storm.
oh god. oh fuck. what did he do?
his heart gives a violent, arrhythmic lurch in his chest. this wasn’t just their usual brand of rough play. something about your tears, the raw, heartbroken sound of them, feels different. like he didn’t just break your composure—he broke something essential.
“hey,” he whispers, and his voice is nothing like the commanding growl from before. it’s hesitant, raspy with exhaustion and a growing, sick fear. his hand, the one that had held you pinned, comes up to stroke your hair, the gesture so gentle it’s almost reverent. his fingers are trembling slightly. “hey, baby, are you okay? did i hurt you? fuck, i’m sorry. i went too far, didn’t i?”
you shake your head against his neck, but the movement is weak, barely perceptible, and your sobs only get thicker, more desperate in response. he takes this as confirmation of his worst fears. a cold, sharp panic claws up his throat like a living thing.
“okay, okay, i’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice cracking, the sound of it small and lost in the big, empty room. “i’m such a fucking asshole. i just… i lost my head. the comments, and the anger, and you were there, and i…” he trails off, because there’s no excuse. there’s no justification for using your body as the anvil on which he hammered out his own emotional breakdown, no matter how much you seemed to want it. his hands are shaking now as they stroke your hair, your back, anywhere he can touch to try and soothe you. “talk to me, please. tell me what i can do. tell me how to fix this.”
“it’s not… that…” you finally manage to choke out, the words muffled and thick against his skin. you pull your head back just enough to look at him, and the sight of your face makes something inside his chest fracture. you’re a complete wreck—eyes swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tears, your lips puffy and bruised from his kisses. but it’s the expression in your eyes that hollows him out. it’s a raw, desolate heartbreak that mirrors the one he’s been living with for weeks.
“i just…” you sob, your voice cracking on every word, “i missed you so much, satoru. so fucking much.” you push yourself up slightly, your hands bracing on his chest, your own eyes wide and pleading. “i thought i’d never get to touch you again, never get to be like this with you, and i was so scared when they wouldn’t let me call you, and that fucking song was everywhere, and i saw the comments about how pathetic you looked, and i saw you at the festival and you looked right through me like i was nothing, like i was just another stanger, and i…”
your voice dissolves into another wave of tears, your whole body shaking with the force of it. “i’ve been so alone. and i missed you. i missed you so much it felt like dying every single day.”
satoru just stares at you, his brain completely short-circuiting. the relief that crashes over him is so intense it’s almost violent, stealing the air from his lungs. a sound escapes him that’s half laugh, half sob, a breathless, disbelieving noise that makes you hiccup mid-cry. his expression crumples, the arrogant mask completely gone, leaving only a raw, aching vulnerability that breaks your heart all over again.
“oh, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it’s almost reverent. he surges up, pulling you flush against him, crushing you in a hug that feels like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together permanently. he buries his face in your hair, pressing desperate, messy kisses to your scalp, your temple, anywhere he can reach. his own eyes are burning now, hot and prickly with unshed tears. “i’m sorry. god, i’m so sorry. not for this—never for this—but for everything else. for the festival, for being so goddamn stubborn, for not fighting harder to get to you, for letting my stupid pride get in the way of—”
“don’t leave,” you mumble against his chest, your arms tightening around his neck with what little strength you have left. your voice is small and broken and so achingly vulnerable it makes his chest physically hurt. “please don’t leave me again. i can’t do it again, satoru. i can’t lose you again.”
“never,” he promises immediately, fiercely, his arms tightening around you until you can barely breathe. his voice is a low, guttural vow against your hair. “never again. you’re stuck with me now, you got that? i’m not going anywhere. they’d have to kill me first.”
he means it. every word. the thought of being separated from you again makes him feel genuinely nauseous.
his brain kicks into high gear, switching into full provider mode. he needs to take care of you. needs to fix this, fix everything. “okay, you need a bath,” he says, his voice still rough but gaining a frantic, purposeful edge. he tries to shift you gently, to see your face properly. “and water. lots of water. and food—when’s the last time you ate something? you’re probably dehydrated. jesus, i’m a terrible host. let me get you—”
“no.” your arms tighten around him like a vice, weak but absolutely immovable. your head shakes against his chest, a sharp, stubborn movement. “no bath. no moving. no leaving. just… sleep. right here. with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and you burrow deeper into his chest like you’re trying to crawl inside his ribcage and live there. “don’t go anywhere. please. i just need you to stay.”
and that, more than anything else, is what finally convinces him that you’re going to be okay. the desperate way you’re clinging to him isn’t trauma—it’s love. pure, stubborn, ridiculous love.
“okay,” he murmurs, his whole body relaxing as he settles back against the couch cushions with you still draped across his chest. he shifts, adjusting your weight until you’re more comfortable, his movements all slow, gentle grace. “okay, we’ll sleep right here. i’m not going anywhere.”
he reaches for the gray hoodie he’d discarded earlier—the one that started this whole mess, the one that still smells like both of you and better times—and pulls it over your naked, shivering frame like the world’s most emotionally significant blanket. the soft cotton settles over your shoulders, and you make a small, contented sound that goes straight to his heart.
he doesn’t bother finding clothes for himself. nothing matters except the weight of you in his arms and the steady, reassuring rhythm of your breathing against his skin. he can feel the exact moment your muscles fully relax, when exhaustion finally wins over adrenaline and your body goes limp and trusting against his.
your breathing evens out first, becoming deep and steady and peaceful in a way he hasn’t heard in months. he stays awake longer, one hand stroking your hair in long, soothing motions, the other tracing lazy, meaningless patterns on your back through the soft hoodie.
every few minutes, you make small sounds in your sleep—little sighs and mumbles that sound almost like his name. each one makes his chest tight with a happiness so intense it’s almost painful. you’re here. you’re safe. you’re his.
it’s the first real sleep either of you has had in weeks.
satoru wakes up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and a headache that feels like sukuna is using his skull as a drum kit. the okinawan sun is merciless, bright and warm and completely at odds with the whiskey-and-adrenaline hangover currently trying to kill him from the inside out.
his mouth tastes like something died in it. his back aches from sleeping on the couch. his left arm is completely numb from being trapped under your weight all night. he’s never been happier to wake up anywhere in his entire life.
you’re still asleep, curled up on his chest like a cat, your face soft and peaceful in a way he hasn’t seen in months. sometime during the night, you’d shifted so that your head is tucked under his chin and your legs are tangled with his, claiming every inch of contact you can get even unconsciously. his hoodie has ridden up slightly, and he can see the faint marks he left on your skin—nothing serious, just the ghost of his hands, evidence of what happened between you.
instead of the possessive pride he might have felt before, he’s hit with a wave of fierce protectiveness. you look so small like this, so trusting. the fact that you fell asleep on him, stayed asleep on him, chose him as your safe place even after everything—it does something to his chest that feels dangerously close to cardiac arrest.
he needs to take care of you. properly this time.
he carefully extracts himself from beneath you, moving slowly so as not to wake you. you make a small, discontented sound and reach for him in your sleep, and he has to physically resist the urge to climb back in with you and never leave this couch again.
instead, he finds one of his clean t-shirts—the softest one he owns, worn thin from years of wear—and gently works it over your head and arms, covering you properly. you don’t wake up, but you smile in your sleep when the familiar scent of his detergent surrounds you, and the sight nearly kills him on the spot.
the kitchen is a disaster zone. there are empty takeout containers scattered across the counters, a suspicious stain on the floor that might be soy sauce, and his coffee maker looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the paleozoic era. normally, the mess would make his eye twitch—he likes his spaces clean, organized, perfect. today, he doesn’t care about any of it. he has more important things to worry about.
coffee first. the good stuff, the expensive beans he saves for special occasions. he grinds them fresh, measures everything precisely despite his shaking hands and pounding head. you’re going to need caffeine when you wake up, and more importantly, you deserve the best he can give you.
while the coffee brews, he assesses his breakfast options. his fridge is embarrassingly bare—some leftover takeout, energy drinks, a container of strawberries that are only slightly past their prime. his pantry isn’t much better, but he finds a box of pancake mix shoved behind a bottle of expensive whiskey he definitely doesn’t want to look at right now.
pancakes. he can make pancakes. how hard can it be?
he reads the instructions on the box three times, then reads them again for good measure. his hands are still shaking—from the hangover, from nerves, from the emotional whiplash of the past twelve hours. he measures out the mix, cracks eggs with the careful precision of a man defusing a bomb.
the first batch is a disaster of epic proportions. he misjudges the heat, and they burn almost instantly, setting off his smoke alarm and filling the kitchen with acrid smoke. he frantically waves a dish towel at the detector, praying the sound doesn’t wake you up. the last thing you need is to wake up to him burning down his own kitchen like some kind of domestic terrorist.
he scrapes the charcoal remains into the trash and starts over. the second batch is better—still lopsided and a little too thick, but golden brown and actually resembling food rather than modern art. he arranges them on a plate with the strawberries, adds a small bowl of syrup, pours the coffee into your favorite mug (the one you left here months ago, the one he’s been too stubborn to put away).
the whole process takes him nearly two hours, partly because he’s moving like he’s underwater, but mostly because he keeps stopping to check on you. every few minutes, he pokes his head around the corner to make sure you’re still there, still breathing, still real. each time, the sight of you curled up in his clothes on his couch makes his heart do something acrobatic and painful.
when everything is ready, he arranges it all on a tray like he’s seen in movies. it’s not perfect—the pancakes are still questionably shaped, and he’s pretty sure he used salt instead of sugar in the strawberries—but it’s made with love and desperation and the kind of devotion that would probably worry a therapist.
you wake up to the smell of burnt batter and expensive coffee, tangled in his sheets with his oversized t-shirt twisted around your waist. the fabric is soft against your skin, worn and comfortable and smelling like his detergent and something uniquely him. for a moment, you just lie there, breathing it in, letting yourself believe this is real.
you open your eyes slowly, blinking in the bright sunlight, and see him standing next to the couch looking like death warmed over.
his white hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, defying both gravity and logic. there are dark circles under his eyes that make him look like he got in a fight with a raccoon and lost. his skin has a grayish tinge that suggests his hangover is actively trying to murder him from the inside. he’s wearing nothing but his sweatpants from last night, hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding a tray with what might generously be called breakfast.
the pancakes are tragically lopsided and vaguely pancake-adjacent, accompanied by strawberries that look like they’ve seen better days and coffee that smells strong enough to dissolve metal. it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
your heart does something stupid and acrobatic in your chest. he looks awful. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and got hit by a truck. and he’s standing there with homemade breakfast like he’s trying to audition for the world’s most devoted boyfriend award.
“morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and too much whiskey. he sets the tray down on the coffee table with the careful precision of someone whose hands aren’t entirely steady, then perches on the edge of the couch next to you. his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. “i made… food. sort of. the first batch was more of a fire hazard than actual breakfast, but these ones are probably edible. maybe.”
you push yourself up into a sitting position, your whole body aching in a dull, pleasant way. he immediately reaches out to help steady you, his hands gentle on your shoulders, and the simple touch sends warmth flooding through your chest. you accept the mug of coffee he holds out to you. it’s perfect. exactly how you like it—two sugars, just enough cream to turn it the color of caramel. even hungover and barely functional, he remembered.
“you didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.
“yes, i did,” he says, and there’s something fierce in his voice despite how rough he sounds, his gaze soft as it roams your face. “i absolutely did. you passed out on my couch after… after everything, and the least i can do is feed you properly. even if ‘properly’ is a relative term when it comes to my cooking skills.”
you take a sip of coffee and make a small, appreciative sound that makes his whole face brighten like you’ve just told him he hung the moon. “satoru, these look…” you pause, looking at the pancakes. they really are quite tragic—one is roughly the shape of australia, another looks like it might be an abstract representation of existential dread. “…like you tried very hard.”
he laughs, a real laugh that transforms his whole face, makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in the way that always makes your stomach flip. “they’re terrible, aren’t they? i burned the first batch so badly i’m pretty sure i created a new form of carbon. but they’re made with love and spite and approximately seventeen cups of coffee, so that has to count for something.”
you cut off a piece of pancake and try it. it’s… actually not bad. a little dense, maybe, and you’re pretty sure he confused salt for sugar on the strawberries, but it’s warm and sweet and made by his hands specifically for you. “it’s perfect,” you tell him, your voice soft and sincere as you meet his hopeful, anxious gaze.
something in his expression softens at that, goes warm and tender in a way that makes your chest tight. he settles in next to you properly, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “liar,” he says fondly, stealing a strawberry off your plate. “but thank you for saying it anyway.”
for a few minutes, you eat in comfortable silence, sharing the tragic breakfast and letting the normalcy of it sink into your bones. this is what you’ve been missing. not just the sex or the drama or the grand romantic gestures, but this—domestic and silly and real. satoru stealing food off your plate and making faces at his own cooking. the easy intimacy of sharing space, sharing air, sharing a morning that belongs to no one but the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, poking at a particularly misshapen pancake with his fork, his expression turning serious. he puts his own plate down, turning to face you fully. “that song of yours… i’m guessing you’re open to a remix?”
the question should be casual, but you can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for another rejection. your chest goes tight with affection and guilt in equal measure.
“satoru,” you start, setting down your coffee so you can give him your full attention, your own expression softening. “i need you to know something first. about the song, about all of it.”
he goes very still, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth, his blue eyes fixed on yours, waiting.
“i didn’t want to write it,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “they made me. my team, my management, the label executives—they all panicked when your song came out. they saw the way the fans were connecting dots, saw the speculation about us, and they completely lost their minds.”
you take a shaky breath, remembering the conference room full of suits telling you exactly how this was going to go whether you liked it or not. “they had three different versions of a response song written before yours even hit number one. mine was the nicest one. the other options were… worse. much worse.”
satoru’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along the sharp line of it. you see something dangerous flash in his eyes. “what kind of worse?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
“the kind that would have destroyed your reputation instead of just denying everything,” you say, your own voice trembling slightly at the memory. “they wanted to make you look predatory, obsessive. turn you into a cautionary tale about male entitlement in the industry.”
the silence that follows is deafening. when satoru finally speaks, his voice is laced with a cold fury. “and you stopped them?”
“i fought for the version we ended up with,” you say, your hands twisting in the hem of his t-shirt. “spent three days in meetings arguing for every single lyric. it was the best i could do without…” you trail off, because the rest of it is still too raw to say out loud.
“without what?” he presses gently, his hand coming to rest on your knee, his touch a warm, grounding weight.
“without them dropping me entirely and releasing one of the worse versions anyway,” you admit, your voice cracking. “my contract has clauses, satoru. morality clauses, image clauses, behavioral expectations. being publicly involved with you—with your band, with sukuna’s reputation—it violates about seventeen different sections. they could have sued me into bankruptcy and still released a song calling you a stalker.”
the weight of it settles between you like a physical presence. all those weeks of silence, of watching him suffer through the aftermath of your song, knowing you were the cause but unable to explain, unable to fix it.
“i wanted to call you,” you whisper, tears starting to burn behind your eyes again. you look up at him, your own eyes pleading for him to understand. “every single day, i wanted to call you and explain everything. but they took my phone, assigned handlers to watch me, made sure i couldn’t contact you or anyone else without supervision.”
satoru is quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your knee. when he finally looks at you, his expression is soft and sad and full of a profound understanding. “that’s why you came to the festival. it was your only chance.”
you nod, a single tear spilling over and tracing a hot path down your cheek.
“and i told you to save it for someone who still believes in fairy tales.” his voice cracks slightly on the words, and he drops his head into his hands, a low, pained groan rumbling in his chest. “jesus christ, i’m such an asshole.”
“you didn’t know,” you say quickly, reaching out to touch his arm. “you couldn’t have known. i couldn’t tell you without making everything worse.”
“i should have trusted you,” he says, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes. “i should have known you wouldn’t do that to me without a reason. but i was so hurt, and my ego was so bruised, and i just…”
“wanted to hurt me back,” you finish quietly, your voice thick with unshed tears of your own.
he nods, looking miserable. “i’m so sorry, baby. for all of it. for not fighting harder to get to you, for being too proud to look past the surface, for last night—”
“last night was perfect,” you interrupt, and mean it. “last night was you finally listening to me, finally letting me close enough to explain. it was rough, yeah, but it was real. it was us.”
something in his posture relaxes at that, the guilt-ridden tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“but the rest of it,” you continue, “the situation with my label, with the public perception—that’s not going to just go away because we’ve figured our shit out.”
satoru is quiet for a moment, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. when he looks at you again, there’s something sharp and determined in his eyes that makes your pulse quicken.
“what if it didn’t have to be your problem anymore?” he asks slowly, his gaze intense.
“what do you mean?” you ask, your brow furrowing in confusion.
“i mean, what if you didn’t have to stay trapped in their cage? what if you could just… leave?”
you blink at him. “satoru, it’s not that simple. the contract penalties alone would—”
“fuck the contract penalties,” he says, and there’s steel in his voice now, the same tone he uses when he’s about to do something spectacularly stupid and brilliant. he leans forward, his whole body thrumming with a new, dangerous energy. “my label—our label—is owned by a parent company that makes a goddamn hobby out of poaching talent from shitty, restrictive contracts. they live for that kind of drama. hostile takeovers, legal warfare, public battles over artistic freedom—it’s like christmas morning for them.”
you stare at him, something that might be hope beginning to flutter in your chest.
“what if we didn’t have to sneak around?” he continues, his eyes bright with possibility. “what if we could go nuclear? burn their whole fucking system down and build something better?”
“metaphorically,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on your face. “sukuna would handle the literal arson if we asked nicely, but that’s probably overkill for this situation.”
despite everything, you laugh. a real laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest. “you’re insane.”
“crazy in love,” he corrects, grinning at you with that crooked smile that first made you fall for him years ago. “but also completely serious. they’ve kept you locked up, controlled, miserable for months. made you write songs you hated, forced you to deny feelings you actually have, threatened your career over who you choose to love. that’s not okay, baby. none of it is okay.”
the hope in your chest is growing stronger, spreading warmth through your limbs. “you really think they’d take me on? even with all the baggage, all the potential drama?”
“are you kidding me?” he scoffs, his whole demeanor shifting to one of absolute confidence. “you’re a multi-platinum artist with a built-in fanbase and a story about label oppression that would generate headlines for months. they’d probably fight each other for the chance to sign you.”
something shifts in the air between you then. the energy is different—not just romantic anymore, but conspiratorial. you’re not just lovers figuring out your relationship— you’re partners in crime, allies with a common enemy.
“it would be a war,” you warn him, your voice gaining a new strength. “legal battles, media circus, industry blacklisting. they’ll try to destroy both of us.”
satoru’s grin turns sharp and wicked. “let them try. they have lawyers and pr teams and corporate backing. we have something better.”
“what’s that?” you ask, a small smile playing on your own lips.
“the truth,” he says simply. “and really, really good lawyers of our own. plus sukuna, who’s been looking for an excuse to commit corporate espionage for months.”
you stare at him—this beautiful, chaotic, impossibly devoted man who just spent two hours making you terrible pancakes with a hangover that could kill a horse, who’s now offering to help you burn down your entire professional life just so you can be together properly.
“so what do you say?” he asks, reaching out to trace a finger along your jaw, his touch gentle and reverent. “ready to cause some trouble?”
you lean into his touch, feeling that familiar electricity spark between you. for the first time in months, the future doesn’t look like a cage. it looks like freedom, like possibility, like the two of you against the world.
“with you?” you murmur, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. “always.”
he kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee and strawberries and new beginnings. it’s different from last night—less desperate, more certain. a promise instead of a question.
when you break apart, you’re both grinning like idiots.
“just to be clear though,” he says, his voice dropping to that teasing purr you love, “the worm thing was complete bullshit, right? because i’m pretty sure i would have recognized you even in that ridiculous trench coat if i’d been sober.”
you laugh, bright and loud and completely free, and kiss him again. deeper this time, full of promise and mischief and all the trouble you’re about to cause together.
“wait,” you say, pulling back slightly, your hands still fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. your expression turns serious, though there’s still a playful glint in your eyes. “before we burn down the music industry and commit corporate warfare, can we maybe… talk about what we actually are? because i’ve spent the last six months not knowing if you were my boyfriend, my situationship, or my extremely talented booty call with feelings.”
satoru blinks at you, his expression shifting from revolutionary fervor to something that looks suspiciously like a deer caught in headlights. “oh. that’s… yeah. we should probably figure that out before we start signing contracts together.”
the silence stretches for exactly three seconds before you both burst into laughter, the kind of slightly hysterical giggling that happens when you realize you’ve been conducting psychological warfare over a relationship status you never actually defined.
“this is so stupid,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “we wrote entire songs about each other. i literally just let you—,” you gesture vaguely at your current state of undress, “—and we don’t even know what to call each other.”
“to be fair,” satoru says, his grin crooked and absolutely devastating, “the last time we had the ‘what are we’ conversation, you disappeared for three months to go on a world tour. i developed trust issues.”
“that’s valid,” you admit, then pause. “wait, when did we have that conversation? because i remember a lot of really good sex and you stealing my room service, but i don’t remember actually talking about… this.”
satoru’s expression goes thoughtful, then slightly panicked. “oh my god. we never actually had that conversation, did we? we just started acting like a couple and assumed the other person got the memo.”
“jesus christ, we’re both idiots.” you drop your head into your hands, partly from embarrassment and partly because you’re laughing too hard to sit up straight. “no wonder everything got so fucked up. we’ve been in an unlabeled relationship for two years.”
“two years of the most intense situationship in human history,” satoru agrees solemnly, then breaks character to snort with laughter. “sukuna’s going to have a field day with this. he’s been making bets on when we’d finally have this conversation.”
“nanami’s going to die of secondhand embarrassment when he finds out we nearly destroyed our careers over a relationship status we were both too emotionally constipated to discuss,” you add, which sends both of you into fresh peals of laughter.
when you finally calm down enough to breathe properly, satoru reaches out and takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. the gesture is so tender, so naturally intimate, it makes your heart skip several important beats.
“okay,” he says, his voice soft but steady, his blue eyes so sincere they steal your breath. “let’s do this properly. hi, i’m gojo satoru. i’m stupidly, embarrassingly, completely in love with you. like, write terrible songs and make terrible pancakes and probably commit white-collar crimes for you in love with you.”
your heart does something acrobatic and possibly illegal in your chest. “you love me?” you whisper, the words feeling fragile and momentous.
“so much it’s medically concerning,” he says, completely serious. “i love your terrible morning hair and the way you steal my hoodies and how you sing in the shower even though you’re completely tone-deaf before coffee. i love that you put pineapple on pizza like a complete psychopath, and i love that you cry during pixar movies even though you try to hide it. i love your brain and your talent and your stupid jokes and the face you make when you’re concentrating on writing lyrics.”
he pauses, his thumbs still doing those maddening circles on your skin. “i love that you fought for me even when your entire team was against it. i love that you’re brave enough to burn everything down just to be authentic. and i really, really love that you showed up at my gate in the middle of the night wearing the world’s most ridiculous disguise just to yell at me about worms.”
by the time he’s finished, you’re crying again, but these are completely different tears. these are the good kind, the kind that happen when someone sees every weird, flawed, ridiculous part of you and decides to love it all anyway.
“your turn,” he says gently, and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes that makes you want to protect him from everything bad in the world.
“i’m in love with you too, you absolute disaster of a human being,” you manage through your tears, your voice thick with emotion. “i’m in love with your stupid confidence and your terrible cooking and the way you play guitar like you’re making love to the instrument. i love that you remember how i take my coffee and that you let me win when we play video games even though you think i don’t notice.”
you take a shaky breath, trying to get through this without completely dissolving. “i love your dumb jokes and your pretty face and how you always smell like that ridiculously expensive cologne. i love that you’re talented enough to make me jealous and sweet enough to make me pancakes when you’re dying of a hangover. i love that you wrote me a love song so beautiful it made me cry, and i love that you’re crazy enough to help me commit career suicide just so we can be together.”
“and,” you add, because this part is important, “i love that you’re mine. officially, finally, completely mine.”
“so we’re doing this?” he asks, and his voice is soft and wondering like he can’t quite believe this is real. “we’re actually going to be a real couple? with labels and everything?”
“boyfriend and girlfriend,” you confirm, testing out the words. they feel strange and new and absolutely perfect. “partners in crime. ride or die. whatever you want to call it, as long as everyone knows you’re mine and i’m yours.”
the smile that spreads across his face is so bright it could probably power a small city. “boyfriend and girlfriend,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words. “i like the sound of that. very official. very adult. very ‘we have our shit together.’”
“we absolutely do not have our shit together,” you point out, laughing. “we’re about to start a legal war with my record label and we just figured out we’ve been in love for two years without actually saying it.”
“details,” satoru waves a dismissive hand. “we’re in love and we have a plan and we make terrible pancakes together. that’s basically a successful adult relationship right there.”
he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet and tasting like forever. when you break apart, you’re both grinning like absolute fools.
“so, boyfriend,” you say, enjoying the way the word makes his eyes light up, “what’s our first official act as a couple?”
“well, girlfriend,” he replies, the word dripping with fond satisfaction, “i was thinking we could start with a shower, since we both smell like sex and poor life choices. then maybe we could work on that duet you mentioned. something that tells our side of the story.”
“a shower together?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“purely practical,” he says with completely fake innocence. “water conservation is very important. we’re being environmentally responsible.”
“right,” you deadpan. “because you’re known for your commitment to environmental causes.”
“i’m a changed man,” he declares solemnly. “love has made me want to be better. greener. more… wet.”
you stare at him for exactly three seconds before dissolving into laughter again. “that was the worst line you’ve ever delivered, and that’s saying something.”
“but did it work?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“unfortunately, yes,” you admit, letting him pull you to your feet. “but only because you’re cute and i’m still running on post-orgasmic endorphins.”
“i’ll take it,” he says, scooping you up bridal style with embarrassing ease. “now come on, girlfriend. let’s go be environmentally responsible together.”
as he carries you toward his ridiculously fancy bathroom, you can’t stop smiling. you’re still going to have to deal with lawyers and contracts and the inevitable media circus. your career is still hanging in the balance, and there’s a very real chance this whole thing could blow up in your faces.
but right now, wrapped in satoru’s arms with the okinawan sun streaming through the windows and the promise of a shared future stretching out in front of you, everything feels possible. you’re in love, and you’re together, and you’re about to take the longest, most environmentally irresponsible shower of your lives.
except the shower, as it turns out, is actually pretty responsible. mostly because halfway through soaping each other up, satoru gets distracted by the way water droplets cling to your eyelashes and spends ten minutes just staring at you like you’re some kind of maritime miracle. and you get distracted by the way his stupid perfect abs look under the rainfall showerhead, so really, very little actual washing happens.
“we’re terrible at this,” you inform him, standing on your tiptoes to work shampoo through his ridiculous hair. it’s even more unmanageable when wet, defying every law of physics as it sticks up in soap-sudded spikes.
“speak for yourself,” he replies, his hands sliding down to your waist. “i’m great at this. this is exactly what showers are for.”
“cleaning?” you suggest innocently.
“admiring my incredibly beautiful girlfriend while she’s naked and wet,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to your temple. “much better use of time and water.”
by the time you finally emerge, clean and pruned and laughing, the sun is already climbing higher in the sky. satoru wraps you in a towel that’s probably worth more than most people’s cars, and you watch him get dressed in the kind of casual beach clothes that somehow still look like they belong in a magazine spread.
linen pants that sit perfectly on his hips. a white button-up that he leaves mostly unbuttoned because he’s apparently committed to being a walking thirst trap even during domestic moments. sunglasses that probably cost more than your last car payment pushed up on top of his damp hair.
“you’re staring,” he informs you, not looking up from where he’s rummaging through his dresser.
“can you blame me?” you shoot back, pulling on one of his t-shirts over your bikini. it’s soft and worn and smells like him, and it hits you mid-thigh like the world’s most comfortable dress. “you look like a vacation instagram post came to life.”
he tosses you a pair of his sunglasses—designer, naturally. “we’re going to the beach,” he announces, like this is breaking news instead of stating the obvious. “proper beach date. with sand and everything.”
“the beach is literally twenty feet from your back door,” you point out.
“exactly. no paparazzi, no crowds, no one to interrupt when i inevitably do something embarrassing like trip over my own feet trying to impress you.”
“you’re going to try to impress me?” you ask, grinning. “we literally just had shower sex. i think i’m already adequately impressed by your… capabilities.”
he goes slightly pink, which is adorable on someone who looks like a calvin klein model. “that’s different. this is… romantic. wholesome. the kind of thing boyfriends do for their girlfriends.”
“oh, we’re going full boyfriend mode now?”
“maximum boyfriend,” he confirms solemnly. “prepare to be courted so hard you forget your own name.”
the beach behind his villa is exactly as private and perfect as you remembered. white sand that’s soft as powder, crystal clear water that shifts from turquoise to deep blue, and absolutely no one around for miles. it’s the kind of place that exists in travel brochures and rich people’s instagram stories, and somehow it’s just… his backyard.
satoru spreads out a blanket that’s definitely too nice to be used on sand, then immediately ruins the aesthetic by flopping down on it with all the grace of a dying giraffe. “ta-da,” he says, gesturing grandly at the setup. “romance.”
“you’re an idiot,” you tell him fondly, settling down next to him.
“your idiot,” he corrects, looking pleased with himself.
for a while, you just exist together in the sunshine. satoru lies on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes, looking like a very content starfish. you sit cross-legged next to him, tracing lazy patterns on his chest and watching the waves roll in. it’s peaceful in a way that feels almost foreign after months of chaos and uncertainty.
“this is nice,” you murmur, your finger following the lines of his dragon tattoo. the ink looks even more vibrant in the natural light, the reds deeper and richer against his skin.
“mm,” he hums in agreement, not moving. “could do this forever.”
“what, lie around half-naked on expensive blankets while i use you as a human coloring book?”
“sounds perfect to me.”
you’re quiet for a moment, just enjoying the sun and the sound of the waves and the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your hand. then, because you’re apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone, you say, “so what happens now?”
“now?” satoru lifts his arm to look at you, squinting in the bright light. “now we work on our tans and pretend the real world doesn’t exist for a few more hours.”
“i mean after that,” you persist. “when we go back to tokyo. when we have to deal with everything.”
he’s quiet for a long moment, and you can practically see him thinking. when he finally speaks, his voice is thoughtful, serious in a way that’s rare for him.
“we figure it out together,” he says simply. “whatever happens, we do it as a team this time. no more secrets, no more assuming the other person knows what we’re thinking. we talk about everything, even the scary stuff.”
“even when you’re being a stubborn ass?”
“especially when i’m being a stubborn ass,” he agrees. “though i reserve the right to pout about it.”
“deal,” you laugh, leaning down to kiss him. it’s meant to be quick, just a soft press of lips, but somehow it turns into something longer and sweeter, the kind of kiss that tastes like promises and new beginnings.
when you pull apart, satoru’s eyes are soft and fond and completely unguarded. “i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. like he’s not still getting used to being allowed to say it out loud.
“i love you too,” you reply, and marvel at how natural it feels now that you’ve finally said it. “even when you make terrible pancakes and leave your socks everywhere.”
“those are designer socks,” he protests. “they’re supposed to be everywhere. it’s called ‘casual luxury.’”
“it’s called ‘being a slob,’ but sure, let’s go with casual luxury.”
he pulls you down on top of him, laughing, and you shriek as he threatens to roll you both right off the blanket and into the sand. you end up tangled together, your legs intertwined with his, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.
“this is definitely better than sitting in a studio listening to sukuna plot arson,” he murmurs into your hair.
“is that what you guys do when i’m not around? plot crimes?”
“mostly we just talk about you,” he admits, sounding slightly embarrassed. “well, i talk about you. sukuna threatens to set things on fire if i don’t shut up. nanami just looks like he’s contemplating the sweet release of death.”
“you talk about me?” you ask, lifting your head to look at him.
“constantly. embarrassingly. in great detail about how much i missed you and how stupid i was for letting you go.” his cheeks are definitely pink now, which is frankly adorable. “they started charging me a fee every time i mentioned your name. i owe them like three thousand dollars.”
“three thousand dollars?” you stare at him. “how often were you talking about me?”
“apparently too much,” he says sheepishly. “but in my defense, you’re very interesting. lots to discuss.”
“such as?”
“such as the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking. and how you always steal the last bite of dessert but pretend you’re not interested. and the face you make when you’re writing lyrics—like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe one rhyme at a time.”
your heart does that stupid fluttering thing again. “you notice all that?”
“i notice everything about you,” he says, his voice going soft and sincere. “always have. probably always will. it’s become sort of a hobby.”
you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do with that kind of declaration? this one is deeper, slower, the kind that makes your toes curl and your brain go fuzzy around the edges.
“we should probably eat something,” you murmur against his lips when you finally come up for air. “actual food. not just coffee and questionable pancakes.”
“there’s a little place in town that makes the best ramen,” satoru says, his hands still tangled in your hair. “we could go later. make it a real date.”
“a real date,” you repeat, testing the words. “in public. where people might see us.”
“where people will definitely see us,” he corrects. “where i can hold your hand and buy you dinner and be disgustingly obvious about how gone i am for you.”
the thought should be terrifying. after months of secrecy and careful distance, the idea of being openly together feels almost surreal. but looking at satoru, seeing the soft certainty in his eyes, it just feels right.
“okay,” you say, and mean it completely. “let’s go on a real date.”
his smile is so bright it could probably be seen from space. “yeah?”
“yeah. but first, more beach time. i haven’t properly appreciated your ridiculous abs in natural lighting yet.”
“well,” he says, settling back down on the blanket with a grin, “we can’t have that. take all the time you need. i’m not going anywhere.”
and as you curl back up against his side, listening to the waves and feeling the sun on your skin and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, you believe him completely. he’s not going anywhere, and neither are you.
the war with your label is still coming. there will be lawyers and contracts and probably a media circus that makes your last scandal look like a minor inconvenience. but right now, wrapped up in expensive blankets on a private beach with the man you love, all of that feels very far away.
right now, there’s just this: sunshine and saltwater and the promise of forever stretching out in front of you like an endless summer day.
taglist: @akeisryna @controldeville @simplymygojo @kazuhaplscomehome @prettilyrisse @ritsatoru @poisonedpeach3 @theauthorunicorn @writtenapoiogy @enhasrii @walmarmi @useless-potatho @dairyfaerie @peqch-pie @bagofballs @kkataleena @blu3cat @twstedfreak @lizzebear123 @wandabillywrites @asimpinamillion @jaemdonut @ehcilhc @rannie-16 @enouche @satxoru @whitetofudubu @disappointedpeaches @sleepykittyenergy @foul-song-princess @problematicthinker @hxteurgutz @d4rlinxs @str4wbrryaoi @dollescenthar
꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › nerd!jo will always put you first. sfw. fem!reader. very self indulgent fluff. college au.
it’s 2:34 in the morning, and the only light in your dorm room comes from your glowing laptop screen. your history paper, a fifteen-page monstrosity on the socioeconomic impact of the second world war, is due at 8:00 am. you’ve been surviving on a combination of caffeine and sour candy for the past six hours, and you can feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones
you’re typing the topic sentence of your conclusion, when without warning, without so much as a flicker, your screen goes completely black and the low hum of the fan ceases. your heart hammers against your ribs, a beat of pure panic. no. no, no, no.
you spam the spacebar. nothing. you mash the power button, holding it down until your finger aches, then releasing it and pressing it again. nothing.
you try every combination of keys you can think of, hands trembling so badly you can barely type. nothing. the screen remains a void mirror that reflects your own, tear-streaked face back at you. the document. your sources. hours of work. . . gone.
a choked sob escapes your throat. tears spill over your waterline, blurring your vision until the dark screen is just a smear of nothingness. you can feel the panic building in your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs.
your roommate, shoko, is dead asleep across the room, her soft snores the only sound breaking the suffocating silence. you can’t wake her up. you can’t bother anyone with this. with the sole exception of satoru gojo, of course.
with trembling fingers, you grab your phone and pull up his contact. thumb hovering over your keyboard.
it’s almost three in the morning. satoru is meticulous about his sleep schedule. he needs his eight hours or he’s insufferable and cranky all day. and he has his biochem final today. you can’t. you shouldn’t.
but the thought of starting over from scratch, of facing this alone, is more than you can bear.
toru i’m gonna cry [ 02:36 am ]
you stare at the words you’ve typed up, they’re so dramatic and unserious but you send them anyway.
i hate my fucking chungus life [ 02:36 am ]
three little dots appear before you can even wipe the fresh tears from your cheeks.
toruuu ❤︎ : What’s wrong baby? [ 02:36 am ]
the simple text is enough to make another sob wrack your body. you type out a response, your fingers slipping on the screen.
my laptop isn’t working i was working on my history paper AND THE SCREEN WENT BLACK [ 02:38 am ]
toruuu ❤︎ : Everything’s going to be okay Did you try restarting it? [ 02:38 am ]
his calm, logical response is simultaneously comforting and annoying. of course you tried restarting it.
mhmm i tried like six times it’s not working idk what else to do [ 02:40 am ]
toruuu ❤︎ : Okay. I’ll come take a look at it Give me a few minutes [ 02:40 am ]
you’re sniffling quietly, trying to muffle the sound in your palm so you don’t wake shoko up. you feel so helpless, so stupid for not saving your work to the cloud more often.
ilysm you’re the best ❤︎ [ 02:40 am ]
toruuu ❤︎ : I love you most Princess Hang in there [ 02:40 am ]
true to his word your phone buzzes again, eight minutes later
toruuu ❤︎ : I’m here [ 02:48 am ]
you slip out of bed, socked feet making little to no sound on the cold linoleum floor. you crack open the door just enough to see him standing in the dim hallway, a silhouette of messy white hair. he looks exhausted, eyes hazy with traces of sleep, hair sticking up at odd angles. his expression softens when he sees you
he steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him, and his arms are immediately around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. he smells like patchouli dreams and his clean laundry detergent. his large hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers smoothing over your hair as he presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead.
“shhh, hey, none of that,” he murmurs, wiping at the tears on your cheeks with his thumb. “it’s just a computer. we’ll figure it out.”
you nod into his chest, “i’m sorry i woke you up ‘toru.”
he just shakes his head, pulling back to look at you. “don’t be silly. you know i’d rather be awake with you than asleep without you.” he gestures with his chin towards your desk. “let me take a look at it”
you lead him to your desk, where your macbook sits. a 2017 pro with the glowy touchbar, decorated by a myriad of stickers from your favorite bands and cartoons. you can’t imagine parting with it.
satoru sets his own laptop bag down on your bed. the one he uses for gaming, a beast of a machine that he treats like his firstborn child. “here,” he says, unzipping it and pulling out the sleek laptop. “you can use mine to finish your paper. i’ll see what i can do.”
you want to protest, but he’s already booting it up. the screen lights up, and you can’t help but smile through your tears.
his lockscreen is a picture of you, fast asleep on his shoulder. he has dozens of widgets centered around you — your wishlist, your shared calendar, one that says ‘days since i last told my princess i love her: 0’. he types in the password ( your birthday, of course ) and hands it to you.
“try and finish your paper baby,” he says softly, already turning his attention to your dead laptop. “i’ve got this”
you settle on your bed, pulling the heavy laptop onto your thighs. you can hear satoru muttering quietly to himself as he gets to work. you sign into your microsoft account and pull up your most recent cloud backup to find that you’ve only lost the last few paragraphs. it’s salvageable.
you’re still sniffling occasionally and every time you do, satoru glances over at you, brows furrowed in concentration. “you okay over there?” he asks after a few minutes.
“yeah,” you murmur, not looking up from the screen. “i’m okay.”
he works in silence for a while longer. you can hear him humming to himself, technical nerdy stuff that flies completely over your head. “flex cable . . . backlight. . hinge.” he examines every port, every seam, long fingers moving delicately
finally, he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “oh, baby,” he exhales, and his tone is so full of pity your stomach drops. “i’m so sorry.”
“what?” you look up from his laptop, your heart starting to pound again. “can’t you fix it toru? you fix everything.”
he shakes his head slowly, “come here, look at this.”
you get up and move to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder at your laptop. he opens the lid just a tiny crack, a couple inches wide. for a split second, the screen flickers to life. you can see your desktop background, a picture of the two of you at the beach, and the thin sliver of light from the screen illuminates his face. then, as he slowly opens the lid further, the light sputters and dies, plunging the screen back into darkness.
“see?” he frowns quietly, closing it again. “your lcd cables are all shredded. they run through the hinge and over time they break. it’s a super common issue with this model.”
“no clue what any of that means,” your voice quavers, “can you replace it?”
“i mean, yeah, i can,” he says, leaning back in your desk chair and running a hand through his already messy hair. “it’s just . . it’s a risky repair. i’ll have to order the parts, and even then it’s a crapshoot. if i mess it up, i could damage the logic board, and then it’s really gone”
“so what do we do?” you whisper, feeling the panic start to creep back in.
he looks at you for a long moment, blue eyes heavy lidded and drowsy. “i can order the new cable and try the repair. if it doesn’t work. . .” he hums, trailing off as he considers the options, “i’ve backed up your macbook so i can transfer all your files to a new one.”
“i’m not buying a new one ‘toru,” you sigh, the thought of the expense makes your head spin even more than the lack of sleep.
a slow smile spreads across his face. the look he gets right before he does something completely unnecessary, all in the name of ‘taking care of you.’ “who said anything about you buying it?”
“you can’t just buy me a new macbook, satoru,” you scoff, your voice firm even as your heart does a little flip
“can’t i?” he raises a brow, leaning forward in the chair. “why not?”
“because it’s too much even for you! i can’t ask you to do that”
“it’s a good thing you didn’t ask then,” he shrugs, gently closing your broken laptop for good and setting it aside on the desk. he stretches as he clambers to his feet. padding over to the edge of your bed and patting his lap. “come here.”
you hesitate for a second before obliging. he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and burying his face in the crook of your neck. his breath is warm against your skin and you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back.
“how much of your paper do you have left?” he murmurs against your skin.
“almost done writing my conclusion,” you sigh, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “it’s probably not even that good.”
“don’t say that,” satoru tuts, giving you a gentle squeeze. “none of that self-deprecating stuff tonight. you’re brilliant and you know it.”
“i guess” you sigh, skimming through your body paragraphs
he shifts, maneuvering you both until you’re situated more comfortably on your bed. he’s propped up against the headboard with you nestled between his legs, your back to his chest. he places a tender kiss on your shoulder.
“you’re on the dean’s list for a reason,” he says quietly “finish up your paper. i’ll stay up with you.”
with him soothing you like this, the panic in your veins finally subsides. you type the last few sentences of your conclusion. you proofread your essay once, twice, then format the bibliography.
when you finally hit ‘submit’ on the university portal at 3:29 you let your head fall back against satoru’s shoulder with a soft thud.
“done?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. “done,” you sigh.
“so proud of you” he smiles, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “time for bed, then.”
he gently takes the computer from your lap and sets it on the floor, then shifts you both down until you’re lying properly under the sheets. he doesn’t even try to walk back to his own dorm. he just pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin to keep you close.
“toru?” you whisper into the darkness. “hm?” he murmurs sleepily
“thank you. for everything.” he just holds you tighter, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “any time, princess.”
you know he’ll probably scold you for staying up so late in the morning but he’ll also make you matcha and help you look for a new macbook. one with the same specs as your now useless one.
you fall asleep knowing that this is just one of many nights. that there will be other disasters that feel like the end of the world. but you also know that satoru will always be a text away.
© GYARUJO 2026. please do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites. do not feed to ai
❛ 𝗡𝗢 𝗧𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗧 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗥𝗬 呪術廻戦
synopsis. the frat president is so much sweeter than you expected
contents. sfw! fluff + a smidge of angst. frat!jo x fem! reader. college au. satoru is sickeningly sweet. a little ooc maybe. cw. mentions of drinking + cheating ⇢ reader is freshly broken up with an unnamed ex. art creds: shesofyee on x ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
frat parties have never been your thing. you hate the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol that clings to the air, to your clothes, to your skin. you hate the way the music makes your ears ring. you hate the way you have to shout to be heard. you only came to this party because your now-ex-boyfriend had asked you to, promising it would be different this time. it wasn’t.
the fight was a blur of muffled words in the middle of the sea of people dancing and laughing, completely oblivious to the world crashing down around you.
he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed when you’d confronted him about his infidelity, he’d muttered something about it ‘not being a big deal’ and claimed you were overreacting — a casual dismissal of the time and effort you’d poured into him.
the cruelty of it all sent you stumbling through indifferent bodies until you found sanctuary in the quiet of the upstairs bathroom.
you’ve been crying for ten minutes straight. your makeup is a smudged, runny mess, and your face feels puffy and raw. you’re huddled on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn to your chest, head buried in your hands, when the doorknob rattles violently.
“go away,” you mumble to the door, the words muffled by your palms as you press your knuckles to your swollen eyes.
“c’mon dude, i gotta piss!” a voice slurs as the doorknob continues to shake, “you’ve been in there for-fucking-ever.”
“chill, there’s another one downstairs,” another voice cuts in, this one you recognize. it’s the frat president satoru gojo. you’ve seen him around campus, you’ve heard all the rumors. he’s exactly the kind of guy you avoid.
his words are followed by a disgruntled sigh and the sound of retreating footsteps.
you think you’re alone. you try to take a deep breath, a shuddering inhale that does little to calm the beating of your heart. you need to compose yourself enough to leave this disgusting bathroom and figure out how you’re getting back to your dorm. your ex is definitely not your ride anymore. your phone is dead, so no uber. and the thought of walking the mile and a half back to your dorm alone, in the dark, is terrifying.
your head snaps up as the lock clicks and the door swings open.
satoru is standing there, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders. he’s not wearing the obnoxious sunglasses you usually see perched on his nose, and his ridiculously blue eyes, the color of summer skies , are full of concern that seems so out of place on him.
“shit, sorry,” he says, his voice much softer than it was a second ago. “the lock on this door is whack. if you twist it enough it clicks open. i just wanted to uhh. . . you okay?”
you just stare at him, tears still trickling down your face. “i’m fine,” you lie
he doesn’t buy it for a second. he steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, effectively blocking out the worst of the noise from the party below. he leans against the counter, giving you space.
“that was your boyfriend, right?” he asks, nodding vaguely toward the door. “. . . the guy you were yelling at earlier.”
“ex-boyfriend,” you correct, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, the skin coming away wet and smudged with black.
“ahh shit," he says sympathetically. “that sucks.”
“yeah,” you sigh, another sob wracking your body, “it really, really sucks.”
“don’t waste your tears on him,” he frowns, brows furrowing. “he’s not worth a single one, ‘kay?”
you look down at your hands, twisting a loose thread on your jeans until it threatens to snap. the small, repetitive motion is the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart again. “i don’t know what to do,” you admit, the words tumbling out in a rush, “we came together and my phone’s dead and i just. . . i can’t be here anymore.”
he’s silent for a moment and you brace yourself for the ‘sounds like a you problem’, the kind of dismissal you’d expect from someone like him. instead, he shifts, pushing off the counter to stand before you.
“fair enough,” he says. “first, we’re getting you out of this gross bathroom. then we’re getting you home.”
your head snaps up. “but—”
“no cuts, no buts, no coconuts,” he cuts in, and despite everything, a watery snicker escapes you. “i’ve got you. i’m not letting you walk home alone this late. i’ve been drinking, so i can’t drive, but i can walk with you. it’s not a problem.”
satoru gojo — the guy who’s rumored to have a different girl in his bed every weekend — is the last person you’d expect to show you even a hint of kindness. you’re not even sure if he knows your name.
“are you serious?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper
“dead serious,” he holds out a hand. for a beat, you just stare at his long fingers and neatly trimmed nails, then up at his face. he waits patiently until you finally place your hand in his.
he pulls you to your feet effortlessly. you sway a little, unsteady from the crying and the stuffy air of the bathroom, and his other hand comes up to steady you, hovering just above your elbow before dropping away,
a fresh wave of embarrassment washes over you as you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror over the sink. it’s worse than you thought. your face is blotchy and swollen, your eyes are rimmed red, and your mascara has created smudgy, black circles under your eyes that make you look like a raccoon. you groan, turning away from your reflection and pressing your face into your hands.
“i look awful,” you murmur into your palms, the words muffled. “i can’t have anyone see me like this.”
“‘s nothing a little damage control can’t fix,” satoru says, turning toward the sink and grabbing a few squares of toilet paper from the roll. he runs them under the faucet until they’re a damp clump. “it’s not the fancy skincare stuff you girls usually use,” he admits, holding up the damp wad of paper, “but it should work.”
he turns back to you, the wad of toilet paper balanced between his fingers. he takes a step closer, and you instinctively stiffen, your body tensing.
he moves slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you want to. you don’t. his fingers gently cup your jaw to hold your head still. his touch is feather-light, his thumb rests softly on the curve of your cheekbone and it’s oddly comforting. your eyes flutter shut as he gently dabs at the mascara smudges under your eyes. he manages to wipe away the worst of the mess without being too rough
“there,” he hums softly, dropping the damp paper into the trash and letting his hand fall away. you immediately miss the warmth of it. “better?”
you open your eyes and risk a glance in the mirror. you still look like you’ve been crying, but you no longer look like a character from a tim burton movie.
“yeah,” you sigh, your voice barely audible. “better.”
“good,” a small, genuine smile finally graces his lips
“why are you being so nice to me?” you turn away from the mirror to look at him directly.
“i don’t like seeing pretty girls cry,”
the words hang in the air between you, “oh,” you murmur, because you can’t think of anything tangible to say.
he clears his throat, his easygoing smile sliding back into place. “c’mon, let’s get you out of here.” he holds out his hand again, and this time you don’t hesitate.
satoru keeps a firm hold on your hand as he leads you out of the bathroom and back into the party. he uses his broad shoulders to part the crowd, people seem to naturally move aside for him. you keep your head down, focusing on the scuffed linoleum floor
just as you’re nearing the hallway that leads to the front door, a figure detaches itself from a group lounging on a nearby couch and blocks your path. it’s suguru geto, satoru’s other half, the vice president to his president. equally as infamous around campus.
“there you are, satoru,” suguru says, his eyes flicking from satoru to you, and then down to your intertwined hands. “toji and sukuna are talking mad shit again. come play beer pong with us.”
satoru doesn't even break stride, he keeps pulling you gently along. “maybe when i get back.”
“get back from where exactly?” suguru raises a brow, he glances at you again, a look of genuine confusion crossing his features as he tries to place you, and comes up empty.
satoru finally stops, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh. he tilts his head in your direction. “walking her home.”
the shift in suguru’s expression is immediate. his lips part slightly, his eyes widening as the pieces fall into place. he opens his mouth to say something teasing that would make your face burn with embarrassment. but before he can get a single word out, satoru is already shaking his head. ‘don't.’
suguru’s mouth snaps shut. he narrows his amber eyes, looking between your tear-streaked face, your clasped hands, and the uncharacteristically serious look on his best friend’s face. a knowing grin spreads across his lips.
“right, right,” he laughs, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door with a sweep of his arm. “you two have fun.”
as satoru pulls you past him, you catch suguru muttering under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear over the loud music “about damn time, you idiot.”
you don’t understand the full weight of his words
you don’t know that satoru has pointed you out to suguru countless times before, wayyy back during orientation week when you were all freshmen trying to figure out where your classes were.
you don’t know that he calls you ‘the pretty girl with the sketchbook’ . you have no idea that for the past two years, satoru gojo has been nursing an unrequited crush on you — the girl who always seems to be in her own world, a world he desperately wants to be a part of.
all you know is that the campus player is currently leading you out into the cool night air, his hand warm and steady in yours. and for some reason, it feels right
you catch a glimpse of your ex laughing with his friends by the beer pong table, completely oblivious. he doesn’t even notice satoru pulling you through the doorway. it stings, but it’s duller now
cars are lined up haphazardly along the street outside the frat house. people are sitting on the hoods, vaping, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of their geek bars. a few call out to satoru as you pass, but he barely acknowledges them. one of his ex-flings is glaring at you from the porch, whispering to her friends as she stares at your interlocked hands.
“which way?” he asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. he seems to realize he’s still holding your hand and lets go of it suddenly, shoving his hands in his pockets. you rub your arm nervously
you point to the left side of the street. “that way. it’s like, a twenty-minute walk on a good day.”
“cool,” he says, falling into step beside you. you walk in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the distant thump of the party fading behind you and the scuff of your shoes on the pavement. his eyes are fixed on you while yours are locked on the cracks in the sidewalk,
“so, what did he do?” he pipes up, then immediately seems to regret it. “actually nevermind i probably shouldn’t be asking that right now—”
“he’s been cheating on me,” you sigh, “he gave me his phone so i could text my roommate and i had a gut feeling so i went through it and—” your breath hitches
“oh fuck don’t cry again,” satoru frowns
“sorry it’s just . . . ”
“don’t apologize either,” he says, “none of this is your fault.”
“we were together for eight months,” you sigh, the admission feeling heavy in the cool night air. “i thought. . . i don’t know. i thought everything was good. i thought he loved me.”
“he’s an idiot,” satoru says, so matter-of-factly that it makes you believe him. “anyone who would cheat on you is either blind or just plain fucking stupid.”
“you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“nah i’m saying it ‘cause i mean it,” he shakes his head.
you don’t know what to say to that, so you just smile at him with your watery eyes and he swears he feels his knees buckle. even with puffy eyes and a quivering lip you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
he musters up a smile and looks away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. you keep walking. the cool early spring air caresses your cheeks, carrying the smell of petrichor from a recent rain shower. you don’t notice him staring at you, or the way his gaze softens as he watches the streetlights cast your face in a fluorescent hue
you frown down at your phone. it’s completely dead and he wishes he’d offered to charge it for you in his room at the frat house so he could’ve spent more time with you. he wants to spend more time with you. he knows he may never get the opportunity again.
he’s grinning like the cheshire cat when your stomach lets out a loud growl and you look positively mortified.
“you hungry?” he asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.
“a little,” you nod meekly, your stomach rumbling again in agreement. the crying and the vodka have made you feel hollow.
“me too,” he says. “there’s a konbini a couple minutes away, we can grab something to eat if you want.”
you end up stopping at the konbini. the store is a stark contrast to the cool darkness of the streets. you wander the aisles, your eyes landing on a shelf of instant ramen cups. nothing sounds better than a salty, savory meal
“ramen?” you ask, holding one up, “i get this brand a lot”
“you’ve got good taste” he says, grabbing one for himself. “i like this brand too”
you end up with a cup of spicy ramen, a strawberry milk, and a box of cookies n cream pocky. he grabs a bottle of water and pays for everything before you can even pull out your card, waving away your protests. he uses the hot water dispenser by the door to prepare your ramen, handing it to you with a pair of chopsticks, his fingers brush against yours.
you eat sitting on the curb outside the store, the steam warming your face. it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
“i feel bad for dragging you away from the party,” you say between slurps. “i’m sure your girlfriend is wondering where you are.”
“nah, i don’t have one,” he shakes his head, taking a sip of his water. “not really my thing.” he regrets the words the second they fall from his lips.
“not your thing?” you raise a brow. “you’re notorious for having girlfriends.”
his eyes crinkle as he laughs, a genuine, bright sound. “i’ve never had one.”
you don’t seem convinced.
“i’ve had girl friends,” he says, “i don’t really do labels.”
stop. fucking. talking. he groans internally.
“someone’s got commitment issues.” you hum
for most people? yeah. the thought of a relationship with the girls he fools around with makes him break out in hives. but you? he would commit to you in a heartbeat. he’d do everything under the sun and then some if you asked him to.
a cold breeze picks up, rustling the plastic bag from the konbini, and you shiver.
“cold?” he asks, already shrugging out of his jacket before you can answer.
“no, i’m fine,” you lie, your teeth chattering slightly, betraying you.
he drapes his jacket—a black and crimson varsity jacket with the frat’s letters stitched on the chest—over your shoulders. it’s heavy and warm, and it smells like him, a clean, sharp mix of cologne and something sweet, like vanilla
“i don’t need it,” you protest, even as you snuggle deeper into it
“you do,” he says, his voice soft. “it’s cold out.”
you accept defeat, finishing your ramen with his crossing jacket around you.
the rest of the walk passes in comfortable silence. you don’t feel the need to fill it with small talk, and he doesn’t seem to either. it’s just the sound of your footsteps on the pavement and the hum of the city. his jacket is a heavy around your shoulders and you find yourself unconsciously pulling it tighter.
before you know it, you’re turning the corner onto your street. your dorm building is a few paces down, tired-looking brick walls and a flickering porch light that casts long, dancing shadows on the sidewalk.
“i didn’t know you lived in the dorms,” he says, looking up at the building. he shoves his hands in his pockets, his thin t-shirt clinging to his frame in the cool air.
“mm my family lives a couple hours away, it’s convenient,” you mumble, suddenly feeling shy.
you trudge up the concrete steps together, the silence stretching between you. you fish around in your pocket for your keys, your fingers fumbling with the cold metal. you finally manage to get the key in the lock and push the heavy door open.
“well,” you start, shrugging out of his jacket. “thanks. for everything. really.” you hold it out to him. “i appreciate you walking me home. and paying for my ramen and stuff”
he looks at the jacket in your outstretched hand, then back at you. he doesn’t take it.
“keep it,” he says. what he doesn’t say is that it looks better on you than it ever will on him, the way the crimson fabric brings out your eyes, the way you seem to swim in it, small and delicate.
“what? no, i can’t. it’s your crossing jacket.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “isn’t this like, a huge deal for you frat boys?”
“yeah well. . .” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “i need a reason to see you again,” he says, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
you blink at him, completely taken aback. “oh. . right”
“yeah,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “get some sleep.” he gives you one last smile before turning and walking away. you watch him until he turns the corner, his silhouette disappearing into the night.
you stand there for a long moment, the cool air raising goosebumps on your arms, before you finally turn and head inside. you shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a second, letting out a long, slow breath.
you shrug the jacket off your shoulders, intending to just drop it on a chair, but as you do, something slips from the inner pocket and flutters to the floor. it’s a small, crumpled piece of paper.
you bend down to pick it up, it’s the receipt from the konbini. you’re about to crumple it up and toss it towards the trash can, but you see the faint blue lines of ink on the back. in messy, scrawling handwriting is a phone number. and underneath it, a short message:
keep the jacket!!! text me if you wanna hang out some time - satoru :p
you stare at the note, a soft smile spreading across your face, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. satoru gojo is so , so much sweeter than you expected.
© GYARUJO 2026. please do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites. do not feed to ai
❧ you are drunk (and a tease) II Gojo Satoru x fem!reader
“You wanna kiss me s…soooo bad.” In his arms, you press your palms flat on his chest, swaying and peering up at him with the roundest, prettiest eyes. And he knows this mood, knows you’re playing coy, fluttering your lashes with such skill he wonders if it’s just instinct for you to do so.
Satoru laughs, the breath tickling your cheeks and sounding something like amused adoration. He picked you up after a night out with your friends. Like, literally picked you up, bridal-style, feet kicking and giggling muffled into your hand like after all these years of being a couple, you still couldn’t believe he’d do that for you.
Your strappy heels dangled from his fingers as he carried you to the car, because you buried your face in his shoulder and whispered into his sweater that your feet were killing you. And of course, ever the dutiful lover, he took it upon himself to relieve your burden.
A little grumble tugs him back to the present, where you’re now pouting like a wet cat. “Hey. Where did Gojo goooo?” Then, you begin cackling like a delighted mad scientist, triumphant. “Gojo and gooo. Do y’get it? Get itttt?”
He doesn’t. Not even a little. But bursting your drunken bubble would be criminal.
“Yes, sweetheart. Makes so much sense,” he says, nodding solemnly.
He nods so hard that he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Then, in one swift motion, he lifts you onto the countertop, hands resting around your hips like they belong there.
“And yes,” he murmurs, with a smile so full it hurts. “I want to kiss you sooooo bad.”
“Wait!” You hold a stern finger against his lips. “I’m drunk, you can’t kiss me.”
“Okay, I won’t kiss you.”
“So, you don’t want to kiss me?” Your eyes go wide, lip wobbling like he’s just betrayed you on a spiritual level, like he’s just broken up with you.
He blinks. Then laughs, soft and helpless. “I want to kiss you sooo bad that I will walk a million more dark streets with you in my arms, and holding your overpriced medieval torture devices. But I want to do it when you’ll remember it.”
You blink like it’ll help your sluggish thoughts form words more quickly. “That’s…really romantic.”
“I thought so, too.”
“But right now, you need sleep. And water. And to sober up. And then I’ll kiss you.”
“Promise?” His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip like a vow.
“Promise.”
© 2026 lolalied. all characters belong to gege akutami. do not plagiarise, feed my work into any AI systems, translate, or repost my work to any platforms
repost! repost. respost. she is mine i birthed her. thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated <3 mwah ily
•ू Order: one sided hate towards nerd!jo ⋆ . ࿔ ˚
🧾: a passing comment made under gojos breath two years ago is exactly what costs him his chance with you. it completely slipped his mind, but not yours. never yours. your ability to hold a grudge exceeded his expectations and he has to work extra hard to get that second chance. while also pining after you.
•ू nerd!jo x fem!reader ┆ shy, needy gojo ┆ university au ┆ women in stem ┆ his pretty face is hard to ignore ⋆ . ࿔ ˚
you were always an overachiever. All throughout your life in all areas of your life. Academics, friendships, work.
That is how you ended up in the honors program of your university as a freshman. this meant you got a lot more hands-on work as an applied physics major. smaller classrooms, closer relationships with classmates and professors, better labs.
it was a prestigious opportunity, especially for a female student in a stem field.
therefore, being an honors student, it gave you a certain pep in your step. even if it made you miss more hours of sleep than healthy to sustain life.
doesnt matter. that glossy 98.7% in a class with a 64% pass rate made it all worth it.
but being mostly isolated by the program made making friends at uni a bit difficult, so you tried your best to be open to any friendships that can come out of the program.
you were always nice, polite, let people take the seat you wanted, completed extra work on projects.
basically a doormat.
you did not want to be, obviously. you knew your mistake in acting the way you did, but it was also simply in your nature to try a little hard and appease everyone.
so it was no surprise when sophomore year, in the intermediate mechanics lecture you took alongside other honors students and got seated next to a tall, white haired boy, you tried your best to be as polite as possible.
it had nothing to do with you finding him cute. you were simply nice to everyone.
but that white haired know-it-all creature soon became an annoyance to you. he made you clench your teeth so hard you were sure you’d have to befriend a dental student soon for some discounts.
though sweet, you always had a competitive streak. so, someone pointing out your mistakes? painting you as plainly dumb? enlarging your imposter syndrome with every dismissal? definitely chipped away at your ego.
and satoru gojo did all of that.
if the two of you were solving a round of problems or working on the same assignment, you always tried to finish before him. but his focus was impossible to break or compete against. somehow, his computer was always shut before yours, paper turned in right under yours in the stack.
any time you offered help, your desk mate would stare at you as if dumbfounded on why you would offer such tomfoolery to him, and then dismiss you with a wave of his hand. degrading, to say the least.
one time, at the end of class, you raised your hand to ask a question on a particularly hard section, to which gojo simply muttered under his breath ‘how can someone not know this?’ as if intermediate mechanics were taught to everyone in kindergarten.
it has already been a particularly hard week for you and that simple mutter, that one remark on your intellect. it broke you. the professors response, surely helpful, went in one ear and out of the other. the only thing filling your brain was static.
you did not like to think of yourself as overly emotional. but the constant pressure of feeling excluded, like you did not belong in the field you loved, didnt deserve the opportunity you had, had finally broke you.
hot tears of embarrassment had filled your eyes which you lowered as you quickly packed your bag, hair shielding the pitiful view. you did not even dare to take a breath in case you sniffled and that gained attention.
you simply rose quietly and decided from that day on that satoru gojo is your rival, that you simply hated him. he’s a jerk, a nerd, an annoyance, probably a virgin. you threw any and every insult at his imaginary face. imagining them hitting him like a pound of bricks.
you hoped he felt your hatred every time you ignored him, left a room if he was there, moved tables in the library if he was too close. you wish his blood boiled at it as much as yours did.
gojo on the other hand really did not know what your issue was.
he noticed, of course, some weird behavior. but he was too busy with his own things to worry about some girl from his honors program and whatever illness made her move at least 15 feet away from him.
maybe she had albinophobia, is all gojo thought and completely dismissed the thought of you afterwards.
—
junior year you had the luck of meeting the best friends ever. something in your life shifted.
your confidence sky rocketed, you proven to yourself that you deserve to be exactly where you are, you were no longer a ‘doormat’ as previously worded. and gojo? he still held a special, dark, spiky place in your heart of hatred.
you liked to act as if it was a joke with your friends, but to you, it was very much real. you still very much despised the white haired geek.
but he wasn’t the focal point of your life. and that is when things began to shift. for both you and gojo.
you had no lectures with gojo junior year. but he noticed you regardless.
the way you asked and answered questions without any shame, the way you presented yourself, laughed a little too loud and drew everyones eyes your way. he was not strong enough to resist your charm.
to be completely honest, he always found you kind of cute. but your kindness at first seemed fake to his very insecure sophomore self. as if you were pitying him by trying to be his friend. he couldnt help but push you away.
half the time, gojo did not even realize you could hear what he muttered. or he thought you simply wouldn’t really care what he had to say. you were pretty and nice — so what did it matter what he whispered to himself? you would still get ahead in life.
but the trajectory of his life changed as well. he was never all that confident, even when he pretended to be as a self preservation tactic. but multiple times he has gotten his ego checked which resulted in him being a much more humble young man. much more respectful as well.
in reality, gojo has forgotten the incident all together. which resulted in his enormous crush on you. all of junior year, even though the two of you shared not a single class, he has grown more and more fonder.
you never paid any attention to him, never noticed him much. he wasn’t loud, he didnt draw attention to himself like you did. and maybe that was for the better.
multiple times while walking the court yard gojo found his eyes snapping over at you. he couldnt help it. you laughed as you ate lunch with your friends, your laugh piercing through his headphones like the first rays of sunlight through half closed blinds. he’d hyper focus on the way you threw your head back, or how your hair fanned out. it wasn’t healthy, he knew. but he craved to admire you, to dream about you, to notice very little thing.
multiples times you were part of a study group that sat right besides gojos in the library. what a coincidence! he definitely didnt propose the idea that all study groups from the honors program shoud sit together, in case they needed each others help. not him. never.
while pretending to work, he would instead drown in your voice as you went on and on, explaining to someone else your notes and labs from your quantum mechanics lecture. probably some other guy. but simply hearing you talk was enough for him to plunge into his daydreams and later to disturb his sleep as he imagined that voice in his ear.
gojos best friend, suguru geto, could have sworn satoru’s eyes turned heart shaped when you were within 10 feet of him.
geto tried to get gojo to approach you. but what was the use? you both were obviously busy enough, you had your friend group around you always so gojo could never catch you one on one. and he was far too award to talk to you in a group of people he did not know. and you had no lectures together, so no forced proximity.
satoru decided that his quiet pining, the one that would not lead him anywhere but his own madness if he keeps thinking about you, was enough for him. he convinced himself that watching you from afar, enveloping himself in your voice would keep him satisfied. he was happy.
even though some (most) would say he was pathetic.
—
beginning of 4th year, your last one.
you were on your way to your last first lecture of the new semester. excitement bubbling up inside you.
it seemed you got this way now. instead of anxiety, you felt excitement at the thought of a new lecture, new people, group projects.
you walked into the lecture hall which would be hosting your statistical mechanics lecture. it wasn’t as big as those most students are used to. the honors program sometimes used smaller classrooms and auditoriums to host their lectures due to the small number of students taking the particular course.
you recognized a couple of familiar faces from previous years.
lucky for you, among the familiar faces, was your best friend. she removed her bag from a chair as you approached.
“awe you saved me a seat?” you said in an overly sweet, joking tone, “why thank-”
“dont turn around.” your friend sayid suddenly, quietly.
“what?” obviously, you whip your head around. it is only natural to look behind you when someone tells you not to.
and lo and behold, your face drops.
the white spikey hair, the blinding blue eyes framed by skinny glasses, long lanky legs stretching from under the desk. all about him irked you. deep within your body you felt the heat of annoyance, building up, rising.
you turned back around with feigned calmness. “what? i dont care.” you plopped down into the chair.
“you care.”
“pfft. no.”
“pfft. yes.” your friend rolled her eyes, mocking you. “last time you ‘didnt care’ we left a cafe because he walked in and then you spent three hours retelling me why you hated him.”
“please. i would never waste three hours on that moron.” you were unpacking your things, getting ready for the lecture.
unamused, your friend sighed, following suit. she decided not to argue with you further, knowing it would only turn into a rant about how you dont care and you would never waste your time and that in fact he should be the one to care and be ashamed of his behavior and he should be the one beginning for your forgiveness and him him him…. yeah.
you had this lecture three a week because of its densely packed material and the need to cover a lot of ground not only during lectures but labs as well.
you were prepared for it to be filled with group work, you heard from previous students and checked ratemyprofessor which all pointed to one thing. the final grade depends on all the work you and your partner do.
but what have you got to be worried about? you had your closest friend in the class and a bunch of familiar faces. there was no chance that even if you were to get paired up with someone, it would be someone you couldn’t connect with. and it definitely would not be someone dumb, since it was the honors program.
and that is exactly how you got humbled. by getting paired with gojo.
you settle at the desk next to his, awkwardly dropping your bag by your feet and not looking at him. your posture rigid as you prepare for the first partner assignment of the semester. your friend threw you an ‘oh shit’ glance. she knew she will hear about this until the end of time.
gojo on the other hand couldnt believe his luck. in his head, he was thanking every god he has prayed to for this.
his eyes practically lit up when you finally settle down next to him in that cute outfit. he truly does not know how you have time to study to get some of the best marks at the program and and on top of that look so beautiful.
he could barely get a good look at you though. throughout the entire lesson you were turning away, shifting your body at a crazy angle just to be further, shielding yourself with your hair.
somehow it did not click to him that it was all from him.
that night, when gojo returned to his apartment he shared with geto, small and a bit messy from the two geeks, he excited threw his bag on the floor, yelling out for his best friend.
“whats the commotion about?” the tired voice followed the statue that peeked from the kitchen, long black hair spilling from geto’s shoulder.
“shes actually sitting next to me!”
“that girl you never talked to?” geto laughed at his best friends misery.
“that is going to change,” gojo pointed at him determinedly.
geto shook his head and went back into the kitchen and gojo soon stumbled in, clumsy from his excitement.
“no! you don’t get to give me that look! i waited a whole year for this. and now i have the perfect opportunity.” the way gojo was speaking could be described as squealing.
“you didnt have to wait.” pointed out geto.
“you know nothing about the strategic ways of capturing a woman’s heart.”
“and you know nothing about women. period.”
that got gojo sulking. geto wasn’t exactly wrong. gojo had crushes before, of course. but none of them gotten him as excited as his nerdy interests or a good grade. no one has quite held his attention as long as you did.
a part of him cringed at himself for acting the way he did. but he felt truly entrapped by you. if you were within ten feet, if he could hear you, if he could see you — his entire attention shifted to you. no matter what.
and now he had a reason to:
1. get your phone number. youre partners right? how else are you two supposed to communicate about projects? perfect.
2. to talk to you. so what if he will try to swing the conversation away from the class once or twice. he simply wants to get to know his project partner better!
3. to go out with you. sure, it might just be to the library or the local campus cafe. but! it was still seeing you out of class!
a win is a win in gojos book, no matter how small. he could work with it, build up from there.
—
gojo spotted you sitting there already when he walked into the lecture hall. your hair framing your face in the prettiest way ever. those eyes that have yet to spot him are soft, gliding over the notes from the previous class as you fidgeted with a pen in between your delicate fingers.
but as soon as you lifted your head and saw him approaching the softness vanished from your eyes. the sharpness of your gaze was so sudden that it made the white haired on his neck stand up and the nerd trip over his shoes.
gojo caught himself against the desk, his pale skin flushing from the sheer stupidity of what just happened. why couldnt he just walk towards you like a normal person! he just got so startled by the way your face changed. the flowers blooming around you and birds chirping just a moment ego turned into thorns and corpses falling from the sky, right before his eyes.
but he didnt let that deter him. never.
he sat down in the chair, sliding his bag down his shoulder. gojo turned toward you slightly, hands running down his gray hoodie, a blue button-up peeking from the bottom. “hi,” he said lowly, smiling over at you.
you turned your head the other way, leaning your cheek on the palm of your hand.
oh.
well, he couldnt expect you to be open and friendly right from the beginning. it has been a while since the two of you talked. so it makes sense you might be a bit cold towards him. that was no problem for gojo.
he will just have to advance little by little.
you had a nagging feeling of someone staring at you. and you already felt yourself brewing with annoyance. you shoved your things into your bag, a bit carelessly but quickly. your friend already stood outside, waiting for you to head over for lunch. the heat on the back of your head was unbearable. he should really shove those eyes up his-
“y/n?”
you ignored him. and for someone so smart, he still, for some reason, took it as a go ahead.
“i.. uhm,” he scratched the back of his neck, glasses sliding down his nose. “well i thought we should exchange numbers. for the uh-“ gojo’s eyes widened, face flushing as you suddenly straightened up and turned to look at him. once again catching him by surprise and making his voice crack. “-project.” came out way too high-pitched.
“no.”
“grea-oh?” he blinked at you. dumbfounded. but it was for the project! okay… maybe you didnt feel comfortable giving your number out to strangers. but he had to convince you somehow. “but the project?”
“we’ll talk in class.”
“but there’s more work to be done outside of class.”
“then we will discuss that too. during class.”
“but we- we dont get that much time during class.” gojo doubled down “maybe your email?”
“no.”
this was beginning to drive him insane, his ears turning read from frustration.
“then how can i contact you?” which came out a little too petulant for the 6’2 boy standing in front of you.
you shrugged nonchalantly, sliding your bag over your shoulder. “send me a carrier pigeon.”
your heels quickly picked up pace as you joined your friend in the hallway, hurrying away from the awkward interaction without giving gojo a chance to try again.
gojo watched you disappear around the corner, fixing his glasses with a back of his hand. sigh, well that did not go very well for him. sliding his bag over his head, wearing it cross body, he stalked out of the hall. gojo chewed at his bottom lip, deep in thought. you were snappy, and maybe he thought it was a bit uncalled for, he was not being completely outrageous. he was more confused on what made you react to him specifically that way.
you on the other hand did not think your snappy responses were uncalled for whatsoever. however, you spared your best friend, deciding this interaction was not worth the time you wanted to waste talking about it. you will just let it brew quietly beneath your skin. what a safe coping mechanism!
—
gojo tried to talk to you in class for the next following weeks. how was your day? fine. and no question back. anything fun this weekend? no. any plans? no.
it drove him a little insane. he was truly trying his best to build a connection, something to go off of. maybe a hobby you would let slip, something you enjoyed doing that he could share his extensive knowledge on. but nothing. you replied as curtly as a soldier.
every night after the lectures he would pace around the living room, hands tugging and running through his soft white hair, as geto cooked, listening to his best friends rant about yet another failed attempt at a simple conversation with you.
“and she just says no!” he groans, flopping down on the couch. “she says no and her voice is still so sweet. now how is that even fair?” his face is buried in his hands.
“i dont even know how you have a crush on a girl that doesnt even seem to want to turn your way. that’s more surprising. your will to torture yourself is above all else.”
“its not torture,” satoru whined. “you haven’t seen her, and i dont mean just looks. shes a god damn genius, for one. shes so fucking confident and she just knows what shes doing and it drives me insane in the best way. i just… fuck” he exhales, exhausted. “i just want to be in her orbit. a safer, closer distance i can experience her coolness. you know?”
“youre like a sunflower with its sun. cant get too close and yet you keep turning towards it.”
“idiot sunflower.” gojo mutters, throwing an arm over his glistening blue eyes.
“the stupidest.” suguru chimes just to annoy his friend.
—
your stubbornness was costing your project to suffer a bit. it was true that only discussing it in class was slowing down the progress.
so, out of absolute necessity — you valued your gpa more than wounding some boys pride — you gave in.
“gojo?” you turned towards the geek. the room was painted in sunlight, streaking inside from the blinds.
gojo just blinked at you, eyes widened. you were speaking to him, and it didnt sound like you were about to snap at him for doing something wrong or tell him off. his heart stuttered stupidly in his chest.
“y-yes?”
“you can have my phone number.”
at that, gojos eyes widened even further. all of the sudden, out of the blue, you decided he was worth those ten digits? he could text you now! could talk to you outside of class, though you are likely to block him if he does. but that doesnt matter, its progress!
“sure, yes. ill just- give me a second. my phone..” gojo tripped over his own words as they rushed out, tumbling out of his clumsy lips, long fingers fumbling with his phone. after a second of one of the most pathetic scenes you have ever seen, he finally hands you his phone, looking away as he feels a blush creep over his face and down his neck.
you grab gojos phone without any particular enthusiasm and type in your phone number. you were about to hand it back before snatching it back out of his reach. “never call me.” you fix him with a glare that has gojo swallowing nervously and nodding like a devoted puppy. “and only text me about the project. that’s it. got it?”
“y-yes, yes. of course. only about the project. yes ma’am.” you gave him another long stare, as if you were evaluating if he was being honest. if you could trust him. gojo couldnt even focus on being scared of you for longer than a second because the sun spilled over your face, coloring your eyes in a vibrant shade, your hair with a golden glow. he was entranced.
with a huff that broke the spell you finally handed him back his phone. “dont make me regret it, gojo.”
that night, gojos apartment was exploding with cheerful yelling and celebrations. following by meticulous hours of planning the perfect text.
your apartment was flooded with regret and groans, an endless stream of complains.
“hes just been absolutely unbearable. i tell him to do one thing. one! and he doesnt do it right.”
“huh. what a tool.” mutters your friend, already feeling the conversation starting to spiral towards your one and only.
“and so i had to give him my phone number.” you paced.
“you- sorry. what?” your friend looked up at you. this was supposed to be a stalemate. you were supposed to hold out.
“if that block of wood knew how to do anything right, i wouldn’t have to! but we cant get anything done by not talking outside of class.”
“im sure he got your hints,” your friend waved her hand, “he wont text you for nothing.”
“maybe youre right,” you slowed down finally, taking a deep breath. “he cant be that dense-“
your phone pinged in your hand. speaking of the devil. you looked down to see a message from an unknown number and your face fell as you read over it.
> hey, satoru here. i was thinking we should spend some time outside of class.
and then one more.
> not like that
and one more
> but like the library or something
> to work on the project.
you almost crushed your phone in between your fingers with how hard you were gripping it. if this was anyone else, the string of messages wouldn’t have bothered you. but because this was gojo, the fact that it could have been one message but he took up more space and sent multiple, had the audacity to make your phone ping multiple times, irritated you.
—
“she said no,” gojo whined into the pillows of his bed. he’s alone now, the room is dark from the sun being long gone. he was supposed to be asleep. he had a quiz the next morning and a study session. he simply couldnt afford to be a slob. but your relenting rejection of his advances drove him insane. every time he asked, you turned him down sharply, and something twisted in him.
something taunt, just pulling him to the edge. the way your voice sharpened, the way he could imagine your eyes narrowing at him. fuck. he’s getting hard just thinking about it.
any normal person would stop already. give up on you. but he wanted a fair chance. he wanted to prove to you he wasn’t as annoying as you believed him to be.
satoru tried to think of other ways to ask you out, to get you to come to the library, to at least finish this project with him so you both could get a good grade. but all rational thoughts slowly seeped out of his brain.
because once again all he could think about was your eyes, the way they pinned him down with annoyance. the way you huffed every time he spoke, as if it was laborious to listen to him. the way you would cross your arms over your chest, as if he was one step away from getting reprimanded by you.
oh god, how he would love to get reprimanded by you.
sweat built at gojos brow, his breath was labored. oh no, this was really bad. just those thoughts alone made him whimper quietly. there is no way he could ignore this. or go to sleep tonight.
satoru turned over to lay on his back. his navy blue sheets rumpling under him. his phone was already in his hand, his fingers moving before his brain could process that he’s opening your instagram. thank goodness for a public account.
you looked so good, in every picture. your hair caught the light perfectly. your eyes twinkled, caught mid laugh. or in your highlights, posing with your girlfriends in a bar, a black dress that slipped and hung on to every part of you so perfectly. gojo felt his mouth go dry. your skin so soft, so glowy, your lips shiny in every goddamn photo like you did not ever have a bad day.
his hand was already palming himself over the boxers as he scrolled. gojos teeth sunk lower into his bottom lip to stop any noises from coming out. the last thing he needed was to be teased by geto if he heard.
satoru thought that maybe, just maybe, he was done for tonight. maybe he could hold on to some dignity and not go all the way tonight. but then his thumb swiped over your perfectly arranged instagram and there it was. that photo of you.
a club, or a party. some dark room and only a flash of red lights behind you and white, presumably from your phone or a camera, lighting you up. your head is thrown back, tongue sticking out, and your friend, cropped from the photo, only an arm visible, is pouring a drink into your mouth from above.
gojo wanted that photo tattooed on his eyelids.
no dignity. no holding back. his hand slipped into his boxers, fingers wrapping around himself. the strokes were jagged, twitchy as his brain flushed with thoughts of you. with images of that tongue running over him, all over him. of those pretty lips throwing insults at him as you ride him. that throat he can mark up, if you ever let him.
he sprung himself free. all flushed and glistening and pretty. he was already so on edge that he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out long. not when it came to you. never when it came to you.
he threw his head back, muttering soft prayers in the shape of your name. turning his head into his pillows once he couldnt hold back the pathetic whimpers spilling out from his lips.
with just a couple of strong, long strokes over his pink, flushed length, gojo was spent. strings of thick white spilling over his own abs, his phone rested on his chest that moved up and down as he panted. his hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks red from embarrassment, desire.
shame pooled deep in his stomach, waring with unrelenting attraction. his senses came back all of the sudden. what a creep. a pervert. jerking off to a photo of a girl from his class. you didnt post these photos for him to see. you most definitely did not think anyone would have this reaction. he really needed to get a grip.
his phone suddenly pinged. who could be texting him so late at night?
> tomorrow, library at 5. i will be there if you want to work on the project.
gojo let out a started, chocked gasp. he was actually going to see you outside of class! but how was he supposed to face after what he did tonight. he cant look into your eyes, he is sure you will see the shame, the filth, the dirty actions done the night before.
he fucked up.
satoru quickly replied, obviously agreeing to see you, even as he did not know how he will stand to be in same room with you after tonight. then he got up to clean up the mess he made. the hot water of the shower doing nothing to wash away the still lingering neediness and embarrassment.
—
gojo was there before you, because of course he was.
he was so anxious about being late, or stumbling in, or not knowing what to say once he saw you, that he decided to show up a bit earlier. his stress induced mind wouldn’t let him do anything beside sit and stare at a wall until the time to leave came. so he showed up an hour early.
you picked one of the larger libraries on campus. the bookshelves spanned several floors, the interior was filled with dark, aging wood.
the tap of dojo’s foot added to the sound filled silence of the large space, students flipping through pages and typing on their laptops.
satoru thought that by showing up early he will avoid embarrassment but now he had nothing to do. he could get started early, but then it would look like he was trying to one up you. so once again, he found himself just sitting, every scenario running through his mushy brain.
gojo still hasnt calmed down from last night. and once in a while he has to bury his face in his hands from the heat crawling under his skin. gojo practiced breathing, so he doesnt look like he ran a marathon by the time you arrived.
long breath in. short breath out. pause. finish breathing out. long breath in. short breath out. pause. finish breathing out. long breath in. pause-
“learning how to breathe for the first time?”
and just like that, satorus breathing exercise collapsed. his head snapped up, silky white hair falling around his forehead, wide, blue, glistening eyes meeting your narrowed ones. that unimpressed expression on your face, the one he has seen so often, he believed he has every ridge of it memorized.
“hi,” he breathed out, pushing back his glasses that somehow, once again, slid down his nose. he thought he was doing a good job, with the calming exercises and all. but the second you set your bag down at the table between the two of you and slide into a chair right across from him, gojo’s lungs stuttered a bit.
you only hummed in response, pulling out your note book and laptop to get started.
the two of you worked surprisingly well. when you weren’t focused on the fact that you thought he was the biggest jerk, you stayed focused on the diagrams, equations, and questions. it was easy enough, the work was divided and notes were passed around.
for a good hour or so, the two of you were simply people who shared no past and no future. only the present. you held no names and no weight. and in that weird space, you found yourself able to guide him, work with him, even listen as he explained his part to you.
during research, you fell into comfortable silence. gojo preferred to look through the physical copy of the text if it wasn’t already taken out by someone else, while you arranged the information found online on your neatly organized google doc you shared with him.
a site was taking too long to load and you leaned back in your chair, eyes briefly flickering away to scan the premises. everyone was working away diligently, eyes locked onto their bright screens, pens gliding over lined paper. someone in the far end sketched while the person closest to you drew diagrams for what looked like an architecture project.
finally, your eyes slid over to the person right in front of you. satoru was currently slightly hunched over a book, his fingers holding down the corner from flipping. his eyes slid over the page before he quickly glanced over his own computer and wrote something down. something you will probably have to fix later because he doesnt organize his notes the way you do. his white headphones rested over his ears, and you found yourself wondering what kind of music he listened to. his foot seized tapping as fast as before, now going at a much slower pace, most likely to match whatever rhythm he was playing in his headphones.
it was kind of unfair, you thought, your bottom lip jutted out as your frowned, how good he looked just studying. absolutely not conscious of the way he is perceived at the moment. his hair fell perfectly over his brows, ends curling around his pale face that held the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes, and the slightly pink lips he wet once in a while, while muttering an equation.
he still held the title of the biggest asshole to you, but you were not blind and therefore would not deny his attractiveness.
your screen flashed blue, the website finally deciding to grace you with the much needed information. your eye flickered away from the pretty nerd before you and you leaned back in, diving back into your project.
—
you stretched up, letting out a soft groan at the tensions in your back from sitting, in a probably very unappealing position, for hours, while grinding away at a project.
the hour was late and the library held around 5 students, all fighting against sleep and hunger.
you took off your headphones that at this point gave you a headache, pulled off your black hair tie that held up your hair in a ponytail — the release immediately caused some of the stress and tautness to be released.
this caught gojos eye, he first scanned the time. late, a little too late. then he finally eased his eyes at you. your hair fell so pretty, framing your face under the dim yellow lights, exhaustion written in your eyes, and the twitch of your fingers indicated an ache from writing so much.
gojo pulled his own headphones to hang on his neck. “done for tonight?” his voice came out soft, as to keep the peace of the library and the fragile connection the two of you built intact.
“yeah, pretty much.” you quietly shut your laptop and he followed suit. “just one part i dont get… and dont go mumbling how stupid i am under your breath again.” you said with a chuckle, as if it was a joke the both of you were aware of. but gojo did not catch whatever you referred to. instead, he caught the bitter lilt to your voice, as if you were painfully trying to mask this comment as witty and not a rude remark.
your heart still squeezed at the memory of that day. of the absolute terror you felt as you realized you were unable to stop your tears or fear that every single person though you were not smart enough to be in this program.
gojos snowy eyebrows pinched together at his confusion. your comment made no sense to him, but he did not point it out, out of the fear of creating space between the two of you again. you had a reason for saying that, but why was it directed at him?
the lack of his response indicated to you that you should probably just leave. there was no reason to beat a dead horse, right?
the chair scraped the floor slightly as you rose up from it and gojo snapped out of his hazy, tumbling thoughts, and followed immediately, like he couldn’t bare you being a couple of feet away from him. his hand tugged on his half open bag, struggling to close it and rush after you.
“are we- uh.. should we do this again?” the two of you stood outside, your breaths created a translucent cloud in the chilled air.
“probably,” you tucked your hands into your hoodie before they froze off. “we should really work more on this project.”
“yeah, right. the project,” gojo scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darted away from yours as you two stood in silence.
“yeah, kay. g’night.” you turned on the balls of your feet to walk towards the parking lot, you just wanted to escape the awkwardness as soon as possible. you guessed that leaving the library lifted the thin presence of a symbiotic relationship you had with gojo.
“oh! should i- well, can i walk you back?” he took one tentative step behind you and stopped suddenly, not wanting to come off as creepy.
you threw him a glance over your shoulder that said ‘as if i cant protect myself’. “im fine.”
“right, night!” gojo swallowed, gaze following your retreating body with a sort of longing he should not posses as man that never even had you in the first place.
—
the entire walk back to his own apartment, gojo kept replaying that comment in his head. muttering? calling you stupid? were you even talking about him, or was that a general comment? an attempt at a joke?
this thought haunted him for the following two weeks.
while he was brushing his teeth in the morning. shirt discarded somewhere in his messy room. only blue pajama pants hanging low on his hips. hair tussled from the pillows. but the only thought in his head — when did i ever call her stupid? i would never! shes one of the smartest people i know.
or when passing in between lectures. the trees around the quad stood blossoming. the cool weather has finally passed and now new flower buds were springing up from every surface. making the university look like the photos straight out of brochures. but gojo couldnt focus on the blooming buds and blossoming trees. because he was too busy replaying every conversation he ever had with you.
he was cooking breakfast? burned the eggs because his mind got caught in the way your voice sharpened around a word.
“do you remember me ever mentioning something like that?”
geto looked up from his phone, sprawled over the couch. “uh, no. dont believe so.”
“then why! i have this nagging feeling that whatever she meant by that was very important.”
“maybe youre reading into it, like always.”
satoru chewed at his bottom lip, hands delving into his hair as if he was trying to physically pull out the buried memories.
“satoru,” geto sat up, looking at his friend like he needed serious saving. “relax. you’ll figure it out. how about we get your mind off of it, hm? you’ve been stuck on this damn girl for a bit too long,” he pulled his white haired friends hands away from his face. “c’mon. we got a party to go to,” gets’s voice raised in pitch in a coaxing manner, a sly smile pulling at his lips.
and somehow that worked. because suguru and satoru were walking through the doors of a bustling party. it was chiller than a regular college rave, but still held a very classic party vibe. the colored lights were flashing in the main area, the side rooms equipped warmer, lower lights. the couches were arranged in a conversation pit style, assuming the position for a large group. pieces of loud conversations could be heard all around the rooms as songs switched in intensity.
they found themselves in a familiar group of people. all lounging around, red cups lazily held by their fingers, talking over the music away from the main room.
someone from the said group — offhandedly, simply meaning it as a joke — made a passing comment about satoru. something simple, along the lines of — “glad satoru isn’t the same snob as he was sophomore year, always sulking and muttering about. now he can finally have some fun” which the usual cheers and passing of drinks accompanied right after.
but that really stuck with him. so that comment you made? about muttering something rude under his breath? that really was about him.
but instead of feeling regret, some sort of remorse. guilt? no. gojo felt… angry. annoyed.
it was so petty of you — the reason was so incredibly stupid, gojo could not grasp how you could handle putting both of your grades in danger, be such a pain to him for basically no reason, and still hold that grudge. from so long ago.
geto leaned back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest as he burrowed himself deep in thought.
something was finally clicking, whatever he must have said to you, pieces were coming back to him. slowly and hazy, but they were starting to come together.
and then pow- it hit him like a brick. the memory of that sophomore class. he couldnt even remember the topic being discussed in class that day, but he could finally recall what he said. ‘how can someone not know this?’
gojo scoffed under his breath, the conversation taking place around him loud enough to swallow the soft, frustrated sound.
it wasn’t long before he caught you across the room. who knew you would show up to the same party he did? as annoyed as gojo wanted to stay, his eyes kept wondering towards you. as if you were something so captivating his body simply would not go against the desire to feast upon your beauty.
you were awfully bored in your apartment tonight, the place so quiet while your thoughts were so loud, you simply had to crawl out. you hit up the first party with enough people you could find. not like you needed an invite. a low enough top or a short enough skirt could get you in anywhere.
your eyes flickered around the room, occasionally landing on the same white block of hair. you assumed gojo wasn’t much of a party goer. but here he was. as much as you were ‘warming up’ to him, if you could even call it that. you still preferred to have your outings not be noted by his piercingly perceptive blue eyes.
the main area was dark, only flashing lights occasionally provided you enough light to see where you were going or who was around you. pushing through a mess of bodies, you finally made it to the drink table. you went for an empty cup, but someones long fingers were already wrapping around it.
you pulled back, muttering a sorry and reaching for another empty cup, only to notice that the table was cleared. that was obviously the last one.
you glanced up to see the blue eyes that cut through the darkness, that did not lose their intensity even as the color of the room flashed and switched. gojos eyes were tenser than usual, crinkling in the corners, framed by long, beautiful snowy lashes, almost glaring down at you.
“chivalry is dead, huh?” you huffed, “cant even offer a lady her cup anymore.” you shook your head and instead reached for a bottle. but it was already being knocked from your grip by him, why in the world did you keep reaching for the same stuff!
you whipped your head around, glaring back up at him. “can you not be in my way, please?” it was a bit rude, your snappy tone even catching you off guard, but the room was hot, the music was too loud, and you just wanted a damn drink.
to your surprise, gojo didnt step back. didnt apologize profusely nor did he blush furiously like he did many times before. no. his eyes narrowed behind his thin wired glasses. “what is your problem?”
it was cutting. the tone that made you feel guilty immediately. it made your eyes widen and your heartbeat speed up, your brain already scurrying to escape the situation. you feel as if you are about to get scolded, but instead you straighten up, meeting his gaze head on.
“what? i am just trying to get a drink.”
“no.” gojo leaned forward, nose inches away. “i mean what is your goddamn problem? is it attention you want?” he scoffed, even though you provided no answer. he didnt need verbal confirmation. in his mind, he had you figured out. and that idea of you, he hated her. that is someone he truly could despise. so gojo didnt feel so bad once he continued. “i muttered something one, once under my breath. and you-“ he laughed. a laugh that held no humor what so ever, and instead increased the anxiety you were trying to hide by tenfold. “you blew it out of proportion. do you know how stupid that is? i literally was bending over backwards trying to get you to talk to me so we can at least pass the damn class together. and all of that? all that attitude- was because of something i muttered two years ago? youre unbelievable.”
once he finished with his rant that somehow did not get swallowed by the loud music around you, anger flashed in your eyes. all throughout your veins. because of course he would think it was stupid. “you dont get it at all, do you?”
“what is there to get? little miss attention seeker.”
you grabbed his sleeve, for some reason needing him to know exactly how he made you feel. shove his stupid, pretty face straight into the truth.
you pushed him into the first random room you could find. locking the door after yourself. “that’s what you think i wanted?”
gojo was out of breath and so were you. you were seething and he was realizing he is locked alone in a room with you.
“attention? i could live just fine without your attention!” you snapped once again, but this time it wasn’t annoyance. your tone was so sharp, so raw, that gojo awoke from his imagination of you. realizing now he was too late. he has really fucked up.
“you dont know what its like being part of a group that systematically rejects you. you would never understand that! what it feels like to break every piece of yourself off just to try and fit it. to swallow your emotions and complaints and be nice to every single asshole because youre scared of never being accepted.” hot, angry tears built at the back of your eyes, a knot was tightening in your throat. “your-hic!” tears spilled from your eyes without your permission and you felt so stupid, crying in front of a guy who definitely did not deserve it. “your fucking comment made me feel so useless. so stupid. like i would never find my place. never belong.” you turned away, wiping angrily at your tears. ashamed of admitting that he had this much influence over you. “go and mutter all you want under your breath, but you words hold weight. a ton of fucking weight.”
you couldnt handle meeting his eyes and simply ran out before he had the time to say anything. this was just like you sophomore year. running away with tears in your eyes. how ironic. and pathetic.
gojo stood in that dark room, watching the door slowly closing. he was frozen, unable to move whatsoever after you spilled your heart out. the image he had of you? absolutely vanished. of course you would put up a front against him. he was an asshole to you without even being prompted. and even now, he decided to trust his twisted idea of you that made him feel better about himself rather than genuinely asking you why something that seemed so small to him, made you so upset.
—
your project with gojo was done. every single document has been submitted. and for the next couple of days, you decided not to show up. it was weak of you, you knew. you should be stronger and go to the lecture, sit through it like nothing happened and nothing bothered you.
but a lot happened.
and a lot bothered you.
so you chose your peace and stayed in your apartment. the assignments that followed the project were all online anyway and you got most of your notes from your friend. and your professor was sweet enough to email you detailed lesson pages and whatever was discussed in class that day. and plus you didnt have to see that smart-ass anywhere else.
after only going to your other lectures, staying home, and venturing out to the library, you craved to go out. literally anywhere. the grocery store, the thrifts, even the dining hall. hell, even the vending machine at the corner of the uni!
but the downpour was awful.
absolutely horrible. it has been this way since you woke up. and it was already past midday. the rain did not even cease for five minutes for you to step out on to your balcony and enjoy the fresh, cool air.
of course, even mother nature had to ruin your plans. you opted for a cozy night in — again. another quite night, you guessed.
but as soon as you turned down the living room lights, the fluorescence of the tv mixing in with the warmth of your lamps, and wrapped yourself in a blanket, a serious of hurried, unorganized knocks came at your door. then the doorbell, and then more knocks.
absolutely no one you knew would be breaking down your door right now. or ever really. so who was so desperate to get in?
you shrugged off the blanket and stalked towards the door. your fingers flicked the lock and wrapped around the door handle before pulling it in, revealed a drenched gojo.
his white hair was plastered all over his forehead in messy strands. his glasses were covered in raindrops. his white shirt, with some goofy design on it, was drenched through and through. he held a dripping sweater in his hand, indicating that the rain was able to soak him through two layers.
he looked absolutely pathetic. eyebrows pinched together and pulled up in that pleading expression of his. his fingers tightened and trembled over the sweater as he stood, creating a puddle of rainwater by your door.
“im sorry,” satoru broke down. his voice cracking as he struggled to take a breath. did he run here? through the rain?
“im so sorry, y/n” he whispered your name, again and again. his knees gave out from exhaustion. knees colliding with the floor, hands bracing himself against your doorframe.
he noticed you have missed the lectures. of course. he was the one that hacked into the professors email so he could stay up half the night, writing out lecture lessons and notes, he knew you would never read his emails. he knew you already blocked his number. so he had to get creative. he couldnt sleep some nights. the guilt gnawed at his insides like a starving dog at a peace of meat. his stomach turned every time he recollected the way your eyes shone with tears and his heart twisted every time he recalled your sharp but honest words. he missed you so much, your pretty face, your rude remarks, your lingering glances you thought he didnt notice.
“im such an idiot. i know i was, and still am.” he lifted his head, meeting your confused gaze. they were so wide and earnest, blue and sparkling with unshed tears, “i didnt- i didnt know it made you feel that way. i hate myself for making you feel that way. youre so incredibly smart and i- fuck. i think about you so much- admire you so much it hurts.”
he looked like a kicked puppy. his eyes slid over your backlit form and he couldnt help but whimper. actually whimper at the sight of you.
“please give me a chance. please.” gojo begged. shaky hands coming up to gently hold the back of your thighs. “ill be good. i promise. i will never mistreat you like i did. you deserve so much better. please, please let me give you that. let me show you i am worth it. i can be that for you.”
something warm pooled in your stomach at his continuous pleading. like your presence in his life was above the presence of air.
your fingers raked through his wet hair and gojos breath stuttered. “youll be good?”
your fingers tightened in his hair and gojos eyes fluttered shut. “so good.” he muttered.
neither of you moved. the tv quietly kept playing something in the empty room behind you. the rain still hammering hard against the window.
you studied him quietly. not the smart, know it all, infuriating boy.
but the exhausted, vulnerable, raw, real satoru.
his eyes fluttered open again and he looked at you as if you held his future in your hands. like he was giving up his full autonomy to you.
his fingers flexed against the back of your thighs before releasing, afraid he was doing too much.
“you ran here?”
a laugh escapes his lips, broken and embarrassed.
“yeah.”
“in the storm?”
a soft nod followed.
“that’s stupid.”
“i know.”
“you couldve gotten sick.”
“i know. i dont care. i had to see you.”
your lips twitched despite yourself and the sight of that knocked all air out of gojos lungs.
his gaze slithered over to your lips but he felt as if he didnt deserve the sight of that, didnt deserve your soft smile. he looked down again.
“look at me,”
and once again, there was so much hope in his eyes it made your chest ache.
“gojo-“
“no, satoru, please. call me satoru.”
you sighed, “satoru-“
you could see the goosebumps rise on his skin simply from the way you said his name.
“i meant it,” he interrupted, voice a bit calmer now but not lacking any meaning. “i know i dont deserve another chance. i know that. but if there’s even the smallest possibility.”
his throat bobbed.
“ill spend as long as it takes proving it.”
your hand slipped form his hair to his cheek and and satoru froze. not because he did not want the touch, but because he wanted it too much. so much. he dreamed of you touching him in every way possible.
“youre such an idiot,” you murmured.
gojo melted into your touch, cheek pressing into your palm, seeking any and all the warmth and comfort it had to offer.
“your idiot. completely yours.”
don’t bite the hand that feeds you
pairing — yandere gamer satoru x discord kitten reader
synopsis: you thought it was a simple cash grab, playing the perfect discord kitten for a lonely, generous gamer. but his devotion is more than you bargained for, an all-consuming obsession that feels as intoxicating as it is unnerving. the lines of your con begin to blur, and you find yourself tangled in a game where you are no longer sure who is manipulating whom. as he builds a beautiful, gilded cage around you, you're forced to question what will happen when he decides the game is finally over. or: what starts as a simple con to bleed a lonely discord mod dry becomes a terrifying game of obsession when his generosity reveals itself to be a cage.
wc — 21.7k ෆ tags -> f!reader, porn with plot, really filthy and detailed smut, toxic online relationships, no one is innocent, everybody is mentally ill, satoru is neurotic, manipulation, obsessive behavior, stalking, misogynism (from satoru), sadism (from both sides), manipulator gets manipulated, power imbalance, codependency, psychological fuckery, isolation, coercion, moral ambiguity, dubcon elements (forced orgasms), satoru has a big dick, praise kink, degradation, that satoru brand of whiplash, humiliation kink, edging, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dacryphilia, missionary, belly bulge, doggy style, hair-pulling, cervix fucking, squirting, anal fingering, exhibitionism, creampie, loss of identity, art by @/rezi.jellyfish on ig
athy says, hi everyone, thank you for your patience with this! i promise there's a plot in here somewhere, but the smut-to-plot ratio got away from me. like, by a lot. apparently satoru had other plans. enjoy the filth <3 (yes the suguru slander and y/n pun was intended)
the discord notification sound has become pavlovian at this point. your fingers pause over the mechanical keyboard—his gift, cherry mx blues because you’d mentioned once that you liked the sound—and that familiar warmth spreads through your chest. another message from your devoted little ATM, probably with another screenshot of his bank transfer.
satoru is typing...
you’ve been bleeding this discord mod dry for exactly seven days now, and the rush hasn’t dimmed. if anything, it’s gotten sharper. more intoxicating. there’s something delicious about the way he hangs on your every word, the way his messages light up with barely contained excitement whenever you deign to respond.
you’d started this as a simple cash grab—find some lonely loser, play girlfriend for a few weeks, disappear with whatever you could get—but satoru gojo is turning out to be so much more entertaining than anticipated.
satoru: good morning beautiful ♡ i hope you slept well
satoru: i got us matching keycaps for our keyboards, yours should arrive today
satoru: also transferred money for that graphics card you wanted
the messages come in rapid succession, each one making your lips curl upward in something that isn’t quite a smile. you let them sit for a few minutes—never respond immediately, that’s amateur hour—while you examine your nails and bask in the knowledge that somewhere across the city, he’s probably staring at his phone waiting for those three dots to appear.
pathetic. beautiful, profitable pathetic.
why_en: aww satoru you’re so sweet 🥺 you really don’t have to keep spending money on me
the lie tastes like honey on your tongue. you absolutely want him to keep spending money on you. the thrill isn’t even about the cash anymore—it’s about the power. the way he throws his apparently endless bank account at you like he’s trying to buy your affection, not knowing he already has it in the most twisted way possible. not love, never love, but something hungrier and more selfish.
you wonder what he looks like when he reads your messages. does he smile that dopey, grateful smile you can hear in his voice? does he screenshot them like the lovesick fool he’s proven himself to be? the mental image makes warmth pool low in your stomach, not arousal but something more intoxicating—pure, undiluted control.
satoru: i want to!! seeing you happy makes everything worth it
satoru: you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me
there it is. that desperate, clinging gratitude that makes your pulse quicken with something that definitely isn’t guilt. you screenshot his message, adding it to the collection you’ve been building—a gallery of his devotion that you scroll through when you need a reminder of your own power. each declaration of love, each promise of eternal devotion, each pathetic attempt to prove his worth to someone who sees him as nothing more than a particularly generous wallet with feelings.
the gaming setup around you is a shrine to his devotion. the monitor he bought you—curved, 4k, some ridiculous size that takes up half your desk. the headset with noise cancellation so good you feel isolated from the world. the chair that cost more than your rent, ergonomic and perfect because you’d complained once about your back hurting. he’s building you a temple to worship in, and you’re the cruel goddess who accepts his offerings without giving anything real in return.
why_en: wanna hop on the game? i miss you
another lie wrapped in enough truth to taste sweet. you don’t miss him exactly, but you miss the way he makes you feel. like you’re the center of someone’s universe. like you matter more than anything else in existence. it’s addictive in the way that power always is—once you’ve tasted being someone’s everything, settling for being anyone’s something feels like starvation.
within seconds, your discord pings with an incoming call. you let it ring twice—can’t seem too eager—before accepting.
“hey gorgeous.” his voice comes through your headset, soft and warm and tinged with that barely contained excitement that makes your pulse quicken. there’s something about his voice that doesn’t match the image you have in your head—too smooth, too rich. you’ve been picturing some stereotypical basement dweller, but he sounds like he could be reading poetry or ordering wine at expensive restaurants.
not that it matters. attractive or not, wealthy or not, he’s still just another mark. just one who’s proving to be more generous and entertaining than most.
“hi satoru,” you let your voice go soft and affectionate, the way you know drives him crazy. “how was your day?”
“better now that i’m talking to you.” the sincerity in his tone makes your chest tighten—not with emotion, but with satisfaction. he means it completely, and that level of devotion should be frightening but instead it’s intoxicating. “did your package arrive?”
you glance at the unopened box on your desk, designer keycaps that probably cost more than most people’s cars. you’ve been letting it sit there, unopened, because there’s something delicious about making him wait for your gratitude. about knowing he’s probably been checking his phone all day for a thank you message that you haven’t sent.
“you spoil me too much,” you say instead of answering directly, voice pitched to sound guilty and grateful rather than calculating.
“impossible.” there’s a smile in his voice, genuine and warm. “nothing’s too much for you.”
nothing’s too much. the words settle into your chest like warm poison, feeding something hungry and dark that’s been growing stronger every day. you’ve had men spend money on you before, but never like this. never with this level of worship, this certainty that you deserve everything he can give and more.
the game loads and you fall into your routine—comfortable banter, shared objectives, him carrying you through content while you provide commentary and attention. he’s good at this, stupidly good, and you find yourself actually enjoying the gameplay instead of just enduring it.
“you’re incredible at this,” you breathe out after he pulls off some complicated combo that saves your virtual life. the praise isn’t entirely fake—he is skilled, precise in a way that speaks to countless hours of practice. but you layer your voice with breathless admiration that you know will make him melt.
“i’ve been playing since beta,” he says, and there’s pride there but also something else. something that sounds almost vulnerable. “most people think it’s a waste of time.”
“most people are idiots.” the response comes out more vehement than you intended, protective in a way that surprises you. where did that come from? you’re not protective of him—you’re protective of the source of your entertainment, your income, your daily dose of worship. “they’re just jealous they don’t have your talent.”
silence stretches between you for a moment, and you can hear his breathing through the headset. when he speaks again, his voice is rougher around the edges.
“you always know exactly what to say.”
do you? or have you just gotten good at reading the hunger in his responses, learned to feed the need you can hear lurking beneath every word he speaks? you’ve turned manipulation into an art form, and he’s your willing canvas.
“maybe i just really believe in you,” you say softly, and listen to the sharp intake of breath on the other end. hook, line, sinker. every. single. time.
the session stretches longer than usual—three hours of shared gameplay punctuated by increasingly intimate conversation. he tells you about his day, his work (something with coding that pays obscenely well), his thoughts on everything from philosophy to his favorite foods. you file away every detail, building a psychological profile that you’ll use to maximize your impact on his wallet and his heart.
but somewhere in the third hour, something shifts. his voice goes quieter, more vulnerable, and you find yourself leaning closer to the headset despite yourself.
“can i tell you something?” he asks.
“always.”
“i’ve never... i mean, i don’t usually connect with people like this.” there’s a pause, and you can hear him adjusting what sounds like glasses. “you’re different. special.”
special. the word hits different than all his other praise, settles deeper. you are special, aren’t you? special enough to have ensnared someone who sounds like he doesn’t fall easily, someone who’s probably had plenty of options but chose to fixate on you.
“you’re special too,” you say, and for the first time in seven days, you’re not entirely sure if you’re lying.
the thought should disturb you. instead, it sends heat rushing through your veins like recognition, like coming home to something dark and familiar.
by the time you log off, it’s past midnight and your head is swimming with more than just the late hour. there’s something happening here, something beyond the simple con you’d planned. satoru gojo is getting under your skin in ways you hadn’t anticipated, and the smart thing would be to extract whatever you can and disappear before it gets complicated.
but you’ve never been particularly smart about walking away from things that make you feel powerful.
your phone buzzes.
satoru: thank you for tonight
satoru: talking to you is the best part of my day
satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful
you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, that hungry warmth in your chest growing stronger. tomorrow you’ll push a little harder, ask for a little more, see just how far his devotion extends. tomorrow you’ll test the boundaries of his worship and bask in the results.
tonight, you fall asleep to the sound of notification after notification, each one a small prayer offered at the altar of your manufactured perfection.
the second week is when you truly hit your stride.
you’ve learned his patterns now—when he wakes up (6 AM sharp), when he takes lunch (12:30, always at his desk), when he’s most vulnerable to suggestion (late evening, after he’s been working all day and craving human connection). you time your messages accordingly, each one calculated for maximum impact.
why_en: i had the weirdest dream about you last night...
sent at 6:15 AM, just late enough that he’s had time to check his phone and early enough to derail his entire morning routine.
satoru: tell me everything
the response comes within thirty seconds, and you can practically feel his desperation bleeding through the screen. you let him wait fifteen minutes before responding.
why_en: it’s kind of embarrassing...
why_en: we were together, like really together
why_en: you made me feel so safe
three messages, perfectly spaced to build anticipation and plant ideas. you’re not just selling him fantasy anymore—you’re selling him dreams, literal dreams where he’s your protector and lover and everything he wants to be.
his response is immediate and exactly what you expected.
satoru: i want to make you feel safe
satoru: i want to be everything you need
satoru: god, i wish i could hold you right now
perfect. absolutely perfect. you screenshot the conversation and add it to your collection, your gallery of psychological victories. there’s something deeply satisfying about watching someone unravel themselves for you, about knowing exactly which strings to pull to get the response you want.
why_en: maybe someday we can make that dream real
the maybe is crucial—never promise anything concrete, always leave room for interpretation. let him build the fantasy himself while you provide just enough encouragement to keep him invested.
satoru: someday soon, i hope
satoru: i’m falling for you
satoru: is that crazy?
is that crazy? you almost laugh out loud at the question. of course it’s crazy. he’s falling for someone who doesn’t exist, someone you’ve constructed specifically to exploit his weaknesses and extract his resources. but crazy is profitable, and his particular brand of crazy is more entertaining than anything you’ve experienced in years.
why_en: not crazy at all
why_en: i’m falling too
another lie that tastes suspiciously like truth. not falling in love—you’re not capable of that kind of clean emotion—but falling into something. falling into the rhythm of his worship, the daily hit of being someone’s everything, the intoxicating knowledge that you’ve become necessary to his happiness.
the week continues like this, each day bringing new messages, new gifts, new declarations of devotion. your bank account swells like a tumor, fed by his desperate need to prove his worth through material offerings. but it’s not just about the money anymore, hasn’t been for days.
it’s about the control. the way he asks permission before making plans, the way he checks in constantly to make sure you’re happy, the way his entire emotional state seems to revolve around your approval. you’ve become the sun in his solar system, and the gravitational pull of that much influence is addictive.
satoru: i’ve been thinking
satoru: we should meet
the message arrives on a wednesday afternoon, and you stare at it for a full minute before responding. you’d known this was coming—it always comes—but you’ve been living in this perfect bubble where he existed only as a voice in your headset and numbers in your bank account.
meeting means risk. means maintaining the facade in real time, with no delete button, no time to craft the perfect response. means looking into the eyes of someone whose life you’ve systematically infiltrated and pretending to care about what you see there.
but it also means seeing the devotion made flesh. means watching his face light up when he sees you, means being the physical manifestation of his digital goddess made real. the thought sends heat coursing through your veins, anticipation mixed with something darker.
why_en: meet?
play dumb. make him work for it, explain why he needs this, needs you. make him convince you even though you’ve already decided.
satoru: i know we said we’d take it slow but i can’t stop thinking about you
satoru: i need to see you
need. not want, need. the desperation in that word choice makes your pulse spike with satisfaction. you’ve done this to him, created this need, built yourself into something essential to his existence.
why_en: i want to see you too
why_en: but what if...
satoru: what if what, beautiful?
why_en: what if i’m not what you’re expecting?
why_en: what if you’re disappointed?
it’s a calculated vulnerability, designed to make him rush to reassure you, to pile on more worship and devotion. but underneath the calculation, there’s a tiny seed of something that might be genuine anxiety. not about your appearance—you know you’re attractive enough to maintain the illusion—but about everything else. about keeping up the performance, about being worthy of the pedestal he’s built for you.
satoru: impossible
satoru: you’re perfect
satoru: nothing could disappoint me about you
perfect. there’s that word again, the one that sits heavy in your chest like a promise and a threat. he’s built you up so high that the only direction left is down, and some twisted part of you is curious to see what happens when the inevitable fall comes.
satoru: tomorrow? i’ll pick you up
and because the alternative is admitting that this has all been an elaborate lie, because you’re in too deep to back out now, because some twisted part of you wants to see the devotion in his eyes when he looks at you—
why_en: okay
why_en: i can’t wait
you spend the night in a state of restless energy. trying on outfits, practicing expressions in the mirror, rehearsing conversations. you need to be the girl from the game tomorrow, the one who thinks his jokes are hilarious and his interests are fascinating. the one who’s falling just as hard as he is.
but more than that, you need to be perfect. need to live up to the impossible standard you’ve set, need to be worth every dollar he’s spent and every prayer he’s offered at the altar of your digital presence.
your phone buzzes at exactly 2 PM.
satoru: here
you check your reflection one more time—carefully applied makeup that looks effortless, outfit chosen to hit the sweet spot between approachable and untouchable, smile practiced until it looks natural—and head downstairs.
the car waiting outside is not what you expected. sleek, expensive, the kind of vehicle that whispers wealth instead of shouting it. and behind the wheel—
oh.
oh fuck.
satoru gojo is not the basement dweller of your imagination. he’s tall, unfairly tall, unfolding from the driver’s seat like he’s been poured into existence by some artist with a preference for impossible proportions. white hair that catches the sunlight and holds it, pale skin that should look sickly but instead looks ethereal, and—
glasses. wire-rimmed and slightly askew, like he’s pushed them up his nose a thousand times while concentrating on code or game mechanics or whatever it is that’s made him wealthy enough to treat you like a luxury purchase.
but it’s his eyes that stop your breath. blue like winter sky, like deep water, like something beautiful and dangerous. and the way he’s looking at you—
like you’re a miracle he’s not quite sure he deserves.
for a moment, just a moment, your carefully constructed confidence wavers. he’s beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight, beautiful enough that you understand why he has options, why he could choose anyone. and he’s chosen to fixate on you, chosen to pour his attention and resources into someone who’s been systematically deceiving him for two weeks.
the thought should make you feel guilty. instead, it makes you feel powerful.
“you’re—” his voice catches, and he pushes his glasses up with one long finger. “you’re so beautiful.”
the reverence in his tone makes your chest constrict with satisfaction. you’ve been complimented before, but never like this. never like you’re something precious and fragile and worth protecting. never by someone who looks like a fallen angel asking for permission to worship at your feet.
“hi satoru.” you duck your head, letting manufactured shyness bleed into your expression because you can see how it affects him. the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten on the car keys. he’s even more responsive in person, every micro-expression a testament to your power over him.
“hi.” he’s smiling now, soft and genuine and so different from what you’d imagined. “ready?”
the date—because that’s what this is, even though neither of you have called it that—unfolds like a fever dream. he takes you to places that exist in a different tax bracket than your usual haunts. art galleries where the price tags make your eyes water, restaurants where the waiters treat him like royalty and you like his precious companion.
and he’s... charming. actually charming, not just wealthy enough to fake it. he tells stories that make you laugh despite yourself, asks questions that suggest he actually listens to your answers, touches your hand across restaurant tables with a reverence that makes your skin burn.
but more than charming, he’s generous. not just financially—though the black card that appears every time a check arrives is certainly impressive—but emotionally. he gives you his complete attention, hangs on your every word like you’re delivering divine revelation, treats every opinion you offer like it’s the most insightful thing he’s ever heard.
it’s intoxicating. addictive in a way you hadn’t anticipated. you’ve had men try to impress you before, but this feels different. this feels like worship, and you’re discovering that being worshipped is a high unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.
“tell me about your childhood,” he says over appetizers that cost more than your weekly groceries, chin propped on his hand as he gazes at you with those impossible blue eyes.
the question should panic you—you haven’t prepared a backstory, haven’t thought about how to make your real life sound interesting enough to hold his attention. instead, you find yourself telling him the truth. or at least, a version of it.
“not much to tell,” you say, twirling expensive pasta around your fork. “grew up middle class, normal family, normal problems. nothing as interesting as your life, i’m sure.”
“everything about you is interesting to me.” the response is immediate and sincere, and you have to hide your smile behind your wine glass. he means it completely, and that level of fascination is better than any drug you’ve ever tried.
“what about you?” you turn the conversation back to him, partly because you’re genuinely curious and partly because you know he’ll love having your undivided attention. “what made you so successful so young?”
his smile turns self-deprecating, and he pushes his glasses up again. “luck, mostly. right place, right time, right skill set for what the market needed. nothing special.”
but the way he talks about his work—the passion in his voice when he describes complex problems and elegant solutions—suggests otherwise. he’s brilliant, genuinely brilliant, and probably used to being the smartest person in any room. the fact that he’s choosing to spend his time and attention on you feels like a victory worth savoring.
“i think you’re being modest,” you say, reaching across the table to touch his hand. his fingers are long and elegant, surprisingly soft for someone who spends his days typing code. “success like yours doesn’t happen by accident.”
the touch is calculated—skin contact always is, with men like him—but the warmth that spreads up your arm when he turns his hand to capture your fingers is entirely unexpected. his thumb traces across your knuckles, and you have to fight the urge to shiver.
“you give me too much credit.” but he’s looking at your joined hands like they’re something precious, something worth protecting. “honestly, work used to be everything. before you.”
before you. two words that carry the weight of complete life reorganization, of someone who’s restructured their priorities around your existence. the power of it is dizzying.
“before me?” you pitch your voice to sound curious rather than satisfied.
“before you, i worked sixteen hour days because i didn’t have anything else worth coming home to. now...” he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that makes your breath catch. “now i leave the office at five because i can’t stand being away from you any longer than necessary.”
the gesture should feel possessive, controlling. instead, it feels like devotion made flesh, like being precious enough to reorganize someone’s entire world around. you’re drunk on it, higher than you’ve ever been on any substance.
“satoru,” you whisper, and watch his pupils dilate at the sound of his name from your lips.
“i know it’s crazy,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “i know it’s too much too fast, but i can’t help it. you do something to me.”
you do something to him. the admission sends heat racing through your veins, confirms what you’ve suspected for days—that your power over him goes beyond simple attraction or even infatuation. you’ve gotten into his head, rewired his brain chemistry, made yourself essential to his happiness.
it’s the most intoxicating feeling in the world.
“you do something to me too,” you admit, and it’s not entirely a lie. he does do something to you—makes you feel powerful and desired and important in ways you’ve never experienced before. makes you want to be worthy of the pedestal he’s built, even as you’re consciously manipulating your way to the top of it.
the rest of dinner passes in a haze of intimate conversation and lingering touches. he tells you things that feel like secrets—about his loneliness before you, his fears about not being good enough, his dreams for the future that all seem to center around making you happy. you file away every confession, every vulnerability, adding them to your arsenal for future use.
but somewhere between the main course and dessert, something shifts. maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the way he keeps looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, maybe it’s the sheer overwhelming force of his attention—but you start to lose track of what’s performance and what’s real.
when he reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your breath catches without any conscious decision to make it do so. when he smiles at something you say, warmth blooms in your chest that has nothing to do with strategy. when he asks about your dreams for the future, you find yourself giving answers you hadn’t planned, hadn’t practiced.
“what do you want most in the world?” he asks over dessert that’s more art than food.
the question hangs between you like a challenge. what do you want most in the world? money? security? power? all of those things seemed like complete answers a few weeks ago, but sitting across from someone who’s offering them all freely, they feel insufficient.
“to matter,” you say finally, the words escaping before you can stop them. “to be important to someone.”
it’s more honest than you meant to be, more vulnerable than your carefully constructed persona allows. but the way his eyes soften, the way he reaches for your hand again like it’s instinctive—
“you matter to me,” he says simply. “you’re the most important thing in my world.”
and god help you, you believe him. more than that, you want it to be true. want to be his most important thing, want to be worthy of the devotion he’s offering, want to deserve the life he’s clearly planning to build around you.
the realization should terrify you. instead, it feels like coming home.
he drives you back to your apartment as the sun sets, expensive car purring through streets that look different when viewed through the lens of his attention. everything seems prettier, more significant, like you’re seeing your own life through the eyes of someone who thinks you’re worth this level of effort.
“can i see you again?” he asks as he walks you to your door, and there’s vulnerability in the question that sits strangely on someone who looks like he’s never been denied anything in his life.
“try to stop me,” you say, and watch his face light up like sunrise.
he kisses your forehead before he leaves—chaste and sweet and completely at odds with the heat in his eyes—and you spend the evening replaying every moment, every touch, every look. your phone buzzes constantly with messages from him, each one a small prayer of gratitude for your existence.
satoru: thank you for today
satoru: you’re even more incredible in person
satoru: i can’t stop thinking about you
satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful
you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, some emotion you can’t name clawing at your chest. tomorrow you’ll go back to the performance, back to being the perfect girlfriend he’s constructed in his mind. but tonight—
tonight you let yourself wonder what it would be like if this was real. if you were really the person he thinks you are, really worthy of the life he’s offering to build around you.
your reflection stares back at you from your darkened phone screen, and for a moment you don’t recognize the face looking back. there’s something soft there, something vulnerable that has no place in your carefully constructed armor.
you push the feeling down, bury it beneath layers of calculation and strategy. this is a job, a con, a means to an end. the fact that your mark happens to be beautiful and generous and completely devoted doesn’t change what this is.
but as you fall asleep to the sound of your phone buzzing with message after message, each one a small offering at the altar of your manufactured perfection, you can’t quite shake the feeling that you’re lying to yourself about more than just your feelings for him.
the second date becomes a third, then a fourth. he integrates himself into your life with the persistence of water finding cracks, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. your gaming sessions become longer, more intimate. your days start to revolve around his messages, his calls, his presence.
and the gifts keep coming. not just expensive things anymore, but thoughtful ones. a book by an author you mentioned liking, tea from a shop you walked past together, a playlist of songs that remind him of you. he’s building a detailed map of your preferences, real and performed, and using it to craft a reality where you’re the center of everything.
it should be suffocating. it should trigger every alarm bell you have about controlling men and possessive behavior. instead, it’s intoxicating in ways you never anticipated.
“you don’t have to keep buying me things,” you tell him one evening, though you make no move to return the designer bracelet he’s just fastened around your wrist. the weight of it feels like ownership, like being marked as his in the most luxurious way possible.
“i want to.” his fingers linger on your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how your heartbeat spikes at his touch. “you deserve beautiful things.”
you deserve. not you want, not you like—you deserve. like your worth is something objective and measurable, like spoiling you is a moral imperative rather than a choice.
“what if i don’t?” the question slips out before you can stop it, vulnerability bleeding through your carefully maintained facade.
he goes still, fingers pausing in their gentle exploration of your wrist. when you look up at him, his expression is soft and serious and utterly convinced.
“impossible,” he says, and there’s no doubt in his voice whatsoever. “you’re perfect.”
perfect. that word again, the one that sits in your chest like a weight and a promise and a threat all at once. you want to be perfect for him, want to deserve the faith he’s placing in you, want to be worthy of the life he’s offering to build around your happiness.
but you also know, with crystal clarity, that you’re not. that everything he loves about you is a carefully constructed lie, that the person he’s falling for exists only in the digital space between truth and deception.
the contradiction should bother you more than it does.
instead, you lean into his touch and let him believe in your perfection a little longer.
you’re three weeks deep when the first crack appears.
it happens during a gaming session—some pvp match that’s going badly despite his usual skill. you can hear his frustration through the headset, sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses that sound nothing like the patient, adoring man you’ve come to know.
“look at this pathetic excuse for a human being,” he snarls after another failed engagement, and there’s venom in his voice that makes your stomach drop like a stone. “CurseGuzzlerSG—probably some mouth-breathing basement dweller who peaked in middle school and thinks button mashing counts as skill. bet his parents are ashamed they wasted eighteen years feeding this waste of oxygen.”
the transformation is jarring, like watching a mask slip off to reveal something predatory underneath. gone is the soft-spoken man who calls you beautiful every morning, replaced by someone whose voice drips with surgical cruelty.
you can hear the mechanical keyboard—the one he bought to match with you—being punished under his fingers, each keystroke sharp and violent. then there’s a crash, the sound of something being swept off his desk, followed by his ragged breathing.
“and this fucking reject with the anime profile picture,” he continues, his voice getting more unhinged with each word. “probably jerks off to cartoon children and wonders why he’s never felt a woman’s touch. look at his gear, look at his rotation—his brain must be smoother than a marble, absolutely no higher cognitive function happening in that empty skull—”
the specific, personal nature of his attacks makes ice form in your veins. these aren’t just frustrated gamer insults. this is calculated character assassination of people he’s never met, detailed psychological profiles built from usernames and gameplay footage.
“hey,” you say softly, trying to recapture the gentle dynamic you’ve built, trying to ignore the way your fight-or-flight response is screaming at you to hang up, to run. “it’s just a game—”
“don’t.”
the word cuts through your platitude like a blade, so sharp and cold you actually flinch away from your headset. the silence that follows is suffocating—you can hear him breathing heavily, each exhale controlled but violent, like he’s physically restraining himself from something worse.
ten seconds of silence. twenty. thirty.
when he speaks again, his voice has that careful control that’s somehow more terrifying than his rage.
“don’t diminish this. you know how much time i’ve put into perfecting my builds, my rotations, my team compositions. these... people... are ruining something i care about.”
people. the way he says it makes it clear they’re barely that in his mind.
there’s another stretch of silence, punctuated only by his measured breathing. you can picture him behind his setup—probably pushing his glasses up, running his hands through his white hair, recalibrating his mask.
“satoru—”
“i would never talk to you like that.” his voice is soft now, gentle, but there’s something underneath it that makes your skin crawl. “you’re different. you’re special. you understand quality, you appreciate effort, you have standards. unlike these degenerates who probably can’t even tie their own shoes without their mothers helping them.”
the implication hangs in the air like smoke: this is how he talks about people who aren’t special to him. this is the venom he reserves for anyone who doesn’t meet his standards, who doesn’t earn his carefully rationed respect.
“you’re the only person worth my patience,” he continues, and you can hear his smile through the words. “the only person who deserves my best self.”
your hands are shaking. you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“i could be raid leading for a world-first guild,” he continues, and you can hear him pacing now, his breathing heavy through the microphone. “i could be making guides that actually matter, teaching people who deserve to learn. instead i’m stuck carrying these worthless—”
“satoru.” you interrupt, your voice firm enough to cut through his spiral. “breathe.”
silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. when he speaks again, his voice is different—smaller, almost frightened.
“sorry. i didn’t mean to... you’re the only good thing in my life, i shouldn’t take my frustration out on—”
“it’s okay,” you say quickly, but something cold has settled in your stomach. the only good thing in his life. not one of the good things, the only thing. the weight of that responsibility sits on your chest like lead, and you’re starting to understand why he treats you like something that might disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
the session ends early, with him apologizing repeatedly—too much, too frantically—and you reassuring him that everything’s fine. but after you hang up, you sit in the darkness of your room and wonder what you’ve built here. what kind of devotion requires this level of emotional maintenance. what kind of man puts all his happiness in one person and then expects that person to carry it gracefully.
your phone buzzes immediately.
satoru: i’m sorry for earlier
satoru: you bring out the best in me and i never want to be anything less than perfect for you
satoru: let me make it up to you
satoru: please don’t be upset with me
satoru: i can’t stand the thought of disappointing you
satoru: you’re everything to me
the messages come in rapid succession, each one more desperate than the last. you can picture him on the other end, probably pacing his apartment, pushing his glasses up his nose over and over while anxiety eats him alive. the image should make you feel powerful—and part of it does—but mostly it just makes you tired.
why_en: it’s really okay satoru, we all have bad days
satoru: not around you
satoru: never around you
satoru: you deserve perfect
the next morning, there’s a package at your door. jewelry this time, delicate and expensive and exactly your taste. the note attached is written in his careful handwriting, and you can see places where he pressed too hard with the pen, where his hand probably shook: for the most perfect woman in the world. i’m sorry i’m not worthy of you yet.
not worthy yet. like his worthiness is something he can achieve through enough gifts, enough attention, enough complete subsumation of his identity into the idea of pleasing you.
you should feel guilty. you should feel something approaching shame for the way you’ve constructed this relationship on a foundation of performance and manipulation. instead, you feel hungry. greedy. more addicted than ever to the way he sees you as something precious and irreplaceable.
but the cracks keep appearing, spreading like spider webs through the perfect facade he’s built.
it happens at a coffee shop two days later. you’re waiting in line together, his hand possessive on the small of your back, when the barista—young, pretty, probably a college student—smiles at him while taking his order.
“what can i get started for you?” she asks, all customer service brightness and innocent friendliness.
you feel satoru’s hand tighten against your back. when he speaks, his voice is clipped, cold in a way you’ve never heard directed at a stranger.
“large americano. black.” no please, no thank you, just barely controlled hostility toward someone whose only crime was existing while female in his presence.
the girl’s smile falters slightly. “and for you?” she asks, turning to you with visible relief.
“i’ll have a—”
“she’ll have a vanilla latte with oat milk,” satoru interrupts, his voice still sharp. “and make sure the temperature is exactly 140 degrees. she has a sensitive palate.”
you stare at him. you’ve never mentioned having a sensitive palate. you don’t even particularly like vanilla lattes, but you’d ordered one once weeks ago and he’d apparently catalogued it as your permanent preference.
“uh, actually—” you start.
“that’s what you always get,” he says, looking at you with those too-blue eyes. there’s something desperate in his gaze, like your coffee order is a test of his devotion and getting it wrong would shatter something fundamental in his worldview.
“right,” you say weakly, watching the barista’s expression grow more uncomfortable by the second.
“anything else?” she asks, clearly wanting this interaction to end.
satoru’s eyes narrow, scanning her name tag. “no, suzuru. just make sure you get it right. my girlfriend deserves the best service.”
the way he says ‘girlfriend’ makes your skin crawl—possessive, territorial, like he’s marking territory. suzuru nods quickly and moves to start the drinks, probably counting the minutes until her shift ends.
“you didn’t have to be rude to her,” you say quietly as you move to wait for your order.
“rude?” satoru looks genuinely confused. “i was protecting your experience. did you see the way she was looking at me? completely inappropriate when i’m obviously with someone.”
you glance back at suzuru, who’s focused intently on the espresso machine and definitely not looking at anyone. “she was just doing her job, satoru.”
“was she?” his voice drops to a whisper, but there’s venom in it. “or was she trying to get my attention? women like that are always testing boundaries, seeing if they can break up happy couples.”
women like that. you want to ask what he means exactly—college students? service workers? people who dare to exist in his vicinity while female?—but something in his expression warns you off. there’s a paranoid intensity in his eyes that makes you think of conspiracy theorists and reddit manifestos.
“maybe you’re reading too much into—”
“i notice things other people miss,” he interrupts, straightening his glasses with sharp, jerky movements. “i see patterns. the way she tilted her head, the way she leaned forward when she talked to me, the way her voice got softer. classic manipulation tactics.”
your blood runs cold. classic manipulation tactics. you wonder if he’s catalogued your own behavior the same way, if he has mental files on every smile, every laugh, every carefully crafted moment of vulnerability you’ve shown him.
“large americano and vanilla latte!” suzuru calls, setting the cups on the counter with obvious relief.
satoru inspects both drinks before accepting them, checking the foam art on your latte with the intensity of a forensic investigator. “temperature?” he asks.
“140 degrees,” suzuru confirms, already turning away to help the next customer.
as you leave the coffee shop, satoru’s demeanor transforms back to the devoted boyfriend you know. he opens the door for you, asks if your drink is perfect, tells you how beautiful you look in the morning sunlight. but you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at that barista, like she was a threat to be neutralized.
“you’re quiet,” he observes as you walk to his car.
“just thinking.”
“about what?” there’s an edge of anxiety in the question, like he’s afraid you might be thinking about something—or someone—other than him.
“nothing important,” you lie, and watch his shoulders relax slightly.
but it is important. the more time you spend with him, the more you realize that his devotion comes with a price: the complete elimination of any other people from your life. friends who text you less because you’re always busy with satoru. coworkers who’ve stopped inviting you to after-work drinks because you always decline. family members who’ve started asking if you’re okay because you only talk about your boyfriend now.
the isolation happened so gradually you barely noticed it. satoru never explicitly told you to stop seeing other people—he’s too smart for that. instead, he made himself irresistible.
why go out for mediocre drinks with friends when you could stay in with someone who treats you like a goddess? why maintain friendships that require effort when you have someone who gives you everything you want without asking for anything in return?
except he is asking for something in return. he’s asking for everything. your time, your attention, your entire existence reorganized around the maintenance of his happiness.
the revelation should horrify you. instead, as you settle into the passenger seat of his expensive car and let him fuss over your seatbelt, your comfort, your everything, you find yourself wondering why it feels so much like coming home.
a week later, you’re having dinner at another expensive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters know his name and treat you like visiting royalty. you’ve learned to navigate these spaces now, learned to let him order wine that costs more than your monthly rent, learned to smile graciously when he explains the menu items like you’re a child who needs guidance.
the conversation flows easily—it always does now, you’ve learned to navigate his interests and opinions like a native speaker—until he mentions something that makes your blood freeze.
“i’ve been thinking about taking a vacation,” he says, cutting into his steak with precise, almost surgical movements. “somewhere tropical, just the two of us. i found this perfect resort in the maldives—private villa, completely isolated from everything. just paradise.”
isolated. the word echoes in your head like a warning bell.
“that sounds amazing,” you say automatically, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.
“i already booked it,” he continues, and there’s excitement in his voice, genuine happiness that makes your stomach twist with guilt and terror in equal measure. “two weeks, starting next month. i know you’ll have to request time off work, but i figured we could say it’s a family emergency or something. i don’t want your boss asking too many questions about where we’re going.”
the casual suggestion of lying to your employer sits wrong in your chest, but it’s the other part that makes your pulse quicken with alarm.
“you booked it?” the words come out sharper than intended, and you see his expression shift slightly, like a mask slipping. “without asking me?”
for just a moment, something flickers across his face—surprise, irritation, the look of someone who’s been questioned when they expected gratitude. but it’s gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
“i wanted to surprise you.” his tone is still gentle, but there’s something underneath it now. something watchful, calculating. “you mentioned wanting to travel, and i thought... i wanted to give you something special. something no one else has ever given you.”
he’s right, of course. you had mentioned wanting to travel, weeks ago, back when you were still thinking of him as a mark instead of... whatever he is now. but the way he’s twisted that casual comment into justification for making major decisions about your life without consulting you feels like a trap closing around your throat.
“i can’t just disappear for two weeks, satoru. i have responsibilities, commitments—”
“what commitments?” the question is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes your pulse quicken. his blue eyes are studying you with uncomfortable intensity, like he’s dissecting your objections in real time. “your job that makes you miserable? friends who barely text you anymore? family who only call when they need something?”
the accuracy of the statement hits like cold water. when was the last time you made plans that didn’t involve him? when did your world become so small that he fills every corner of it? and more importantly—when did he become so intimately familiar with the deterioration of all your other relationships?
“that’s not the point,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction and you both know it. “you can’t just... decide things for me.”
his hand reaches across the table to cover yours, warm and possessive, and you notice the way his fingers completely engulf your smaller ones. “i’m not deciding for you, beautiful. i’m trying to give you everything you deserve. when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?”
the question lodges in your throat like a stone. when was the last time? before him, certainly. before this performance became so consuming that you forgot what happiness felt like when it wasn’t reflected in his adoring gaze.
“this is making me happy,” you whisper, and it’s not entirely a lie. this—his attention, his devotion, the way he treats you like something precious—does make you happy. but it’s a hollow kind of happiness, built on a foundation that’s starting to crack under its own weight.
“then what’s the problem?” his thumb traces across your knuckles, a gesture that should be comforting but feels like a shackle. there’s something in his voice now, a careful patience that reminds you of someone talking to a frightened animal. “let me take care of you. let me give you the life you deserve.”
the life you deserve. not the life you want, not the life you choose, but the life he’s decided you deserve based on his careful observation of your preferences and weaknesses. the distinction sits heavy in your chest as you look at him across the table—beautiful, devoted, dangerous in his certainty that he knows what’s best for you.
“two weeks is a long time,” you say weakly, grasping for some kind of compromise that won’t shatter the careful dynamic you’ve built.
“exactly.” his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love that feels more like ownership with each passing day. “two weeks where you don’t have to think about anything except being happy. no work stress, no social obligations, no one else’s needs to consider. just you and me and paradise.”
just you and me. the phrase echoes in your head with the weight of inevitability. no one else to perform for, no escape routes, no witnesses to whatever he becomes when he has you completely to himself.
“okay,” you say finally, because the alternative is a confrontation you’re not ready for, because part of you wants to see what happens when you stop running from this thing you’ve created. “okay, we can go.”
his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love. “you’re incredible,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips. his kiss is soft, reverent, and completely at odds with the triumph gleaming in his eyes. “i can’t wait to have you all to myself.”
all to himself. the phrase echoes in your head as he pays the check without looking at the total, as he drives you home through streets that feel increasingly like a maze with no exit, as he kisses you goodnight with reverent tenderness that feels more like a brand than affection.
that night, alone in your apartment, you sit on your bathroom floor with your back against the locked door, trying to process what just happened.
the fear sits in your stomach like ice water, sharp and immediate. you’ve seen behind his mask now, witnessed the calculating precision with which he’s been mapping your life. every conversation you thought was casual bonding was actually reconnaissance. every detail you thought you were sharing naturally was being filed away, catalogued, weaponized.
but underneath the fear is something else, something that makes you feel sick with self-recognition. you’re impressed.
the thoroughness of it, the dedication, the sheer amount of effort he’s put into knowing every facet of your existence—it’s horrifying and flattering in equal measure. when was the last time someone paid attention to you with this level of intensity? when was the last time you felt this important to another person?
he knows your coworkers’ names, your salary, your daily frustrations. he’s been building a detailed psychological profile while you thought you were playing him. the realization that you’ve been outmaneuvered by someone you considered a mark should terrify you.
instead, it makes you feel... special.
not just the object of desire, but the subject of obsession. worthy of this level of investigation, this depth of surveillance. he doesn’t just want to possess you—he wants to understand you completely, to anticipate your needs before you voice them, to become essential to your happiness.
your phone buzzes with a text, and you don’t even need to look to know who it’s from.
satoru: thank you for saying yes to the trip
satoru: i know it’s a big decision
satoru: i promise i’ll make it perfect for you
satoru: everything i do is for you
satoru: you’re my whole world
his whole world. not part of his world, not an important piece of it, but the entire thing. the weight of being someone’s everything sits on your chest like lead, but underneath the pressure is something that feels suspiciously like pride.
you type and delete a dozen responses before settling on something that feels true enough to pass for honesty:
why_en: i trust you
and you do trust him, in a way that’s probably more dangerous than fear. you trust him to worship you, to structure his entire existence around your comfort and happiness. you trust him to protect what he sees as his with the same vicious intensity he showed that night gaming, the same paranoid vigilance he demonstrated with the coffee shop barista.
you trust him to love you the way a collector loves their most precious acquisition—completely, obsessively, possessively.
the maldives trip looms like a beautiful nightmare on the horizon. two weeks alone with him, no escape routes, no distractions, no witnesses to whatever you become when you stop pretending this isn’t exactly what you want.
tomorrow you’ll put on the mask again. tomorrow you’ll be his perfect girlfriend, grateful for his attention and excited about your romantic getaway. tomorrow you’ll feed the monster you’ve created and pretend you don’t see your own reflection in his hungry eyes.
but tonight, in the darkness of your apartment, you let yourself grieve for the person you used to be before you learned to love the feeling of being devoured.
your phone lights up again.
satoru: goodnight, beautiful
satoru: sweet dreams
satoru: i love you more than anything in this world
the words sit on your screen like a confession and a threat and a promise all at once. more than anything in this world—not anyone, anything. like you’re not a person to him but a concept, an ideal, a perfect thing to be protected and possessed and worshipped from a distance that’s growing smaller every day.
why_en: i love you too
and in the silence that follows, you finally understand that some hungers can only be satisfied by being consumed completely. the question isn’t whether you’re ready for that consumption—it’s whether you’re brave enough to admit how much you want it.
the villa is perfect, of course it is. satoru doesn’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to you. glass walls that dissolve the boundary between inside and outside, infinity pool that bleeds into the ocean horizon, bed the size of your entire apartment back home draped in white silk that catches the tropical breeze.
the air hums with salt and jasmine, the scent clinging to your skin, curling into your senses like a lover’s breath. the teak furniture, carved with razor-sharp precision, glows under the low light, each piece a silent testament to his control, his need to make this space an extension of his will—and of you.
you’ve been here a week and you can feel yourself dissolving.
his presence is relentless: mornings with breakfast on a tray—mangoes sliced so thin they’re translucent, their juice dripping down his fingers as he presses a piece to your lips, watching your tongue dart out to taste it, coffee brewed to the exact temperature you mentioned once, its bitter warmth coating your throat as he studies your reaction with narrowed eyes and a faint smirk.
afternoons on the deck with the sun searing your skin, his fingers tracing slow circles on your thigh, each touch pulling a hitch in your breath, a flush across your chest. nights where he watches you pretend to sleep, his gaze heavy, peeling back your defenses until you’re raw, exposed, your pulse quickening under the weight of his scrutiny.
“you’re so beautiful when you think no one’s watching,” he murmurs now, and you realize your pretense has failed again. his voice comes from too close, and when you open your eyes he’s propped on his elbow beside you, studying your face with those winter-blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that have become as familiar as your own reflection.
the sun has set while you dozed, painting the water in shades of amber and rose. the villa’s lighting system has activated automatically, casting everything in a warm glow that makes his white hair look spun from gold, makes his pale skin seem to glow from within. the light catches his glasses, glinting like a predator’s eyes, and the ocean outside hums, a low murmur that fades against the pulse hammering in your ears.
“i wasn’t sleeping,” you lie, stretching like a cat under his gaze. the movement makes the silk camisole—another gift, chosen perfectly for the climate and your coloring—ride up, exposing the soft curve of your hip, and you watch his eyes darken as they track the exposed skin with predatory focus. the fabric clings to your breasts, outlining your nipples as they harden under his stare, and his jaw tightens, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate.
“i know.” his fingers ghost over your hip bone, light as butterfly wings but searing, tracing a slow arc that sends a shiver through you. “you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re really asleep. right here.” he touches the spot with his index finger, gentle but possessive, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch, your lips part in a soft gasp. “and your breathing changes. gets deeper. more trusting.”
the casual observation makes your stomach flip. he’s catalogued even your unconscious expressions, studied you with the dedication of a scientist documenting a new species. seven days of constant observation, constant attention, and he’s mapped every detail of your existence with the precision of a cartographer claiming new territory.
“you’re staring too hard,” you whisper, but there’s no real complaint in it. you’ve grown addicted to the weight of his attention, the way he looks at you like you’re art in a museum—something precious and irreplaceable that he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to possess.
“can’t help it.” his hand slides higher, palm flat against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through silk so thin it might as well not exist. the contact is deliberate, his thumb circling slowly, coaxing your nipple to peak harder, sending a jolt straight to your core. “especially in that. it’s like you were designed specifically to drive me insane.”
the camisole was waiting on the bed when you arrived, along with an entire wardrobe he’d selected with meticulous care. sundresses that tie at the shoulder with single ribbons that beg to be pulled, bikinis that somehow stay on despite being mostly string and wishful thinking, lingerie that makes you feel like something wrapped for his consumption. everything easy access, everything designed to come off at the slightest provocation.
“you have good taste,” you manage, voice catching as his thumb traces the curve of your breast, feeling your nipple harden through the silk. the sound makes him smile, sharp and satisfied, his eyes glinting with triumph, his jaw tightening as he watches your lips part.
“i have you,” he says simply, leaning down to press his lips to your collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. his tongue is warm, wet, tracing a slow path along your collarbone, and the contact burns, soft yet laced with something feral, his teeth grazing lightly. “that’s all the good taste i need.”
his breath is hot against your skin, his lips parting slightly as he lingers, savoring the salt of your sweat, the faint pulse under your skin. the kiss burns, soft and reverent but there’s something darker lurking beneath the surface. something that’s been growing stronger the longer you’re isolated together, the longer he has you completely to himself with no interruptions, no witnesses, no escape routes.
his mouth moves lower, teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you can’t suppress the small gasp that escapes. the sound flips something in him—his grip tightens on your ribs, fingers digging in just shy of painful, his nails biting into your skin, leaving faint crescents. his eyes flicker with dark satisfaction, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he feels you tremble.
“satoru,” you breathe, and his name comes out needier than intended, almost broken, your voice trembling as your core aches with want.
“what do you want, beautiful?” his lips move against your throat, voice gone rough around the edges, a low growl that vibrates against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point again. “tell me exactly what you want and maybe i’ll give it to you.”
it’s a loaded question wrapped in silk, isn’t it? what you want versus what you think you should want versus what he wants you to want. the lines have blurred beyond recognition, especially here in this paradise where the outside world feels like a half-remembered dream. the villa is a cage of glass and silk, the air thick with heat and desire, and every touch of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, pulls you deeper into his orbit.
“you,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said in weeks. not the performance version of want, not the careful calculation of what will keep him devoted, just pure need that’s been building like pressure behind glass. “i want you.”
something shifts in his expression, the careful mask of gentle devotion cracking to show the ravenous hunger underneath. his hand moves higher, cupping your breast properly now, thumb circling your nipple through silk with enough pressure to make you arch against him.
his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. his eyes darken, pupils dilating as he watches your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan, a flush spreading across your chest.
“how much of me?” his voice is lower, darker, a growl vibrating in his chest as he leans closer, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot against your skin. “because i want to give you everything, but i need to know you can handle it. need to know you won’t break.”
the question makes your pulse stutter because there’s something in his tone you’ve caught glimpses of before—in game chats when other players frustrate him, in the way his jaw tightens when men look at you too long, in the casual possessiveness that’s grown stronger each day—but never this concentrated, never this focused entirely on you.
“everything,” you whisper, because retreat isn’t an option anymore. you’ve come too far, fallen too deep, let yourself get too addicted to the way he makes you feel like the center of the universe. “i can handle everything.”
his lips curl, sharp and beautiful and completely unlike the gentle adoration you’re used to. it’s hungry, satisfied, like you’ve just given him permission for something he’s been craving.
“careful what you promise,” he murmurs, but his hands are already moving, fingers finding the silk ribbons at your shoulders. he unties them slowly, reverently, like he’s unwrapping the most precious gift he’s ever received, his fingers steady but his eyes flickering with hunger, his jaw tight as he watches the fabric fall.
the camisole falls away and you’re bare to his gaze, nipples hardening in the warm air as he looks at you like he’s seeing something that belongs entirely to him. the silk pools at your waist, and his eyes rake over your breasts, your nipples peaking harder under his stare, a flush spreading across your chest.
“perfect,” he breathes, and there’s something almost clinical in how thoroughly he studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly, cataloguing every curve, every freckle, every flush. his palms cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness, just enough pressure to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy. his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. “do you know what you do to me? walking around in those little outfits i picked out, looking at me like you trust me completely?”
there’s something almost cruel in his tone, a darkness you’ve sensed but never seen fully unleashed, and it shouldn’t make you wetter but it does. the careful, worshipful lover is dissolving into something hungrier, more possessive, and your body is responding like it’s been waiting for this version of him all along, your core aching with want, slickness forming as your thighs shift.
“i do trust you,” you manage, even as his hands move lower, skimming over your ribs with deliberate slowness, fingertips trailing fire across your skin, each touch precise, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines that burn in the humid air.
“you shouldn’t.” his fingers hook in the waistband of your silk shorts, and he pauses, looking up at you with eyes that have gone dark behind his glasses, his lips curling into a faint, predatory smirk. “but god, i’m so fucking glad you do.”
the profanity sounds foreign in his mouth, rougher than his usual careful language, and it sends heat shooting straight to your core, making you clench with need. he pulls the fabric away with agonizing slowness, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed, and when you’re completely bare beneath him he just looks for a long moment.
his eyes rake over your body, lingering on the flush across your chest, the way your thighs quiver, the glistening slickness at your center, his jaw tightening, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate. the intensity of his gaze makes you want to cover yourself and spread wider at the same time, your core aching with need.
he’s cataloguing every detail—the flush spreading across your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, how your thighs press together unconsciously, only to part again as your core clenches.
“beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your legs with reverent touches that feel possessive, his fingers digging into your thighs, leaving faint marks. “so fucking beautiful it makes me crazy. makes me want to do terrible things to you.”
his thumbs brush the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips, not quite touching your center, just close enough to make you squirm, your hips lifting instinctively, seeking contact. “satoru, please—” your voice is raw, desperate, breaking on his name, your hips lifting again, your core aching with want.
“please what?” his voice has gone silky, dangerous, a purr that makes your core clench with need. his thumbs circle closer, grazing the edges of your slick folds, teasing your clit without touching it, and his eyes narrow, watching your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan. “use your words, beautiful. tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
the command in his tone makes you clench around nothing, and you see him notice it, see the satisfied smile that curves his lips as he watches your body betray your need. “touch me,” you breathe, hips lifting unconsciously, seeking contact he’s deliberately withholding. “please, i need you to touch me.”
“where?” he asks, and there’s something almost sadistic in how he’s drawing this out, like he’s savoring your desperation, his lips curling into a faint smirk, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “here?” his fingers ghost over your hipbones, barely making contact, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines. “or here?”
“you know where,” you gasp, frustration making your voice crack, your core aching with need, your thighs trembling. your eyes flutter, tears pricking at the corners, and your lips tremble, a soft whimper escaping as his fingers hover so close but refuse to touch.
“but i want to hear you say it.” he leans down, lips brushing your ear, and his voice drops to something dark and possessive, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “want to hear you beg for it like the needy little thing you really are. bet you’ve begged other men like this too, haven’t you?”
the question hits like a slap, unexpected and cruel, and you feel heat flood your cheeks. “satoru—” your voice trembles, raw with a mix of shame and arousal, your eyes wide with desperation, tears pricking at the corners.
“have you?” his fingers stop moving entirely, hovering just above your center, so close you can feel the warmth of them but not the relief you’re dying for, your clit throbbing with need. “answer me. how many others have seen you like this? how many others have you spread your legs for?”
“that’s—that’s not fair,” you whisper, voice breaking on the words, tears spilling over as your core clenches with need, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with desperation.
“not fair?” he laughs, and the sound is sharp and mean, a blade slicing through the humid air, his eyes glinting with dark amusement, his jaw tightening as he watches your face contort. “what’s not fair is how you probably let them touch you, let them think they meant something. but they didn’t, did they? they were just practice for me.”
his thumb finally brushes over your clit, just once, and the contact makes you cry out—a broken, desperate sound that echoes off the glass walls, your hips jerking upward, chasing more. he pulls back, watching you squirm with a smile that’s all teeth, his eyes glinting with satisfaction, his jaw tight as he savors your desperation.
“my clit,” you sob, beyond caring about dignity, tears spilling freely, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with need. “please touch my clit, please, i’ll tell you whatever you want—” your voice is raw, trembling, and your core clenches with need.
“good girl,” he purrs, but there’s something twisted in the praise, his eyes narrowing, a faint smirk curling his lips as he watches your face contort. “see how easy it is when you’re honest? when you stop pretending to be something you’re not?”
finally, finally his thumb presses against your clit properly, and the sensation makes you keen—a high, desperate sound that you don’t recognize as coming from your own throat. he starts with slow, deliberate circles, his thumb grinding against your swollen clit with cruel precision, dragging across the sensitive nerves, each motion sending jagged bolts of pleasure through your core.
his fingers tease your dripping pussy, sliding through your slick folds with a taunting drag, collecting your arousal as your hips jerk, desperate for more of his merciless touch.
“oh god,” you gasp, hips bucking against his hand involuntarily. the sound of your wetness is obscene in the quiet villa, slick and desperate, echoing off the glass walls. your cunt clenches, aching for him to fill it, as his thumb shifts to sharp, rapid taps, then slow, punishing drags that make your thighs quiver, your clit pulsing under his cruel attention.
“louder,” he commands, pressing harder on your clit, his thumb scraping across it with a vicious flick, sending a white-hot jolt through your body that makes you whimper, your breath catching in your throat. “want to hear every sound you make. want to memorize exactly how you break apart for me.”
but the touch is gone almost immediately, leaving you gasping and clenching around nothing. he’s back to those maddening almost-touches, fingertips trailing through your soaked folds with clinical fascination, teasing your entrance with featherlight strokes that make your cunt ache for more, his movements slow and deliberately cruel.
“so wet already,” he observes, his voice a low, clinical murmur. “soaking my fingers and we’ve barely started. your body just gives you away, doesn’t it? doesn’t even wait for you to be awake to do what it’s made for. it knows who it belongs to, even when you don’t.”
before you can answer, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with an obscene thoroughness that makes you whimper. his eyes never leave yours as his tongue laps at your slickness, swirling over each digit, savoring the taste of your pussy, and the sight is so filthy and intimate that your cunt clenches, a fresh wave of slickness dripping down your thighs.
“sweet,” he says after he’s licked them clean. “everything about you tastes perfect.”
his hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding through your drenched folds with devastating precision, parting your pussy lips with slow, deliberate drags. the wet sound fills the air, obscene and desperate. he finds your clit and circles it slowly, then switches to quick, vicious taps, building a rhythm that has you writhing beneath him, spine arching off the silk sheets as broken whimpers spill from your lips, your thighs trembling with the intensity of it.
your vision blurs at the edges, the room spinning as pleasure builds like pressure in your skull. you hear yourself making sounds you don’t recognize—breathless gasps, broken moans, words that might be his name or pleas. but every time you get close to the edge he backs off, switching to lighter, teasing strokes, his fingers grazing your cunt with cruel restraint, leaving you suspended in a limbo of need that feels like drowning.
“please,” you sob after the third time he brings you to the brink only to pull back, and your voice cracks on the word, raw and desperate. tears stream down your cheeks—when did you start crying? “please, satoru, i can’t take this, i can’t—”
“you can,” he says firmly, and there’s steel in his voice now, authority that brooks no argument. “you can take whatever i give you, can’t you? my perfect, patient girl.”
he slides one finger inside your aching cunt as he says it, and the intrusion makes you arch with a sharp gasp that echoes off the walls. your body clenches around him involuntarily, desperate for more, as he twists his finger with a vicious grind, dragging against your sensitive inner walls with a cruel, deliberate stroke that sends fire through your core.
the sensation is overwhelming—his finger twisting inside your pussy, grinding against that sensitive spot, while his thumb torments your clit with sharp flicks and slow, scraping drags, the dual stimulation shattering your thoughts. you can feel yourself dissolving, the careful walls you’ve built around who you’re supposed to be crumbling with each merciless movement of his hand.
“look at you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, stretching your cunt with a slow, forceful thrust, then pulling back to stroke shallowly at your entrance before plunging deeper, making you keen—a sound you’ve never made before, high and broken and completely involuntary. “falling apart so beautifully. is this what you wanted when you started your little game? to end up spread out for me, begging?”
the question cuts through the haze of pleasure like a blade. your little game. he knows. of course he knows. but instead of stopping, instead of feeling shame, you just clench tighter around his fingers, chasing the sensation that’s making everything else fade to static.
“that’s what I thought,” he says, and there’s dark satisfaction in his voice as he works you methodically, building toward something that feels bigger than pleasure, something that feels like complete dissolution. “my perfect little schemer, so good at manipulating everyone else. but you can’t manipulate this, can you? can’t control how your body responds to me. so loud for me. what would people think if they heard my perfect little schemer now?”
the thought should mortify you—the villa is isolated but not soundproof—but instead it makes you moan louder, the idea of being heard, of being claimed so thoroughly that even strangers would know you belong to him.
“you like that idea,” he observes, and there’s dark satisfaction in his voice. “like the thought of people knowing you’re mine.”
he adds a third finger and you keen, back arching off the bed as he stretches your pussy wider than you’ve ever been, the sensation teetering between pleasure and pain, your body trembling as it struggles to take him.
he slides his fingers in deep, then pulls back to stroke shallowly, teasing your entrance with quick, brutal thrusts before plunging back in, grinding against your inner walls with a cruel twist.
“god, you’re so tight,” he says, a note of sharp amusement in his voice. “all those other cocks, and you still feel brand new. did they even count?” the wet sounds are obscene as he works his fingers deeper. “don’t worry. i’ll open you up properly. i’ll make sure you can take all of me, because you’ll have to. this is what you really are when you stop all that clever scheming, isn't it? just a perfect, greedy cunt made for me.”
tears stream down your cheeks freely now, but you can’t tell if they’re from the physical intensity or from something deeper—the way he’s seeing right through you, stripping away every pretense until there’s nothing left but raw need and the terrifying realization that you want this, you want him to see you like this.
your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve crackling with electricity, the silk beneath you damp with sweat, your skin flushed and burning despite the ocean breeze. when you try to close your legs instinctively he forces them apart with his free hand, grip firm and possessive, his nails biting into your thigh.
“ah, ah, ah,” he chides softly, cruel amusement in his tone. “don’t you dare hide from me. look at you—clenching around my fingers like you’re starving, and you think i’d let you shut those pretty thighs and keep your slutty cunt all to yourself?”
he presses you wider, spreading you obscenely open, his gaze devouring the sight of your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his hand. “be a good girl and let me see it. every twitch, every little spasm. i want to watch you disgrace yourself.”
the shame floods your chest hot and heavy, but the words only make your walls flutter tighter around him. his breath catches, a low, hungry laugh breaking from his throat. he’s still fully clothed while you’re splayed naked beneath him, and the imbalance feels deliberate—like a scientist dissecting his favorite specimen, like a god pulling apart something that belongs only to him.
“eyes on me,” he commands when your eyes start to flutter closed, overwhelmed by sensation. “don’t hide it. i want to see every filthy little expression you make.”
you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he works you closer to the edge with surgical precision. his glasses have slipped down his nose, eyes dark with hunger behind the lenses, and there’s something almost clinical in how he watches you—like he’s cataloguing every micro-expression, every broken sound that spills from your lips.
your thoughts feel scattered, fragmented. the careful persona you’ve built crumbles with each vicious twist and stroke of his fingers, each brutal tap and drag of his thumb. you can feel yourself breaking apart, but instead of fear there’s only relief—relief at finally being seen, at having someone strip away all your defenses and want what they find underneath.
"are you about to come?" he asks, his voice losing its heat and taking on a cooler, almost clinical curiosity. his head tilts slightly, glasses slipping just a fraction down his nose as he studies your face like a fascinating experiment.
you can only nod frantically, a pathetic gesture because words have abandoned you entirely. your body is wound so tight you feel like you might shatter, pleasure building like a storm in your core that threatens to sweep away everything you thought you were.
but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he stops completely. he doesn't just pull his fingers out—he draws them back with agonizing slowness, leaving your cunt empty and desperately clenching around nothing as a sob tears from your throat. he holds his slick fingers up in the low light, examining them, and you, for a long moment, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
“no,” you cry, reaching for him with shaking hands. “please, don’t stop, i was so close—”
“i know,” he says, and the smirk widens into a smile that’s all sharp, beautiful teeth. there is no mercy in his eyes, only a bright, terrible amusement. “but you don’t get to come until i say you can. until i want to watch it happen. understand?”
you nod frantically, tears blurring his triumphant face, desperate to be good for him, to prove you can follow his rules. when his fingers return, they don’t plunge back in. they slide through your soaked pussy, tracing lazy, shallow circles at your entrance, a cruel tease that makes you bite your lip so hard you taste copper, trying to hold back the whimper that threatens to escape.
“good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise is a cold, condescending thing. he begins working you slowly again, building that familiar pressure, his thumb pressing lightly on your clit just to feel it pulse. “see how pretty you are when you listen?”
but his fingers are so skilled, grinding against that perfect spot inside your cunt with a vicious, practiced twist, and your body betrays you despite your best efforts. you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, muscles tensing, breathing growing ragged as he works you with relentless precision, his own breathing staying perfectly even. he’s not even close to losing control.
“not yet,” he warns, the words a low murmur, but his fingers don’t stop their devastating rhythm. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “hold it. i want to see you try.”
you try—god, you try so hard to be perfect for him, clenching your jaw and fists, your whole body a taut wire of resistance against the rising tide of sensation. but he feels you failing. he knows your body better than you do. he shifts his angle just slightly, grinding his fingers with a cruel, knowing precision against that spot that makes you see stars, and your control shatters completely.
the orgasm crashes over you without permission, a violent, tearing wave that rips a raw scream from your throat. you feel yourself gush around his fingers, a hot, shameful flood of wetness soaking his hand, the silk sheets, your thighs, as your body convulses with a pleasure so intense it feels like a punishment. your cunt pulses wildly, desperately, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
for a moment you can’t even think, only ride it out, mouth falling open on a strangled, broken cry as your body betrays you completely. your vision whites out, your thighs tremble and knock together, every nerve lit with an unbearable, agonizing release.
then, when it finally ebbs, the horror rushes in—icy, sharp, slicing through the haze. you see the mess, a dark stain on the pristine sheets, feel the way his fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, and the shame is so thick it clogs your throat.
“oh,” you gasp, voice raw, trembling with a pathetic, panicked energy. “oh no, i—i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—”
when you finally force yourself to look up at his face, the expression there makes your blood freeze. there’s no anger. it’s worse. it’s a mask of cold, theatrical disappointment, but underneath it, his eyes are glittering with a bright, terrible satisfaction. a tiny muscle is twitching in his jaw, not with rage, but with the effort of holding back a triumphant smile. he is enjoying this. he is feeding on it.
“what did i just tell you?” his voice is quiet, a deadly calm that feels louder than a shout. he doesn't move his fingers, just lets them rest inside you, a heavy, damning presence. “i gave you one, simple rule. what was it?”
“i tried,” you whisper, fresh tears of humiliation spilling over, hot against your skin. “i tried so hard, i promise—”
“clearly not hard enough.” he pulls his fingers out abruptly, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. he leaves your cunt clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined silk. the sudden emptiness, the cold air on your wet skin, rips a whine from your throat before you can stop it, high and needy, shameful in its desperation.
he clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and deliberately condescending. “listen to you,” he drawls, his gaze dropping to the mess between your legs, then back to your face. “whining like a desperate slut the moment i stop touching you. you’ve gotten too comfortable, haven’t you? too used to me giving you everything you want, following your every whim like some pathetic puppy.”
the words cut deep because there’s truth in them—you have gotten used to his devotion, his willingness to spoil you, to treat you like something precious.
“that’s not—” you start, but he cuts you off with a look so cold it silences you.
“no?” his hand comes up to cup your face, his grip a little too tight, his thumb brushing away your tears with a mock tenderness that makes your skin crawl. “then why did you just disobey me? why did you take what i told you to wait for? you took it from me.”
you can’t answer because he’s right—you did take it, couldn’t stop yourself from falling over the edge he told you to avoid. your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve raw and exposed, the shame of your failure burning almost as hot as the lingering pleasure.
“spoiled little thing,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, almost gentle whisper that’s somehow more terrifying. he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “always so used to getting your way. but that’s my fault, isn’t it? i’ve been too lenient with you.”
his other hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding slowly, deliberately through the slickness you’ve made, spreading it over your throbbing flesh. you gasp at the sensitivity, your thighs trembling, trying to close them, but his grip on your jaw tightens. everything feels too much, too intense, but when you try to pull away his body just pins you more firmly.
“shh, no running,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively gentle, as if calming a frightened animal. “your body is just confused. it wants this, remember? you cried when i took it away from you.” he presses a soft kiss to your temple, a gesture completely at odds with the cruelty of his intentions. “you made a mess by losing control. the consequence is that i have to be in control for you now. just let me.”
he slides two fingers back inside your cunt and you cry out—a sharp, wounded sound. it’s too much too soon after your orgasm, pleasure bordering on a raw, abraded pain as he works you with a cold, clinical precision, grinding against your sensitive inner walls with cruel, deliberate strokes.
but even as you whimper and squirm, he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that isn’t gentle at all. it’s a bruising, possessive claiming of your mouth, his teeth scraping your lip as he forces your head back into the pillows, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with yours. he is kissing you to silence you, to own you from both ends at once.
“shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers twisting inside you with a particularly vicious grind. he feels you flinch. “i know it’s intense, baby. i know it hurts. but you need to learn.”
the contrast is dizzying—his fingers punishing and relentless, twisting inside your pussy until you see spots, while his mouth moves with a soft, sweet thoroughness against yours, tasting your tears and your panic. it’s cruel and loving and completely confusing, making your already fractured thoughts scatter further.
“please,” you sob against his lips, the word muffled and broken, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore.
“please what?” he asks, pulling his mouth away just enough to watch your face as he adds a third finger, stretching your cunt so painfully you keen, your back arching off the bed. his eyes are dark, hungry, fascinated by the tears welling up again. “please stop? please more? you need to be clearer, sweetheart.”
but you can’t be clearer because you don’t know what you want except for this feeling to never end, for him to keep kissing you while he takes you apart, for the terrible sweet contradiction of pain and pleasure and love all tangled together.
“you want to come?” he growls, his voice gone completely dark, the mask of disappointment replaced with raw, unveiled hunger. “then fucking take it. show me how completely you can lose yourself for me. let’s see you break.”
the orgasm slams into you like lightning, so intense that you actually scream, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. your body convulses around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you, your cunt pulsing wildly, soaking his hand again and again. you’re dimly aware of sobbing, not quietly, but in huge, ugly, gulping breaths, tears streaming down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of it all.
but he doesn’t stop. his fingers keep moving, grinding that spot inside your pussy while your body tries to recover, the overstimulation so intense it borders on a sharp, burning pain, each new spasm a fresh agony of pleasure.
“too much,” you gasp, pushing at his wrist. he answers by bringing your own hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles even as his fingers inside you twist with a cruel, deliberate pressure.
“oh, but there is,” he whispers against your skin, his smile predatory and pleased. “there’s so much more to give you. i love it when you sound like this. you’re so pretty when you cry for me.”
and that one word—pretty—is the final, beautiful nail in the coffin. it takes the shame of your tears, the humiliation of your broken sobs, and transforms it into an offering.
it’s not a sign of your failure to control yourself—it’s a sign of your success at finally pleasing him in the purest way possible. the realization lands not with a crash, but with a quiet, devastating click of acceptance. and the worst part, the most damning truth of it all, is how much you like it. how right it feels to not just be seen in this state of utter ruin, but to be praised for it. to be completely, utterly undone, and to finally be called beautiful for it.
“one more for me,” he tells you, his voice a soft, instructional murmur as his hand shifts, adding a fourth finger that stretches your cunt so wide you can barely breathe, a sharp, burning tear of sensation that makes you gasp. “let’s see if we can get you past thinking. that’s where you’ll be prettiest, i know it. when it’s just pure feeling, and all of it is for me.”
the stretch is intense, almost painful, but your body adapts with a shocking, humiliating ease, your pussy gripping him tightly, slick and needy. like you really were made for this, made to take whatever he wants to give you.
“that’s it,” he praises, but the sound is less a compliment and more a satisfied confirmation as you adjust to the intrusion. he starts moving his fingers again, a slow, deep rhythm. “see how easy it is when you stop fighting your nature? you just needed someone to show you what you were really for. to be taken like this. to be mine.”
his thumb, slick with your wetness, finds your clit again and you’re already spiraling toward another orgasm, body wound so tight you can barely stand it, the sensation spreading through you like molten gold, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged.
“please,” you sob, the word a constant, broken refrain, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. release, more pressure, for him to stop, for him to never stop—everything blurs together in a haze of sensation.
“please what?” he asks, his voice gone soft again, but it's a terrifying softness, a gentle tone despite the relentless, punishing grind of his fingers. he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “what do you need, beautiful?”
“you,” you gasp, the admission ripped from the deepest part of you. “need you inside me, need all of you, please—”
his groan is a physical thing, a crack in the careful facade he wears, and the sound vibrates right through you, a low, guttural note of surrender that feels like your victory. he pulls his fingers from your cunt and the loss is immediate, a sudden, shocking hollowness that makes you whimper, a small, pathetic sound in the quiet opulence of the villa.
your body, slick and oversensitive, clenches on nothing, a desperate, silent plea that feels humiliating in its intensity. your hips twitch, an involuntary motion, chasing the memory of his touch, of the pressure that was grounding you.
he sheds his clothes with a brutal efficiency that’s almost frightening, each movement precise and devoid of any wasted energy. it’s not seductive—it’s a preparation. he doesn’t look at you as he unbuttons his shirt, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, as if unwrapping a tool for a specific, delicate job. you can only watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself.
his body is an exercise in contradictions—beautiful and terrible, all hard, lean lines and the kind of latent power that hums under the surface. and his cock… it’s a heavy, arrogant thing, jutting from his body with a slight upward curve, thicker than you’d let yourself imagine, the veins a stark roadmap across its length, a single, clear bead of precum glistening at the tip.
the sight of it, the sheer, solid fact of it, steals the air from your lungs and makes the ache between your legs sharpen into a painful throb.
he is finally, completely naked, and he turns his full attention to you. he looks at you, and it’s not with affection, not with the soft glow of romance.
it’s with the hungry, consuming patience of a collector who has finally acquired a priceless, one-of-a-kind piece and is now deciding exactly how to display it for maximum impact. your stomach twists, a nauseating, thrilling knot of want and a deep, primal fear. this is the point of no return.
“scared?” he asks, settling between your thighs. the mattress dips significantly under his weight, caging you, the movement slow and deliberate. his cock nudges against your slick folds, a heavy, promising pressure that makes a fresh wave of wetness leak from you, shamefully visible on the dark silk of the sheets.
“no,” you lie, but the word is a breathy, broken thing, lost in the space between you.
“liar,” he says, and the fondness in his voice is sharp, almost cruel, the indulgent tone one might use for a favorite, slightly stupid pet that has just performed a predictable trick. he positions himself, just the thick, crowned head of his cock, pressing into your entrance.
it’s a torturous hint of pressure, a question and a threat all at once, and you find yourself arching into him, a silent, desperate plea your body makes without your permission. “it’s okay to be scared,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel from his chest to yours. “it’s okay to want it anyway.”
he pushes in. not with a thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure, a deliberate invasion. it’s an agonizingly slow claiming of territory. the initial stretch is a searing, electric burn that makes you gasp, your nails digging into the silk sheets beside you, twisting the expensive fabric in your fists.
he pauses, letting you feel it, letting your body adjust to the first shocking inch of him, his eyes locked on yours, watching the flicker of pain and pleasure in your expression. then he moves again, another slow, grinding inch, stretching you wider. you can feel your inner walls resisting, then yielding, a slow, hot melting around his impossible width.
it’s a process, a complete remaking of your insides to accommodate him, and by the time he sinks himself to the hilt, your breath is coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
the feeling of him fully inside you is dizzying. a deep, stretching fullness that has finally settled past pain into a profound, grounding pleasure. he’s buried so deep you can feel the solid weight of him against your cervix, a constant, blunt pressure that seems to root you to the bed.
he shifts his hips, a small, grinding motion, and watches, fascinated, as his length creates a slight mound on your lower belly, a visible testament to his possession. his palm comes down to press on it, not hard, but with a firm, proprietary pressure that makes you keen, a high, broken sound. the feeling isn't just fullness anymore—it’s him, a tangible brand on your body, inside and out.
“fuck,” he breathes, the word a rough vibration against your skin as he lowers his weight onto you. “so tight. like you were designed just for me.” his hands find your hips, his grip bruisingly tight, pinning you to the mattress, anchoring you under him.
you can’t answer, can’t think. he starts to move, and the rhythm is a slow, grinding punishment—and with every deliberate, dragging thrust, his other hand grinds against that little mound on your belly.
the sensation is dizzying. you can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, amplified by that relentless, focused pressure from the outside. he’s fucking you from both sides at once, and it’s too much. he’s not just in your cunt—
he’s in your head, making you hyper-aware of your own body, of how he fills it, of how he is physically altering its shape.
“weren’t you?” he demands, his voice a low growl that seems to echo inside your bones. his thrusts get a fraction deeper, a fraction harder, his cockhead bumping insistently against your cervix.
“yes,” you gasp, the word torn from you on a sob that is equal parts pleasure and surrender. “made for you.”
that’s all it takes. something in him snaps. the slow, controlled rhythm is gone, replaced by a frantic, punishing pace that steals your breath and rattles your teeth. he fucks you like he’s trying to erase everything that isn’t him, his hand a constant, grounding pressure on your belly, a focal point in the beautiful, chaotic storm he’s creating.
a hot wire of sensation is pulled taut in your gut, and you feel yourself unraveling. his free hand slides down between your slick, colliding bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. he doesn't caress it—he grinds his thumb into it with the same brutal rhythm as his thrusts, and the world dissolves into white static.
you come with a scream that feels ripped from your soul, your body convulsing around him, a hot gush of release soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you. he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow, just fucks you through the aftershocks with a relentless, punishing rhythm before finally pulling out.
your cunt is dripping, leaving you aching and empty, a ruin of sensation. but he gives you no time to recover. he grabs your arm, flipping you over with an efficient brutality that leaves your head spinning.
“there you go, beautiful. up on your hands and knees for me,” he coos, his voice soft and hypnotic. “you fell apart so perfectly just now… i think i need to watch it happen from behind. show me how good you can be for me.”
you scramble to obey, your body clumsy and boneless, limbs trembling. you push yourself up, ass high in the air, cunt leaking a mixture of your slickness and his seed onto the pristine silk sheets. the position is inherently degrading, a silent admission of submission.
he doesn't make you wait. he slams back into you from behind, and the angle is so much deeper, so much more raw. it feels like he’s trying to split you in two. your head hits the mattress with a soft thud, a cry of shock and pleasure torn from your throat. one hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back and to the side, forcing you to look at nothing, to feel everything.
his other hand slides down the curve of your spine, over your ass, and then his thumb presses deliberately against the tight, untouched pucker of your anus.
you flinch, your whole body going rigid. the touch is so alien, so invasive, it’s a jolt of pure shock to your system. it’s not sexual, not at first. it’s clinical. an assessment.
he leans in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a low, filthy caress. “oh?” he murmurs, his tone laced with a dark, mocking amusement that makes your skin crawl as he notices the untouched pucker of your anus. “what’s this?”
his other hand, still slick with your cunt's juices from moments ago, slides from your hip and deliberately smears that wetness over your ass, making it easy for his thumb to glide over the sensitive skin. “a little bit of unexplored territory?”
the feeling of your own juices being used to lubricate a place you've never associated with pleasure is a deeply humiliating, confusing thrill. “don't worry," he whispers, his thumb pressing lightly, insistently, against the tight ring of muscle, making you flinch. "at least you saved this little ass-pussy for me. we'll get to it later. i like knowing there's still a part of you i get to be the first to ruin."
the shame is a hot flush that floods your entire body, from your scalp to your toes. but it’s twisted with a sick, thrilling arousal that makes your cunt clench violently around his cock. he feels it, and his laugh becomes a low, cruel rumble against your back as he starts to fuck you in earnest.
his thumb doesn’t try to enter, just circles the sensitive opening, a constant, humiliating reminder of a boundary he could cross at any moment, of a part of you he has now seen and catalogued and commented on. it makes every thrust feel dirtier, more illicit. the sheer wrongness of the sensation, the slick glide of his thumb over a place you’ve never associated with pleasure, sends a confusing, short-circuiting signal to your brain.
your eyes well up with tears of humiliation and overstimulation. a single, hot tear escapes and traces a path down your temple into your hairline. he sees it. you feel the rhythm of his fucking change, becoming harder, faster, more desperate.
“oh, look at that,” he breathes, his voice thick with a strange, new excitement. his hand leaves your hair and comes around to cup your jaw, his thumb roughly wiping at the wet track on your skin. “a different kind of tear. this one’s from shame, isn’t it? it’s even prettier than the others. does it upset you, being treated like this? does it make you feel like the little slut you are? show me how much.”
he fucks you harder with each question, a brutal, punishing rhythm that drives the air from your lungs. the head of his cock slams into your cervix again and again, making you see spots, a dizzying, painful pleasure that’s already pushing you toward an edge you don’t want.
and all the while, his thumb continues its own separate, maddening torment at your rear. it’s no longer just circling—it presses, nudges, a deliberate, insistent question against the tight, untouched pucker of your asshole that sends confusing sparks of sensation through your overstimulated body.
a choked sob breaks from your lips, a sound of pure protest, your body trying to recoil from the sheer sensory overload. “satoru, please—”
“shh, i know,” he murmurs, his voice going deceptively soft, even as his hips continue their punishing rhythm. “it’s new, isn’t it? you’re not protesting the feeling, beautiful, you’re just scared of how much you’re going to like it. is that it? are you scared of the slut i’m about to make you?”
the raw angle, the punishing depth, and that strange, insistent pressure is too much. you come again, and it’s not a release; it’s a rupture. a messy, sobbing orgasm that feels dirtier, more debased than the last. your face is pressed into the silk sheets, the sound muffled to a pathetic, wet keening as your body convulses around his relentless invasion.
you feel him shudder behind you, a deep, guttural groan vibrating through his body into yours, his own pleasure clearly peaking in direct, parasitic response to your distress. he feeds on this.
he doesn’t stop. he doesn't even try to acknowledge your climax. he just keeps going, his pace never slowing, fucking you through the lingering, hypersensitive spasms and beyond. he’s pushing you past pleasure now, into something else, something raw and overstimulated where every nerve ending is screaming in a language you don’t understand. he refuses you any reprieve.
he pulls back just enough for his thumb to slide down, deliberately gathering the slickness that has gushed from you. you feel the wet, humiliating glide as he smears it over your ass, and your breath hitches on a fresh wave of shame. he's using your own arousal to prepare you for a new violation.
“so wet for me,” he murmurs, his thumb now circling the slick, sensitive ring of your asshole. “let’s put it to good use.”
he teases you, the tip of his thumb pressing against the tight entrance, then retreating, again and again. you squirm, a broken whimper escaping your lips. “no, please, don’t—”
“don’t what?” he whispers, his voice dropping into a silky, dangerous purr. “don’t make you feel good? don’t show you what you really want?”
he ignores your pleas. his thumb presses forward, insistent and slow. the shock of it is a white-hot flash behind your eyes. the tight, resisting muscle gives way to his invasion, a slick, intrusive pressure that feels utterly alien. he’s inside you in two places at once, stretching you, filling you, claiming you in a way that feels absolute and irreversible. a strangled gasp tears from your throat, your nails digging into the sheets.
he doesn’t just leave it there. he begins to move it, a slow, grinding rotation inside you that mirrors the relentless pumping of his cock. it’s a dual assault that makes your mind white out. you are nothing but a collection of violated holes, filled and used and stretched for his pleasure.
“god, you’re so perfect like this,” he whispers, his voice a raw, desperate plea against your ear, his breath hot against your tear-soaked skin. “so open for me, so completely broken. don’t you dare hold anything back now. let me have every last beautiful, shattered piece of you.”
and that’s when he pulls your head back again by a fistful of your hair, yanking you up from the sheets and forcing you to look at him over your shoulder.
his face is flushed a dark, mottled red, his pupils blown so wide and black behind his glasses that there’s no blue left at all. it’s an expression of ravenous, almost painful need, his jaw tight, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a faint snarl. he looks like he’s starving, and your tears, your pain, your complete and utter violation—this is the only thing that can feed him.
the sight is terrifying and deeply, addictively flattering. he wants your pain. he wants your surrender. he wants to ruin you.
and seeing that, seeing the raw, desperate hunger on his face that you, and only you, have caused… it flips a switch deep inside you. the fear doesn’t vanish—it alchemizes into a dark, roaring wave of excitement. this is power. making him look like this. a hot, coiling pressure builds low in your belly, sharp and urgent, a pleasure so intense it’s almost unbearable. you can feel a different kind of climax building, something deeper and more catastrophic.
your sob changes, the note of protest gone, replaced by a raw, hungry need that matches his. “satoru…”
he sees it in your eyes. he sees the shift. a slow, triumphant, predatory smile spreads across his face. “that’s it,” he growls, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. “beg for it.”
he watches your eyes as he grinds his thumb deeper inside you, twisting it with a vicious skill that makes you cry out, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. he fucks into you with a new ferocity, chasing the feeling, chasing your breakdown. and as he hits you just right, your eyes locked with his triumphant, hungry gaze, your body unravels completely.
your orgasm is a deluge—a hot, uncontrollable gush of fluid bursts from you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his cock, the sound of it a shocking, obscene splash in the quiet room. your body convulses violently, a pure, physical capitulation that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with surrender.
he finally pulls out, and before you can fully collapse onto the bed, he’s hauling you up by your arms. you’re pliant, boneless in his grip, a doll for him to position. he drags you, stumbling, toward the wall of glass that overlooks the dark, endless ocean.
“turn around,” he orders, his voice flat, devoid of the passion of a moment ago. it’s a command.
you obey, your legs shaking so hard you can barely stand. you press your hands and forehead against the cool, smooth glass. the immediate chill is a shock against your overheated skin. the room behind you is warmly lit, turning the glass into a near-perfect, one-way mirror reflecting the debauched scene, while also offering a terrifyingly clear view into the vast, empty darkness outside.
it feels like being on a stage, lit for an audience that may or may not be there.
he enters you again from behind, one smooth, brutal thrust that has you crying out, your voice muffled against the glass, your palms slapping against the cool surface. he grabs your hips, pulling you back hard against him, and begins to fuck you against the wall. your breath fogs the surface in front of your face, obscuring your own reflection for a moment before it clears.
he leans in close, his voice a low growl by your ear, his words designed to dismantle you further. “anyone could be out there. a boat. someone on the beach of the next island. they’d see this perfect little picture. they’d see the lights of this pretty glass box, and they’d see you, bent over, taking my cock like a good girl.”
your face twists in the reflection, shame and heat colliding—eyes wet, brows drawn tight, your lips trembling around a broken moan you can’t hold back. your thighs clench, betraying the way your body seizes on his words, the humiliating pulse of pleasure sparking even harder at the thought of being seen.
behind you, his form is a powerful shadow, his expression unreadable, his movements relentless and efficient. he’s railing you, the motion hard, almost impersonal, using your body against the wall, the rhythmic, wet thud of your flesh a crude counterpoint to the gentle, indifferent sound of the waves outside. the sound is obscene, a wet, slapping noise that echoes slightly in the cavernous room.
“you love it,” he states, not a question. his hands leave your hips and slide up your stomach, his fingers spreading out possessively over your skin, a brief, almost tender touch before one hand moves down, his fingers dipping into the slickness between your legs. “love being my filthy little slut on display for the whole world.”
he’s not wrong. the thought of being seen, the sheer, terrifying exposure of it, is the most potent aphrodisiac yet. his fingers find your clit, and the touch is no longer teasing. it’s a harsh, demanding friction, a punishment and a reward all at once, perfectly synced to his ruthless thrusts.
“tell me,” he commands, his voice rough in your ear as he fucks you harder, faster, your reflection a chaotic blur of motion. “tell me what you are.”
“yours,” you sob, the word ripped from a place deep inside you, a place that has finally given up fighting. “i’m yours, i’m your slut, i love it, i love—”
you can’t finish. your final climax is upon you, a tidal wave that promises to drag you under for good. your entire world narrows to the feeling of his cock filling you, his fingers on your clit, your own debased reflection in the glass, and the vast, indifferent darkness beyond.
your orgasm feels like a dissolution, a complete coming apart at the seams. you scream into the glass as you come, a long, ragged sound of pure surrender that fogs the glass one last time.
you feel him follow you over the edge, his own guttural roar lost against your back as he floods you with his release, his body shuddering violently against yours, his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping you pinned against the glass.
you collapse against the wall, boneless and shaking, held up only by his arms still wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep inside. for a long time, there’s only the sound of your ragged breaths, the distant wash of the ocean, and the slick, cooling feel of sweat and glass against your skin.
you try to remember who you were before this night, before him, but that person is a ghost, a stranger you barely recognize. the woman in the reflection, marked and claimed and utterly, irrevocably debauched, is the only real thing left.
“beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice soft now, almost reverent, as if observing a piece of art he has just finished creating. “utterly fucking perfect. look at you. finally looking like what you are. mine.”
he carries you back to the bed, settling you against the silk sheets with gentle hands that are completely at odds with how thoroughly he just took you apart. when he disappears into the bathroom you expect relief, a moment to collect yourself.
instead you feel hollow, incomplete without him inside you, filling you, claiming you. the emptiness where he used to be throbs like phantom pain, your body already mourning the loss of his possession.
he returns with a warm cloth, and the sight of him makes something desperate and pathetic unfurl in your chest. beautiful and terrible in the dim light, moving with the confident grace of someone who knows he owns everything he surveys—including you. his touch is reverent now as he cleans you, worshipful, but there’s ownership in every stroke of the cloth against your oversensitive skin.
“how do you feel?” he asks, settling beside you with that careful precision that never looks calculated but always is. his fingers find your pulse point, and you wonder if he’s measuring your heartbeat like he measures everything else about you—cataloguing, analyzing, filing away for future use.
“broken,” you whisper, and the word tastes like bitter recognition. broken because you built this trap yourself, baited it with lies and manipulation, then walked right into it. you created the monster that’s now devouring you, fed it exactly what it needed to grow strong enough to consume you completely.
the girl who started this con three weeks ago feels like a stranger now—someone so arrogant she thought she could control a man like satoru gojo and walk away unchanged. someone who deserved exactly what she got.
the tears start without warning, hot and shameful as they track down your cheeks. you’re crying for the person you used to be, the one who thought she was clever enough to play this game and win. crying for every choice that brought you here, every moment you chose the drug of his devotion over your own freedom. crying because you know, with crystal clarity, that given the chance to do it over, you’d make the same choices again.
“good broken or bad broken?” his fingers trace patterns on your skin, soothing and possessive, each touch a reminder that he’s mapped every inch of you now. claimed it all. there’s genuine curiosity in his voice, but underneath it something hungrier—the need to know he’s succeeded in rewriting you completely.
“i don’t know yet,” you admit through the tears, voice barely audible. and you don’t, because the person who would have known the difference—the person who started this con—feels like someone you murdered with your own greed.
his expression shifts as he watches you cry, and there’s something almost fond in the way he observes your breakdown. like a parent watching their child finally learn a difficult lesson.
“oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb catching your tears with genuine tenderness that somehow makes it worse. “shh, it’s okay. let it all out.” his voice is pure comfort, warm honey that soothes even as it suffocates. “my beautiful girl, crying because you finally see how perfect this all is.”
the loving condescension makes you sob harder, ugly broken sounds that he seems to find endearing. he coos softly, gathering you closer against his chest like you’re something precious and fragile.
“there we go,” he whispers, pressing gentle kisses to your hairline. “just feel it, baby. feel how good it is to finally stop fighting what you were always meant to be.” his fingers stroke through your hair with infinite patience, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to break completely.
“you’re so pretty when you cry for me,” he continues, voice thick with adoration that makes your chest ache. “so honest. this is the real you, isn’t it? not the calculating little actress, just my sweet girl who needs to be taken care of.”
his words are a lullaby designed to lull you into surrender, each one wrapped in such genuine affection that you can’t help but lean into the comfort he’s offering.
he pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you together, and for a moment you just exist in the warm aftermath of your own destruction. but your mind feels scattered, thoughts fragmenting every time you try to focus on anything other than the feeling of being held, claimed, owned so completely by someone who saw through you from day one.
“you know,” he says after a while, voice casual but with an undertone that makes your pulse quicken, “we don’t have to go back.”
the words take a moment to penetrate the haze clouding your thoughts, your brain still drunk on the lingering echoes of pleasure and shame. when they do register, they hit like ice water, shocking you into something resembling alertness.
“what?” your voice comes out smaller than intended, already shrinking from the possibility of disappointing him with the wrong response.
“to the real world,” he clarifies, fingers still tracing those hypnotic patterns that make it so hard to think clearly. “we could stay here. in paradise. just you and me, no distractions, no responsibilities. wouldn’t that be perfect?”
there it is again—that word that’s become both promise and threat. perfect. the standard you’re expected to maintain, the role you’re required to perform for someone who’s been directing this entire play from the beginning.
the idea should terrify you—giving up everything, everyone, your entire life—but instead it sounds like relief. like finally stopping the exhausting performance of being a whole person when all you want is to be his perfect thing.
“stay here?” you repeat, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. as if speaking them makes them real, makes the possibility concrete rather than just another move in his elaborate chess game.
“forever,” he confirms, and there’s something dark and satisfied in his voice that makes your stomach clench with equal parts fear and arousal. “let me take care of you completely. let me give you everything you deserve. you’d never have to think about anything else again.”
never have to think. the offer is tempting in ways that terrify you, because thinking has become so difficult lately. every thought has to be weighed against his preferences, measured against his expectations, filtered through the lens of what will make him happy. it would be so much easier to just... stop.
“i...” you start, then stop, struggling to form coherent thoughts when his fingers are doing that thing again, tracing patterns that short-circuit your ability to focus on anything but him. “but i can’t just disappear. people will worry, my job—”
something flickers across his face, fast as lightning but unmistakable. the warmth drains from his expression like someone switching off a light, leaving his features cold and sharp. his hand stills against your skin completely, the loss of that gentle touch feeling like abandonment.
“people will worry?” he repeats, voice flat and emotionless in a way that makes your blood freeze. he’s not looking at you with love anymore—he’s looking at you like you’re a problem that needs solving. “what people? name one person who’s called you in the past two weeks. one person who’s actually noticed you’ve been busy.”
the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, because you both know you can’t. the realization hits like a physical blow—you are completely alone, completely dependent on him, and he knows it.
“that’s what i thought,” he says, and there’s something cruel in his smile now. not the loving indulgence you’ve grown addicted to, but something sharp and dismissive. “you’re worried about a job that underpays you? an apartment that’s falling apart? a life so meaningless you had to create elaborate fantasies just to feel important?”
each word is designed to cut, delivered without the gentle cushioning of affection you’ve come to expect. you’re just another disappointment now, another person who’s failed to appreciate what he’s offering. the shift is so sudden, so complete, that you feel like you’re drowning.
“no,” you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it. there’s still some tiny spark of defiance left, some piece of who you used to be that refuses to be completely erased. “no, i... i had a life. i had things that mattered—”
his laugh is soft and utterly without warmth. “did you? because from where i’m sitting, you spent your whole pathetic existence desperate for someone to notice you. to make you feel special. and the moment someone finally did, you clung to it like a drowning person clings to driftwood.”
the words hit like physical blows because they’re true, every devastating syllable. but that small flame of resistance flickers stubbornly in your chest, making you lift your chin even as tears stream down your face.
“maybe that’s true,” you manage, voice shaking but determined. “but it was still mine. my choice, my life, my—”
“yours?” he interrupts, and now there’s genuine amusement in his voice, the kind reserved for children saying foolish things. “sweetheart, nothing about you has been yours for weeks. your thoughts, your preferences, your daily routine—i’ve been shaping all of it. you just didn’t notice because i made you feel good about it.”
the casual dismissal, the complete absence of the devotion you’ve grown dependent on, sends panic racing through your system. this is what happens when you disappoint him—you stop being special, stop being precious, become just another annoyance to be managed.
“please,” the word falls from your lips like a prayer, desperate and broken. “i didn’t mean—i just—”
and just like that, the warmth returns to his eyes like sunrise after the longest night. his hand finds your cheek again, thumb brushing away tears with infinite gentleness, and the relief is so overwhelming you nearly sob with it.
“oh, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with love and understanding. “i know you’re scared. change is frightening, even when it’s good for you.” his touch is reverent now, worshipful, everything you’ve been craving. “but fighting me only makes it harder. you know that, don’t you?”
“i mean,” you nod quickly, voice getting smaller, more desperate to fix whatever you’ve broken, “maybe... maybe you’re right. maybe there’s nothing really worth going back to.”
“that’s my perfect girl,” he murmurs, his voice overflowing with genuine pride and adoration that makes warmth bloom in your chest despite everything. he’s looking at you like you’ve just given him the most precious gift in the world. “see? a beautiful thing isn’t meant to struggle so hard. you were made to be cherished, to be taken care of. it’s so much easier this way, isn’t it?”
“it is easy,” you whisper, the words feeling both foreign and terribly true at the same time. you lean into his touch, a silent plea for more of that warmth. “it’s so much easier than fighting.”
his breath hitches, and he gathers you closer, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your temple. “of course it is, beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “i’ll always make it easy for you. that’s my only job now.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “we could extend our stay,” he continues, the idea sounding less like a question and more like a foregone conclusion. “just a few more weeks at first. see how it feels. and if it’s everything i know it will be…” he trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke.
a small, panicked thought about your job, your apartment, your entire life, flickers and dies in your mind. it doesn't matter. nothing matters as much as keeping that coldness out of his eyes.
“if it would make you happy,” you hear yourself say, the words a perfect echo of the person he wants you to be. “then i want to stay.”
the effect is immediate and overwhelming. his entire expression softens into one of pure, unadulterated adoration. he looks completely undone by you. “oh, baby,” he breathes, his fingers tangling in your hair with a devotion that feels like worship. “you have no idea. hearing you say that… it’s all i’ve ever wanted.” he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “my sweet, perfect girl. you always know exactly what i need to hear.”
he pulls back, his fingers now carding through your hair with such tender devotion that you feel yourself melting into his touch, your body going pliant against his. “no more worrying about anything except being happy with me. doesn’t that sound wonderful, sweetheart?”
he’s asking for the final nail. the last little bit of surrender. he wants to hear you say that this gilded cage he’s offering is a paradise.
“yes,” you breathe, turning your face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand, a gesture of pure, instinctual submission. “it sounds wonderful.”
he closes his hand gently, as if capturing the kiss, and brings your knuckles to his lips. his smile is radiant, beautiful, and completely, utterly triumphant. “and i’ll make it perfect for you,” he promises, his voice a low, final vow against your skin. “always. i’ll take care of everything—canceling your flight, extending the villa, handling anything back home that needs handling. you don’t have to worry about any of it.”
handling anything back home. the phrase sends a chill down your spine even as relief floods through you. what exactly will he be handling? how much of your old life will still exist when you finally decide to return to it? but the questions feel distant, unimportant when weighed against the overwhelming comfort of not having to think, not having to make decisions, not having to be responsible for anything except existing in his orbit.
“just rest now,” he says, pulling the silk sheets up around you both with practiced ease. his movements are sure, confident, like he’s done this before—guided someone through the transition from person to possession with the patience of someone who genuinely loves the process. “tomorrow we’ll start planning our forever.”
forever. the word should sound romantic, should make your heart flutter with excitement. instead, it sounds like a life sentence, beautiful and inescapable. but even that thought feels distant, muffled by the warmth of his arms and the lingering understanding that you brought this on yourself.
as you drift toward sleep in his embrace, you can’t escape the recognition of what’s happening—that you’re disappearing, dissolving into his want until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. the girl who thought she could manipulate satoru gojo is gone, replaced by something smaller and more manageable, something that exists purely for his pleasure and entertainment.
you’re becoming his perfect thing, his ideal woman, his masterpiece. and the most terrifying part isn’t that it’s happening—it’s that you want it to. that the slow erasure of your identity feels like coming home rather than dying, like finally accepting what you were always meant to become.
outside, the ocean whispers its endless song, and you let it carry you deeper into paradise, deeper into the beautiful cage he’s built around your heart with such loving patience. somewhere in the distance, you can hear the sound of doors closing, bridges burning, escape routes disappearing one by one.
but you’re too tired to care, too drunk on his devotion to fight against the current pulling you under. tomorrow you’ll wake up a little less yourself and a little more his, and the day after that even more so, until there’s nothing left but the shape he’s carved out for you to fill.
you’re exactly where you belong, and the thought no longer terrifies you. it feels like accepting a truth you’ve been running from your entire life—that you were always meant to be owned, cherished, completely possessed by someone strong enough to see through your games and patient enough to let you destroy yourself.
you close your eyes and let yourself sink into his embrace, no longer pretending you don’t notice how the tide keeps pulling you further from shore. you built this prison yourself, brick by brick, lie by lie, and now you get to live in it forever.
tomorrow he’ll want you again, and you’ll give yourself over just as completely. the day after that too, and the day after that, until there’s nothing left of who you used to be except the vague memory of someone who thought she could play games with a god and win.
but tonight, in the darkness of paradise, you let yourself admit the truth you’ve been avoiding: you don’t want to escape.
you want to drown in the beautiful inevitability of what you’ve become.
the girl who started this con is dead, and you killed her yourself. what’s left is not a grifter or a goddess but a bird who forgot the sky. a creature born to fly, wings sharp and restless, who chose instead to fold herself neatly into the cage she built herself. because the cage is warm. because the cage is soft. because in spite of your nature, you will stay here forever, perfect and broken, as long as he keeps it comfortable enough.
athy says, and that’s a wrap! if you made it this far, congratulations, you’re just as sick as i am and i love you for it. this story is basically my love letter to the works of OrangeButt73, and it was kept alive by the absolutely feral asks from dove anon. (i’m too much of a ball of anxiety and confusion to gift this properly, so if you two see this, just know you’re the fuel for this entire dumpster fire and i adore you both) feel free to absolutely lose your minds and scream in the comments, i will be reading every single one with a glass of wine and a sick, satisfied smile. this fic was a complete and utter passion project, if you know what i mean ;) thank you for reading!! <3
pls pls pls 🥹 older bf! gojo fucking the attitude out of his gf
𝝑𝑒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. satoru picks you up after your lecture to spend quality time with you, only to realise you got an attitude that needs some fixing.
tags. dom older bf!gojo x female reader. smut, pwp but also with plot. age gap (reader early 20’s, satoru early 30’s). rough. hints of degradation. p in v -> unprotected. standing doggy. semi-public. spanking. hair pulling. name calling. creampīe. nicknames ‘princess, baby’. wc: 3.2k
“mind telling me who that was, baby?” satoru asks while he fixes his sunglasses. he pushes his hair back a little, walking beside you through campus. you had just finished your study session with a boy who’s in your statistics class. your lovely boyfriend offered to pick you up and take you back home after that.
though, despite the kind gesture, you’re still visibly stressed after revising the material. your mind is occupied with all sorts of stuff you need to know before your exam on thursday.
“just a classmate,” you respond curtly, not even looking at satoru. you’re speeding ahead of him, wanting to rush home already. you nibble on your bottom lip and your brows are furrowed due to the distress, “why do you care?”
that sentence came out harsher than you had expected it to. you don’t mean to be bitchy, but you’re under too much stress at the moment. your body reacts before you can withstand it.
satoru is silent for a few seconds. he’s surprised by the tone of voice you used. he keeps on following you, however, not letting your little comment ruin the conversation. he’s there to help you, not to make you even more upset.
which is why he tries to lighten the mood.
“oh?” satoru chuckles, his dimples showing. he easily keeps up with you, his long legs carrying him around quite fast. the white haired man pushes a strand of your hair behind your ear ever so gently, “did someone upset my little princess today?”
you don’t answer him. you’re focused on your phone, hurriedly texting your friend back while speeding past all the other students. you don’t even notice how the girls are gawking at your man—whispering about how handsome he is and who he might be.
satoru doesn’t pay them any mind. his sole goal is to gain your attention back. he frowns after his question is met with silence. the clicking of his dress shoes increases as he tries to get you to stop and face him.
“c’mon,” your boyfriend sighs and stands in front of you, stopping you to an abrupt halt. he holds your wrist tenderly yet firmly, letting you know that he wants to properly communicate with you, “y’ can’t ignore me.”
you yank your hand back, your irritated attitude visible in your actions. you look up at satoru, not caring about what he thinks or wants at the moment. you just want to go home and relax. everything is overstimulating you.
“i can and i will,” you huff before stepping aside to continue your journey out of the university’s terrain. your boyfriend’s frown only deepens. you’re not the only one who’s currently getting agitated. you push past a group of students who stood in your way, “let’s just go home.”
satoru’s eyes narrow. he doesn’t get upset fast—he rarely feels any kind of anger—but right now he can feel something itching inside of his chest. he’s tried not to let the jealousy get the best of him at first, but now with all the other emotions coming into play, it’s nearly impossible to hold himself back.
satoru considers himself a fairly mature man. he’s always been one, yet when it comes to you he can’t help but feel like he doesn’t have any control over his emotions. his body and mind act on their own.
“aht aht. not so fast, little lady.”
you suddenly feel yourself being dragged to the side. satoru’s grip around your arm isn’t harsh, but it sure is enough to make you stumble along with him. you click your teeth in slight annoyance after the initial shock settles in. you know there’s no fighting it; you don’t want others to witness your little squabble.
“hey, where are we going?” you ask, a slight whine leaving your throat. you simply want to go lay in your bed and avoid everything and everyone else. your eyes are focused on the back of satoru’s head as he guides you along. he doesn’t bother to face nor answer you.
you sigh and simply allow yourself to be dragged away. if you’re going to get a scolding, you don’t mind. you’re just going to hear him out and nod along so you can go back home faster.
you raise an eyebrow when satoru arrives at the bathroom on the second floor. “what the—” you’re confused as to what your boyfriend is trying to achieve. you quickly look around to see if anyone has seen you.
no one seems to be close. this part of the building has always been empty around this time frame anyway.
you’re pulled into the men’s bathroom after satoru made sure that the coast was clear. he gently pushes you into an empty stall and locks the door. “satoru, what’s up with you?” you sigh as you stumble back against the bathroom wall. it’s a hypocritical comment considering your own nasty attitude.
you try to push him aside, only for your boyfriend to force your arms around his neck, pulling you flush against him. your eyes lock into his and that’s when you notice how . . dark they are. the usual playful look is nowhere to be found.
“i’m just thinkin’ that y’r attitude needs some fixing, hm?” satoru whispers. a ghost of a smirk appears on his face—it’s a twisted one. wicked, with the thoughts of what he’ll do to punish you for your actions. he rarely has that expression when he’s with you.
he tips your chin up with quite some force, “i can help with that.”
everything else happens at a blink of an eye. one of satoru’s large hands slithers up your back to tangle in your hair and yank it back, exposing the column of your throat for his hickeys to take shape on. his other hand swiftly makes work of your pants and undergarments.
his jaw is clenched—the usual hint of gentle love in his eyes is replaced by lust fuelled by jealousy and frustration. satoru is not playing around either. instead of taking his time like he usually does when it comes to intimacy, he’s quick to discard both your clothing.
“fuckin’ tease,” the white-haired man mutters under his breath, panting with desire. he zips down his pants and frees his big cock from his boxers. “always pushing my buttons. isn’t that right, baby?”
satoru lets out a breathy, mocking chuckle. he fists the shaft slowly while his blue eyes roam over your body caged against him and the wall, “but i guess tha’s part of the reason why i love you—hah.”
you’re basically in shock at the sudden switch. your jaw is slack and your eyes are wide, but there’s an undeniable feeling in your chest that tells you you’re loving this change. you can’t deny the fact that you’re turned on. extremely turned on.
“‘toru, i don’t think it’s smart to do this here,” you murmur in a small voice. you’re trying to have some dignity, even now, when your panties are soaked and the scent of your obvious arousal is driving your man crazy.
“don’t care,” satoru shakes his head with a smug grin. his long fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear before flimsily tugging them down to your ankles. his eyes darken the second he sees the webs of sticky, translucent slick clinging from your panties to your puffy folds.
he grunts, his cock twitching painfully in his hand. he’s thinking of simply jerking off to the sight of you in front of him, but he decided otherwise. satoru smacks your clit with his fat tip, “should’ve thought about that before catchin’ an attitude with me.”
suddenly, he turns you around so you’re facing the wall. your nails dig into the flat surface of the tiles, catching onto nothing. you’re hoping that no one will walk into the bathroom. last thing you need is everyone knowing that you were getting your back blown out by your boyfriend on campus.
not that satoru would mind those rumors. it’d only fuel his (already) huge ego.
“oh, yeah— shit. you need this ‘s much as i do,” satoru groans as sinks his cock into your pussy, agonisingly slow, inch by inch. you shudder and hold in your moans as your velvety walls make part for him.
his hands spread your pert asscheeks, smacking the full globes before kneading them to soothe the pain. he continues in a low, dangerous voice, “you wouldn’t be so stuck up if y’ didn’t need this fuckin’ dick to shut you up.”
satoru doesn’t stop pushing in until his heavy balls are resting snugly against your bottom, warming his sack full of cum that’s aching to be released in your dripping cunt.
“ngh, ‘toru,” you bite your lip and try not to orgasm just from the feeling of being full— so full of cock that it makes you see stars, “just like that.”
the white-haired man responds with a satisfied grunt, sweat forming on his forehead from how hot and wet it is inside of you.
“oh, there she is,” satoru coos once he hears your whiny voice, that sweet voice he cherishes and loves. it isn’t cold nor avoidant anymore like before and that’s really all he wanted to acquire. he licks a stripe from the tip of your ear to the lobe, voice husky, “there’s the girlfriend i know. moan some more f’ me.”
you shiver as satoru’s lips connect with the back of your neck. after wetting the skin with his saliva, he bites. not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark. you clamp around his dick in response and he curses under his breath.
“please, fuck me,” you breathe. you need more stimulation, need him to absolutely ruin you. the shallow and slow thrusts he’s giving are nothing but torturous.
satoru grins and rests his chin on top of your shoulder, large hands rubbing around your hips and lower abdomen, teasing your clit every now and then to get you even more pent up.
“fuck you?” he tilts his head, as if contemplating. he clicks his tongue and gives your ass a firm slap that nearly sends you over the edge. “hah, you should be grateful for what i’m givin’ you.”
but satoru’s weak for you. even if he’s trying to be the ‘mean’ and ‘cold’ dominant guy. his cock is aching to plunge in and out of your wet hole, to see you come undone and feel your juices coat his balls and thighs.
“fine. i’ll fuck you,” satoru relents with a roll of his eyes, acting like he isn’t desperate for you too. he grips your hips in a bruising manner and bites your shoulder, “—fuck you like the brat you are.”
your hands save your face from making contact with the wall as your body suddenly jostles back and forth in a speed you can’t even process.
“satoru!” you nearly scream his name out of pure surprise. the pleasure comes crashing down in waves, your pussy uncontrollably spasming around his girthy cock.
satoru grumbles something incoherent as he pistons his hips, ramming in your sloppy cunt while his eyes are fixated on your bouncing ass. white locks of hair stick to his forehead as he splits you open on his dick.
“so pretty,” the older man sighs. he turns your head sideways so you can look him in the eyes while he fucks you silly. he caresses your cheek gently, a contrast to the mocking grin on his lips and the rough thrusts against your ass, “too bad y’ got such a potty mouth on you.”
satoru pushes his index and middle finger between your lips to muffle your noises, “…but don’t worry, i’ll fix that for you. gladly.”
you eagerly suck on them between quick gasps of air, saliva trickling down his hand. your boyfriend redoubles his efforts, the fat tip of his dick hitting that special spot deep inside you.
his free hand reaches down to circle your clit. the double stimulation sends you into a state of pure bliss. your pupils are dilated as you struggle to find satoru’s gaze, head lolling back and forth with each powerful stroke.
perhaps this really was all you needed to help destress and forget all about your responsibilities. it feels good to not think about anything at all— your head empty except for the feeling of your cunt being filled.
satoru’s cock twitches inside of you with the urge to release a load in your womb. “give me it, please,” your voice is muffled as you plead with him. your hand sneaks downwards, trying to find his balls, “w-want your cum.”
your fingers toy with his sack once you find it. his pre-cum and your own juices now coat your skin as well, your hand enclosing around his balls, massaging them. it’s like you’re trying to coax his potent semen out of them and that alone makes satoru throw his head back in ecstasy.
“little cumslut. . .” satoru growls, brows furrowing as he tries not to shoot his cum inside of your greedy cunt right that second. the hand that was keeping you quiet quickly snatches your wrist and pins it against the bathroom wall.
“are you that desperate to get filled? yeah?” your boyfriend huffs, not stopping to catch his breath at all. his hips pound faster against your ass with renewed passion.
your lips are parted and they move, but not a single answer comes out of your mouth. you’re unable to think or talk because of the pleasure.
satoru takes that as a yes. the erotic sight of you being so lost in sin is enough to fuel his desire to fuck you harder. his hips never falter as he scoffs at your pathetic self, “tch, so addicted to my cock y’ can’t even answer me.”
you shake your head and search for your words. however, you fail, and all that you’re capable of communicating is what you need, “fuuuuck, yes i am—‘toru, need your cock ‘n cum— more.”
satoru lets go of your wrist to grab your jaw. he forces your head back again before he captures your lips in a bruising kiss. his tongue plunders inside your mouth, exploring every inch.
he pulls back to gasp for air and releases your jaw with a slight shove to grab your hips again. “more? hah,” the white-haired man lets out a haughty chuckle. he gives a particular hard thrust against your butt, tip kissing your cervix painfully yet deliciously, “y’ think you deserve more after that shit you pulled?”
satoru yanks your head back by your hair. the stinging sensation makes your scalp itchy, but it also increases your pleasure. he lowers his lips to your ear, his voice dangerously low, “nah, you gotta make this work.”
you could. you can make it work and that’s the truth. he could fuck you with just his tip and you’d be able to cum a couple times in a row.
jolts of pleasure run down your spine as satoru drives into you harder, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. you’re seeing stars and the words roll off your tongue, “please, mhh, almost there!”
satoru groans. he can feel the delicious fluttering of your cunt around his cock, the telltale signs of an orgasm building. he has half a mind to pull out completely and let you writhe and beg him some more.
he contemplates it for a few seconds. the second your eyes start to roll back, signaling your impending climax, his cock slips out of your pussy. you whine and push your hips back in search for his dick- to fill the void he left.
satoru jerks himself off at the pitiful sight. he rubs his veiny shaft between your slick folds before slapping the tip against your cunt, letting it catch onto your entrance for a few times.
“begging like that isn’t going to get you anywhere. y’ can do better,” your boyfriend encourages in a sultry tone. one of his hands rest on your tummy, fingers splaying over your clothed skin. another filthy smack of his tip against your slit makes you shiver, “come on.”
you bite your lip out of frustration. you arch your back each time the fat head of his cock catches onto your gaping hole, hoping to slip it in, but you can't. you tilt your head back and lock eyes with satoru close up behind you.
“please let me cum, 'toru. i'll be good, i promise,” you beg with a lewd pleading expression. one that make satoru's balls tighten with the urge to cum as well.
with a low groan, satoru snaps his hips forward, burying his dick inside of you once more, “there ya go. good girl, knew y’ had it in you.”
the praise and familiar feeling of his dick stretching you open is enough to push you over the edge. you nearly black out as your cunt spasms around him, your juices gushing out to coat his length and balls.
satoru grits his teeth once he feels your tight cunt clench viciously around his throbbing cock. your orgasm has a domino effect on your lover, causing him to hastily chase his own release. “shit! take it, princess. take it all inside this greedy fuckin' cunt,” he hisses and grinds his pelvis against the fat of your ass.
satoru buries himself to the hilt before his cock jerks and pulses, emptying his balls deep inside of you. his fingers dig into the meat of your butt, holding you in place as he grinds against you, making sure every last drop of his seed is nestled into your waiting womb.
“there y’ go, mhm—taking my load so deep,” your lover sighs and lowers his head, resting against your back. he hugs you tightly to his chest while you both catch your breath. he rides out his orgasm slowly, still grinding against you while he leaves lazy kisses on your nape.
a minute passes before you've regained your composure, somewhat. you smile as satoru kisses your temple lovingly, praising you for taking him so well. the switch back to his usual gentleman personality is much needed after such an intense moment.
“thank you, babe. i needed that,” you giggle as you rest back against his chest. thick, pearly globs of cum escape your pussy, dripping around his cock and onto your thighs, but neither of you could care less. the clean up is a problem for later.
satoru chuckles back at you as he leaves another loving kiss against your cheek. “i knew you did,” he murmurs and pets your head, “my poor girl has been working so hard on her assignments, hm? poor, poor baby.”
you playfully roll your eyes at the overexaggerated concern in your lover's voice, however you appreciate it.
satoru doesn't bother to pull out. first things first; he needs to get you all comfortable again and give you the aftercare you deserve. his hands massage your hips as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, acting all lovey-dovey like he hasn't just shown you a more dominant side of him.
“how ‘bout we go home and order some food? we can cuddle and watch a movie together, ‘kay? i’ll take care of you, princess.”
(previous part)
it's been a week since you've spoken to arranged!gojo, and he feels like he's about to start going crazy.
you don't speak during your meals, not even when he addresses you in a question. sometimes you spare him a glance, but he'd still rather see your icy glare than see nothing at all.
and he knows he fucked up. he knows that you seeing him alone with anya was perhaps the worst possible place you could’ve caught him, but he's been almost begging you to listen to him, to hear his side. but every time he goes to explain you leave abruptly, leaving him alone, feeling the looks of pity from those around the two of you.
and you know you're being petty. after all, the two of you are only bound by words, nothing else. if anything, the two of you were just becoming friends, so this shouldn't hurt you as much as it does.
but you hear the whispers of the ladies, hear of their secret proposals of how gojo would surely bed them if they just asked. how miserable he must be trapped with you, how this marriage is ruining his life. and you know anya, know about her history with him. before you were his wife you were the higher echelon wallflower, listening to all the gossip, observing from afar.
you've gathered some ideas in your head as to why he might want to speak with you. perhaps he wants to gently break the news that he's found a mistress, one that he actually loves. or that maybe he's already had one and now you know why he's been so secretive.
so the more he tries to talk to you, the more you pull away. you don't know why he cares so much, why this even matters to him. if anything, you feel like he should be content with your silence.
but he's not, and gojo grows more restless by the hour.
he decides he can't live like this anymore. tonight he's going to make you listen to him, even if you want nothing to do with him.
you're holed up in your room, talking with alina as she dabs lavender oil on your neck before you go to sleep. you know she knows about your silence with gojo, but ever friend, she does nothing to bring it up.
well, she wouldn't have to if he didn't come knocking feverishly at your door.
you watch in your mirror as she peeks her head out, her gasp of surprise causing a sinking pit to form in your stomach. you can hear how she scrambles with the titles of my lord, how she explains that you're nearly about to go to sleep.
it's late, the only light is the flickering of the candles on your nightstand. he should be asleep by now.
gods, you wonder for the millionth time this week, why does he care so much?
alina finishes up, closing the door slightly as she turns to you, her eyes finding yours in the mirror.
"i'm sorry my lady," she bows her head almost apologetically, "but my lord wants to talk to you. he's requested me to leave...if you'll excuse me," she bows, quickly leaving, not giving you any time to actually excuse her. you know she can't stay any longer, but you do wish she put up more of a fight. you watch her skirt bustle away, the door being left slightly ajar.
you try to act nonchalant, continuing to dab the oil onto your wrists as you look down, even when you hear the door click shut, even when you can feel his presence several feet behind you.
you sigh through your nose, heat rising to your cheeks.
"what?" you bite out, your own voice shocking you. you want to get this over with, not too desperate to hear about how he's ready to take on a mistress and shun you away.
you can hear him take in a deep breath, your eyes briefly looking up in the mirror to catch his, the same ones that make your knees weak, and avert your gaze.
"you haven't spoken to me in over a week," he says after a beat of silence.
you shrug indifferently, despite the fact that he could probably ask you the specific amount of hours it's been since the two of you had talked and you'd give an accurate number.
"i've been busy," you murmur, taking your earrings off as you place them gently in the little glass bowl to the side.
he doesn't say anything about your blatant lie, just nods slowly, as if he understands.
"i missed hearing you talk," gojo tells you quietly, almost as if his voice had been stuck in his throat, and you wonder if any man before him had ever tried to sweet talk his wife before he told her about his new mistress.
you don't say anything, still refusing to look at him as you stand up from your seat, turning off one of the candles near you as you smooth out some of the wrinkles of your nightgown.
"is this what you really want to tell me gojo?" you say bluntly, looking to the side momentarily, getting a longer look at his bulky figure, how he tries to make himself seem smaller, "that you miss my stupid jokes and dull stories?"
"they're not stupid," he quickly cuts in, his voice a little stronger, brows furrowed, "and i like your stories."
you roll your eyes, moving around the bed, to the side where he's not, and fluff your pillows. you've never found this useful, but it gives you something to do with your hands other than fidgeting with them.
truth be told, you're reflecting. you're scared of what it is he has to say, and so you try to appear stronger, and less caring, despite the fact that it's tearing you apart.
you try not to feel self-conscious of the fact that this is his first time ever seeing your room, or the fact that it's so bland. you didn't come to this estate with many things, and so you've tried to spruce up the space as much as you can, but aside from the few flowers and paintings on the wall, you fear it looks bland compared to everything else he's seen.
"and no," gojo adds, running a hand through his already tousled white hair as his arms crossed over his chest, and you finally allow yourself to stare at him, "that's not all i wanted to say."
he paused for a second.
"i don't know why i followed her out, or why i even stayed to hear her speak, but she kept saying these things about..." he trails off, gnawing on his lips as your eyes narrow slightly.
"me?" you finish for him, and his eyes dart to yours.
gojo nods a little bit, arms bulging a little bit as if remembering what she had said.
"i'm used to people staring at me, i lived with it my entire life. but with you, people..." he struggles to find words, "people stare longer. and i don't know why."
you raise a brow.
"do you want me to explain?" you say and he looks at you briefly, almost in a brazen way.
he shakes his head as if he had steered off track.
"that's beside the point. what i wanted to tell you is that she...she was saying some nonsense and i was about to leave until she offered for me to stay at the hostelry she was at." his blue eyes are wavering, his finger itching to get closer to you. this stupid bed is in the middle of you two and he wishes it were gone.
your breathing hitches a little bit, and you hope he doesn't see the sad tilt on your lips.
"so i banished her. or, well, i guess you saw her and then i banished her, but i would've done it regardless," he explains hurriedly, "look, i'm sorry...really sorry. if you want me to-"
"you banished her?" you cut him off, voice raised slightly in confusion.
his mouth gapes open for a second, and then blinks slowly, nodding.
"of...course," he tilts his head, his gorgeous head, slightly "you know that i am married, right? to you? she was offering to-"
"i thought you were going to tell me that you slept with her. o-or i don't know! that you were going to make her your mistress or something!" you spew out, your voice raised as you pace around the floor, moving a little bit closer to him as his eyes widen.
"why would you ever think that?" gojo says in a panicked tone, nothing like the man who commanded the northern army, but more like somebody who was watching his world burn in front of him.
"why?" you exclaim, shocked, "why? are you daft? every single woman wants to sleep with you! every single time we host those dinners, o-or we go to those parties, they look at you and they look at me and they pity you. i hear the whispers of the ladies, how they wouldn't mind being the other woman."
gojo hears the way your voice wavers, how your lips tremble, and the way you try not to let your bottom lip quiver. he sees the way you try to stay strong, to keep your image unbridled, but right now he feels like he's watching you break and he doesn't know what to do.
"so? what makes you think i'd do anything with them?" gojo argues, his voice raised a little bit, not in shouting, but in genuine disbelief.
you take a moment to step back and observe his behavior, and a nagging voice in your head tells you that he's telling you the truth. that he's concerned and worried, that maybe all he came to tell you tonight was an apology.
but that can't be correct.
so you sigh, your arms crossed over your chest protectively.
"i...i don't know," you murmur, "you sleep in another wing, you're always away. i thought...maybe..." you can't meet his eyes, fidgeting with the ring on your finger.
gojo takes a step forward, lips parted, cheeks rosy and flushed.
the two of you don't say anything for a minute, his chest heaving up and down. you feel like there's a weight both removed and added onto your shoulder.
"why didn't you say anything?" he whispers, "did you think...did you think i was...?" he can't finish the sentence, the words themselves too gruesome.
he doesn't say anything as he takes another tentative step closer.
you watch him, your eyes mirroring one another.
"i made a vow to you," his voice is heavy, traveling across the spanning stone walls, going deep into your bones, "and even if you prefer me to be your friend, i'll keep to that vow till the day i die."
your eyes gloss over, lips trembling.
you don't say anything, taking a couple steps forward as you smash against his chest, face crumpling against the stone wall of his torso as you hug him tightly, hoping that he can't feel the tears that seep through his nightshirt.
never in your life has somebody made a promise to you. and never in your life has somebody kept to that promise.
"thank you," you murmur, your voice muffled as his arms wrap around your body, steady and strong.
"and anyways, i'd prefer to be married to you than those miserable women any day," he mumbles into your hair and you laugh wetly, squeezing your arms tighter.
"really?" you say, tears blurring your vision.
"really," he hums, not able to say anything because he fears what you'd say if he told you that he'd rather be your husband and your friend. but he'd keep that inside, respecting your wishes.
if only he knew you wished the same.
The frustration that Satoru feels when he completely stops seeing you as just one of his best friends.
You’re so pretty, modeling the dress you’ll be wearing on your date with some guy who probably dims in comparison to you. Suguru says you should try the outfit without the cardigan, so you take it off for a second and do a little 360 for the trio. Shoko gasps when she sees the lacy details that were hidden by the coat and Suguru claps in validation. “You’re so gonna get some.”
Satoru just watches, cheek resting in his fist as he half listens to the little debate between Shoko and Suguru. It’s all a blur as he focuses on the one glowing in front of him.
“Satoru?” You wave your hand in front of him.
“Hm?” He blinks up at you, acting like he wasn't zoned out while staring.
“Tie-breaker. Coat or no coat?”
He had heard what Suguru said when you took the cardigan off. 'You’re so gonna get some.'
He doesn’t want that.
“You should stay layered. You might get cold later.”
Suguru groans in disapproval, falling back into the couch cushion, while Shoko grins, smugly, at her small victory.
“Coat it is.” You smile, running back to the bathroom to finish getting ready.
“You like her, huh?” Suguru asks as soon as you’re out of sight, a squint of betrayal in his eyes.
“Pfft, nah. What makes you think that?” Satoru defends.
“She asked for our opinion on the dress and you went silent," Shoko says, throwing a knowing smirk at Satoru.
“You don’t want her to get laid or something? Why’d you vote for the granny cardigan?” Suguru adds, arms crossed over his chest.
“I want to see you take care of her when she’s sick. I did it last time, and she was unbearable. Also,” he turns to answer Shoko’s remark, “what can I say? I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“A lot of her on your mind.” Suguru nods over at you.
Satoru turns, a lucent gleam in his eyes when he sees you.
“Alright, guys. I’ll be back before-“
“Don’t rush!” Shoko says, giggling at the dopey look on Satoru’s face.
There’s a smirk tugging on Suguru’s lips. “Have fun.”
“Call if you need me to pick you up," Satoru blurts, sitting up straight on the lounge chair he was seated in.
Shoko gasps and Suguru’s eyes go wide for a second.
“Uh... sure. Will do. Love you guys, bye!” You walk past your friends, opening the front door and shutting it behind you.
Your perfume had some effect on Satoru because for some reason his heart was racing and he was unable to calm it down.
“What?” Satoru asks when he notices the way his friends look at him. “I’m the only one with a car here.”
“Uh-huh, let’s put it that way," Shoko says, sharing a menacing look with Suguru.
—
You did end up having to call Satoru. Your date was the most annoying, insufferable person you had ever met and you weren't going to pretend like you were enjoying your time with him for the rest of the night. How can someone be so different the moment you’re alone together? You couldn’t stand him, so you excused yourself from the table and went to the restroom halfway through your meal.
You called Satoru, hoping he wasn't kidding about calling him if you needed a ride home.
“Hey, uh, I know this is really inconsiderate of me, but can you come pick me up from the restaurant? If you can’t it’s totally fine. I’ll stay.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine. It turns out I can’t stand this guy.” You chuckle, your hand reaching for the sensor beneath the water faucet, the cool water running through your fingers. "He's gross and just... I don't know."
“Did he do anything to you? Are you okay? ‘Cause, you know, I can kick his ass.”
“You already asked me that, 'toru. I’m okay. He’s just…” you pause, a sigh filling in the silence, “...different from what I remember. I don’t know this guy.”
Satoru is already sitting in his car. The moment you asked him to pick you up, he grabbed his keys and headed for the car.
“Give me ten minutes.”
“It takes twenty to get here.”
“Too bad. I’m running a few red lights. Sit tight.”
“Sa-”
The call ends and you’re left staring at the contact photo you have for him. You turn your screen off and stare into the mirror. You don’t know if you should stay in the bathroom until Satoru gets there or if you should go back out to the man waiting for you.
—
“So, Satoru likes her, huh?” Shoko says, leaning back in the lounge chair Satoru sat in before.
“Who would have guessed? We’ve all been friends for years and he’s never looked at her like that.”
“We should invest in some noise cancelling headphones. Who knows what could happen after tonight?”
Suguru furrows his eyebrows in confusion, so Shoko grins and demonstrates. She rocks back and forth in the old lounge chair, the chair creaking and squealing.
“Oh.” Suguru’s face further scrunches. He didn't need the image of his friends doing that together, in his mind.
—
Your phone vibrates on the sink, and Satoru’s name appears on the screen when you flip it. You quickly answer the call.
“Hey, i’m outside.”
“How do I walk out of here without seeming like a bitch? I didn’t think this through.”
“First, walk out the restaurant doors. Then, get in my car. It’s pretty simple, honestly.”
“We haven’t paid the bill.”
“Fuck it. Let him pay.”
“That’s just wrong. Alright, i’ll be out in a bit. Bye.”
“Bye.”
You sum up all the courage you have and walk out of the bathroom. Once you reach the table, you pull out some cash you have just laying around in your purse, like forty-something bucks, and set it down in the middle of the table.
“Hopefully that’s enough to cover half of it.”
“Where are you going?” Your date asks.
“To keep it polite, I have to go. Have a good rest of your night.”
You walked out of the restaurant, immediately spotting Satoru’s blue Camaro.
The second you get in, you make yourself comfortable, removing your heels and taking down your hair from its updo.
“What’s wrong?” Satoru asks, when you don’t say anything.
“It’s fine. This guy just wasn’t the one.”
Satoru’s chest feels tight now that you’re in the car. The smell of your perfume has returned and you’re glowing in the moonlight. It makes him think of the effort you put into looking the way you do, and how you ended up having to hide in the bathroom.
“Do you wanna go home?”
You’re looking in the sun visor mirror, bobby pins in your mouth as you fix your hair so that it’s not in your face once Satoru starts driving.
“Mm… whatever you want to do,” you say, muffled by the pieces of metal pressing into your lips.
It wouldn’t be whatever he wants to do, though. All he wants to do is kiss you, right now. Do something to soothe the ache you must be feeling.
“Why are you acting like this?” He asks, watching you as you place another pin in your hair.
You laugh through your nose, a bobby pin still between your lips. You put it in your hair before answering.
“Like what?” You look at him while you put your seatbelt on.
“Like this doesn't bother you. You don't have to put up a front, you know? I'm not gonna laugh at you."
The metal clicks, and you fold the sun visor back up. “Because it didn’t bother me. I’m not gonna settle for someone I hate being around."
Part of Satoru wanted this to go well for you. He wanted to see a brilliant smile on your face when you got home. So, the fact that it didn’t end up that way strangely caused some heartache for him.
“Don’t look so down.” You give him a kind smile and pinch his cheek. “I’m okay. Really.”
He tries to distract himself from the warmth that seeps into his cheeks from your quick gesture. “Well, I don’t want to go home. Is that okay, with you?”
“What’s up with you?” You ask, bringing one of your legs up and folding it comfortably on the seat.
“Nothing.”
You stare at him until he breaks out his contagious smile and laugh.
“Really, nothing. I just want to spend some time out tonight. Shoko and Suguru want to stay home and be couch potatoes."
You see your date walking out of the restaurant, phone against his ear. He doesn’t look too defeated, but you don’t want him to see you with Satoru and make any bold assumptions.
“Okay, that’s totally fine, but can we go?” Your leg goes back down, meeting the floor mat and you turn to face the window.
Satoru analyzes your behavior and your expression. Your arms are crossed, you refuse to look in his direction again. It’s weird compared to how you were acting two seconds ago.
“What?” Satoru turns to look at whatever made you shrink, and as soon as he sees him he rolls his window up. “Really?” His eyes are lidded in disappointment. It’s not in you as a person, but in your lack of respect for yourself, choosing someone so far below your league.
“He was nice when I first met him.”
Satoru puts the gear in reverse, backing out of the parking spot. “He looks stupid and on top of that he acts like it, too? God.”
“I know, I know.” You lean against the car door and stare out the window.
“What made you think you deserved him? Honestly, I can’t wrap my head around how low this is for someone like you.”
“I don’t know.”
Your responses to Satoru's interrogation kept getting shorter and shorter and he realized he was beating a horse that was already down.
“You know I care," he mumbles, breaking the heavy silence. “I don’t mean to tell you who to date and who you should be with.”
“I hate this conversation. You’re not my dad, Satoru. It’s fine.” You sit up, back against the seat and face forward. “Where are we, anyway?”
“I just followed a random road to see where it would lead. I don’t wanna go home, but I also don’t want to know where I am.”
“So, we’re lost.” You laugh.
“Hey, as long as we have phones with enough battery, we’re not really lost.”
“Right.” You grin, continuing to watch the road. You look over the steering wheel to see how much gas the car has. It’s two marks below the bold F.
“Can you tell me something?”
You turn to Satoru, giving him your full attention. He’s been more serious than you know him to be since you left the house.
“What’s up?”
“I’m not trying to rehash this father-like conversation, but as one of your best friends… what were you thinking when you accepted a date with this guy?” He glances over at you for a second. “What went through your mind when you said 'yes' to a date with him?”
“Potential love, dates, butterflies. All the stuff that goes into getting to know someone as more than an acquaintance or friend.” You fidget with the extra hair tie on your wrist.
“You want all of that?” He asks, glimpsing at you again.
You nod, silently.
“You’re pretty enough to fuck around with whoever you want, you know? I know some people who wanna do some pretty... vulgar things with you."
Your eyes go wide at how far south the conversation went. You cracked the second you looked at Satoru though. He looked somewhat proud to be friends with someone who could get some anytime.
“That’s… good to know, I guess.” Your mind stumbles over the part where he called you pretty enough.
“You’re not interested in that, though, are you?”
You wince, jokingly. “It’s just not my cup of tea. I want something more long-term.”
Satoru grins, almost like he wants to talk about himself.
“That’s not your cup of tea, is it?” You reciprocate the grin.
“No, no. Believe it or not, the last relationship I was in lasted a whole two months.”
You slapped the car door dramatically. “A whole two months?!”
“Stop it. It’s nothing, really," Satoru jokes, grinning with faux pride.
“Hey, i’m not shaming you. You’re not down with commitment and that’s fine. We're young. There's no need to rush."
“I haven’t found someone I really want to commit to. I'm not stupid enough to ignore the fact that people are really only attracted to my body. They can't stand when I open my mouth, so I figured it’s better to fuck around than to put my heart into something that won’t last without sex.”
Satoru's personality was for people with acquired taste. On the other hand, Satoru's physical appearance was for anyone and everyone. The people who could appreciate all of him would be in for the most amazing ride, because even as his friend, you could confidently say that there is no one like him anywhere in the world. You can only hum in acknowledgement of how romantically lonely he must feel.
“What?” You ask when the car stops. Satoru puts the car in park before turning it off. “We’re not out of gas, so what’s the problem?”
He unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to face you, one leg bent on the seat. He’s met with a breathtaking sight. You look stunning in that navy blue dress, and that shade smeared over your lips was calling his name. He can see part of your thigh from where your dress rides up.
“Can I talk to you about something?” The tension behind the question was enough to make your ears go red.
“Of course you can. You’re scaring me, but go on.”
He smiles, trying to lighten up the mood. He knows better than to just dump information like this on you so heavily, but he can't go home tonight without telling you how he feels. He already doesn’t expect much to come of telling you this, but it's been eating him alive and he can't keep it in anymore.
“You've been on my mind a lot, lately." He sees your slightly furrowed eyebrows. They match the unintentional pout on your lips. You’re confused and for some reason you feel nervous, like your heart might escape your ribcage.
“What does that mean?” You ask, wanting a clearer understanding. He could be worried about you in a totally platonic way. He could be wondering about what you've been up to lately. You're having trouble assuming there's romantic notes to his statement after the brief discussion you just had.
“It's exactly as it sounds. I've been thinking about you." He's not smiling, he's not laughing yet this still sounds like a joke that he’s running to mess with you.
“You done with your jokes? We could both be home right about now," you say, not intending for your words to come out as sharp as they did. His hand is suddenly cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away a speck of glitter from it.
“You say goodnight to me in the sweetest way—like you won't see me in the morning. And the soft smile you give me before you shut the door... it lingers in my mind. I dream of it from time to time."
You're trying so hard not to lean into his touch and nuzzle your cheek into his palm, but you make no effort to push his hand away. “What are you talking about, Satoru? Don't you think you're reading into it a little too much? I do that for all three of you. Ask Shoko and Suguru.”
His hand has been on your cheek for a while now, and he’s still looking at you like he has things to get off his chest. “I know you don't say it the same way to them as you do to me." He stops, a little sigh leaving him. He’s probably making you dizzy with all of this news, based on the look on your face. He retracts his hand and rests it on his thigh. You look stunned, so he cuts to the chase. “To be even more clear, I don’t see you as a friend. It doesn’t seem right to see you that way when I can picture us doing more. Being more."
“Doing more?” You repeat, cheeks growing warm.
“Holding hands, kissing, being alone together—more.”
The heavy silence returns, both of you nervously avoiding eye contact.
“I..." you huff. "I need some air.” You unbuckle yourself before exiting the car. Your scent remains in the car even after the door shuts behind you, leaving Satoru to wonder if things are screwed with you.
Your back is against the door, your hands interlocked in front of your eyes, shielding you from the gentle moonlight. You groan, irritated by the conflicted thoughts that came with Satoru's revelation.
It’s not long before Satoru comes out and joins you, leaning on the side of his car. It's cold and he doesn't want you to get sick again. His heart could barely handle your involuntarily weak display the first time.
“I didn’t stress you out, did I?” He asks, turning his head to look at you. You shake your head, your hands still covering your eyes. “There’s really no part of you that can envision an us between me and you?”
You chuckle, a sound that makes his heart pang. “It’s funny... you know, a long time ago it was all I dreamed about.”
Now this was baffling news to Satoru. How long ago was a long time ago? A couple months ago? Last year? Three years ago? And why didn’t you say anything?
“I considered you a pursuit that was out of reach. You had—have— all these girls just throwing themselves at you, and I couldn’t be one of them, so I befriended you instead.”
“How long ago was a long time ago?” He asks, nervous to hear the answer.
“Like last year in March. It was during your phase where you would never come home.”
He feels like an asshole. Especially since not too much later, he developed similar feelings for you that he endlessly denied.
“You liked the me you never got to see?”
You both chuckled at the rhyme of his words, your broken senses of humor adding some lightheartedness to the conversation.
“I guess you not coming home was more calming because I didn't have to be nervous to see you.”
You crossed your arms. The cardigan protected you, but not enough. The cold wind was starting to nip at your cheeks. Satoru notices and moves closer to you.
“Let’s go back inside, yeah?”
You didn’t want to. You were nervous being “stranded” with Satoru already, but minimizing the space between you was even more nerve-wracking. He was your greatest temptation before, and you could easily create those labyrinths that guide him into your mind again if you got close enough.
“I’ll be fine," you say, looking straight ahead at the field of weeds in front of you.
“You’re gonna catch a cold. Get in the car," Satoru prompts. He thought back to the tired look on your face as you laid in bed sick, waiting for him to bring you warm soup.
“No," you insisted, turning away from him.
He inched closer, not wanting to look at your back. “Please, get in the car." He thought of the gracious look on your sick face when he brought you another blanket to keep you warm.
“I said no, Satoru. I don't want to get in the car with you."
You were being stubborn as hell, and something about it made Satoru’s blood boil to the point where he did whatever his mind told him to do. You were suddenly pinned to the car, your hands on Satoru’s chest to keep some distance. He blocked every gust of wind that threatened to bite at your skin, and enveloped you in his warmth. You don’t know how, but in this freezing temperature, Satoru’s hands felt like sunlight on your cheeks. His face was centimeters away from yours, his bright eyes searching for a loophole in your feelings for him. Your eyes spoke with an infinite amount of possibility, and some of it didn't make sense, so he kissed you in hopes of translating what you were trying to say.
You didn’t have any fight left in you. Not when you felt so secure in this close proximity. Now, all you wanted was to be in the car with him, alone.
The kiss was released with light breaths from both of you, a look of feeling complete on Satoru’s face. “Will you get in the damn car,” he whispers, his arms caging you against the car.
“Say please," you say in the same intimate volume as him.
“Please," he complies, allowing his eyes to flit between your eyes and your lips.
“Pretty please?" you push.
“Pretty please," he says, the corners of his lips twitching.
“How about pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“Get in the car," he says through a laugh.
You chuckle, shoving him lightly before opening the door and entering the car. Satoru gets in the drivers seat and suddenly it all feels strange. Strange, but in the best way.
The tension from before returns. There's no wind blowing to fill in the silence when you both stop talking.
“Do you ever think of me when you're alone?” It was a weird question to be asked by him, especially since you had already told him that your feelings for him were left behind.
“Never," you reply, a softness in your tone that held memories of when all you thought about was Satoru.
He's somewhat disappointed, seeing as though there's a chance he might be too late.
“Do you think that will change after tonight?” He seems to be getting closer, or at least his hands are. Your skin is irresistible and he wants to feel how soft you are. He's been craving you for so long, and you're right there.
“There’s no way to tell.” You can see how slowly his hand is traveling. A minute ago it was on his lap, now it’s on the armrest between your seats. You can’t wait any longer. The suspense might make you jump out of the car again, so you grab his hand and put it on your thigh, where your dress rides up.
“I’ll throw the question back to you. Do you think of me when you're alone?” You ask him now because he won’t give you some bullshit response at a time like this, when he’s getting everything he’s wanted for who knows how long.
“All the time,” he responds so quickly. “When I wake up, before I go to sleep, in the shower, while I brush my teeth.” There’s this foolish look on his face, like he would give anything to never lose the ability to have you on his mind all the time. "You're in there, organizing the shrine I made for you," he admits, with a grin. His thumb presses into your thigh, massaging the plush skin. It makes you nervous as hell, but you like it.
“Have you told Suguru and Shoko?”
He chuckles, remembering the conversation he had with them after you left. “I’m positive they know."
Once again, you're left staring at each other in silence, drowning in the tension you’ve created within yourselves. Satoru has yet to move his hand away from your thigh, not letting up even when he feels goosebumps spread on your skin. He tests the boundaries you have set up, finding no resistance from you when his hand reaches further up your dress.
“You’re not gonna tell me to stop?” He asks as his fingers are met with lace, a texture that makes his heart thud rapidly in his chest.
You shake your head, leaning back in the seat. His fingers ghost over the front of your panties, finding a satin bow just below the elastic band.
“Were you going to let that guy touch you? Is that why you wore these?” He hasn’t even seen them, and yet he can tell they’re the cutest thing ever.
“Maybe," you mumble, looking away in slight embarrassment.
“Can I see them?” He asks.
You nod, allowing him to slowly pull up your dress. Your heart drops when you hear him gasp.
“God, no way," he says, sounding defeated. His ears slowly turn a bright shade of red as he observes the material covering your intimate area.
“Stop,” you whine, feeling flustered by his reaction and the way he stares.
His hand returns to its previous spot, continuing to play with the part of the elastic that sticks to your hip.
“You wear these types of panties on every date you go on?”
You nod, biting your lip as his fingers move just to feel the fabric. His touch is still ghost-like—light, barely there, but it’s working you up anyway. There’s barely enough friction, yet you can feel your wetness begin to ruin the garment.
He sighs. “You know, no one deserves you.” His tone is smooth and he smiles at you, an angel taking control of his features. “Not even me, but I can make up for the one who missed you tonight.”
He spares his attention to the spot in the middle of your panties, only smiling when a breathy moan involuntarily leaves you.
“God..." you groan in embarrassment, covering your face with your hands. "I can’t with myself."
His thumb rubs up and down your clothed slit, applying pressure when he reaches your clit.
“Don’t be shy. Make as much noise as you want,” he says, luring a gasp from you.
You look away again, red-faced, feeling embarrassed beyond belief.
“What?” A low chuckle follows. His hands settle on your thighs as he leans in and tries to look at your flustered face.
“This is weird.” You look out the window, too nervous to look at Satoru.
“How come?”
You giggle. “I can’t stop seeing you as one of my friends. It’s strange to experience something like this with you.”
“I would hope Suguru and Shoko aren’t touching you like this.” His hand splays on your thigh, kneading softly. “Are they?” He asks, after a pause.
“Of course not.”
He seems satisfied with that response because he’s trying to hold back a smile, but the corners of his lips are twitching. His fingers snap the elastic band of your panties against your skin a couple more times.
“Is it too weird to go on?” He asks.
You consider the facts. He already touched you, he confessed his feelings for you before he touched you so you know he wasn't lying about his feelings for you and he doesn’t just want sex. You had those feelings for him before, but claimed to have lost them with time.
Your overwhelming thoughts are enough to put an end to what was going on. You pull down your dress, hiding the evidence of his touch, and sit up straight in the seat. “Maybe we should head home before we do something we might regret later.”
He hums and smiles, not an ounce of disappointment in his features. “No argument from me."
Satoru put his seatbelt on and watched as you did the same before starting the car. There was no need for him to set up the GPS because all he did was drive straight, so all he had to do was drive back the other way.
You didn’t expect the car ride to be so quiet. Maybe he did want things to go further. You couldn’t bear to look back at Satoru, even though you could feel him side eyeing you as he drove. There were a couple times where he turned his head to look at you when you stopped at red lights, but you knew you couldn’t look back until you had something to say. You were overthinking everything that happened until that point. What can you say when you just went through an entire roller coaster of emotions with someone you call a best friend? Someone who has now seen you in a vulnerable position.
“Did you at least eat?” Satoru asks, finally breaking the heavy silence that engulfed the car.
“Uh, yeah. I was able to get through my meal," you respond, glancing at him quickly before turning back to face the window.
He nods in acknowledgement. You see the stop sign at the end of your street, signaling the closeness of home.
Satoru parks the car in the driveway, and you finish removing your shoes. You enter the house, expecting to see Suguru and Shoko up waiting for you guys, but to your surprise, the doors to their bedrooms are shut.
“Goodnight, Satoru," you say. “Thanks again, for picking me up.”
“Yeah, no worries,” he responds. “Goodnight.”
You can’t shake the void left in your gut after your time with Satoru. You sit on your bed for a moment thinking of the intimacy that occurred between you and him. The gentleness of his touch, the lack of judgement from him when you basically told him that you dress your best even for scumbags. Something inside you was begging you to tell him how much you wanted him to sleep in your room—in your bed. And that’s exactly what you aimed for with this rush of adrenaline that surged through you. You rose off the bed quickly, and made haste to reach his bedroom.
You knocked, calling his name once. Once was all it took for him to leap to open the door.
“Can you help me with something?” You asked, hoping he held no ill will towards you and that he wouldn’t deny you.
“Sure. With what?”
You motion for him to follow you to your room, and he does with no further questions, following your bare feet as you lead him to your room.
“I tied the knot for my dress a little too tightly." You let out a quiet chuckle, your nervousness imbued into it.
“Oh, I see," he says, stifling a grin. "Turn around.” His finger circles in the air.
You turn your back to him, facing the mirror on your vanity. You can feel his knuckles grazing your lower back as he takes the time to slowly loosen the knot, the straps that once sat wrapped around your waist dropping loosely.
“There,” he murmurs, still standing behind you, looking at you through the mirror.
“Thank you,” you say so quietly that it’s almost a whisper.
Normally, that is the cue for someone to leave, but there was this branch of electricity connecting him to you. He couldn’t find a reason to step away from you, so instead he stepped closer. His arms encircled your waist, his hands interlocking above your lower abdomen. Your stomach swarmed with butterflies—blood thirsty ones that knew all too well that they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, so long as Satoru was in your room.
He leaned in to kiss your shoulder, an act that brought goosebumps to your skin. "You look really pretty." You give in to the feeling, tilting your head to give him the entire canvas of that side of your neck. He wondered if you would be upset if you saw his kisses on your neck in the morning.
He stops and looks for your approval first because he has arrived centimeters behind the line between friends who are really comfortable with each other and something deeper. You have to let him know that it’s okay to cross this line.
“It’s okay,” you say, squeezing the hands that rest on your lower abdomen. “Don't stop."
That’s the green light he needed in order to move on. He did not hesitate at all in pulling back his arms and undoing the knot that held your dress up. He watched as the smooth velvet cascaded down your body, pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but those precious lace panties. You felt vulnerable with your bare chest out, but made no attempt to hide yourself.
He was frozen for a second or two, speechless at the sight before him.
“No one deserves you,” he finally says, his arms snaking around your torso. His lips start leaving behind their marks on the other side of your neck. He drags his kisses down your shoulder, biting once, then twice, resulting in a couple giggles from you.
“Close the door, please,” you say, realizing Shoko and Suguru would see what was happening if they opened their doors.
Satoru releases you only to close the door, locking it for safe measures. As soon as he’s back, he’s wrapping his arms around you before pushing both of you towards your bed. He starts stripping his clothes off, until he's left in just his boxers. His eyes never leave yours, a lovestruck smile on his face.
“You will never know how many times I’ve dreamt of this scenario."
“Stop.” You giggle, withstanding the sting of his lips on more than you neck. It’s heat on your chest and on your stomach now, his hands holding your waist so gently. You’ll look like some abstract piece of art by morning with the endless waves of kisses that Satoru gives you. He wants you so badly. Devastatingly so. He wants to prove that he is the closest to deserving you by the end of the night.
Your heartbeat is inconsolable in your ribcage. The eye contact brought some reality to the situation. He chuckles at the doe-eyed look on your face before refocusing on his task. He's nearing the elastic band of your underwear, those cute lacy ones he got to touch in the car. His touch is already affecting you, the evidence being a wet spot reemerging in the middle of your underwear.
"You're so warm and soft, and..." he sighs, your body making his mind cloud. He couldn't have ever accurately imagined how stunning you would be with just the golden street lamp's light shining through your window. "...you smell really fucking good." His hands go beneath the elastic band of your underwear, dragging his dainty fingers through your slit enough times to earn a small gasp from you, before pulling his hand out. "Bet you taste amazing, too," he says, wrapping his lips around his glossy digits. "Mhm..." he practically moans when your taste coats his tastebuds. "Sweeter than I could have ever imagined."
You don't think you'll get over Satoru saying these explicit things to you.
"More. Fuck, I need more." There's so much he wants to do to you, so little time in the night despite it only being 11:30. "God, you're so..." he cuts himself off and kisses down your stomach, impatiently—desperately. "...so pretty. So—fuck— so pretty. Gonna make you feel so good."
"Okay, 'toru, make sure to breathe," you tease, running your fingers through his soft locks as he nears your throbbing core.
He drags his nose up and down the wet patch of your panties, audibly inhaling your scent and exhaling through shuddered breaths. He sounds feral, his aching cock creating its own pool of arousal in his boxers. The tip of his nose was covered in your slick, the remnants of you on his skin driving him absolutely crazy. Once he absolutely couldn't take it anymore, he yanked your underwear down, almost tearing the pretty fabric and tossed it onto the floor. You were soaked at the sight of his pure lust towards you. Those eyes were darker than you've ever seen them before.
He tries to be slow and gentle for you. You're the one thing he's wanted for the longest time and now he has you. You're not guaranteed to be his forever, after this, but at least the night is secured and he has this one chance to prove that he would do it right with you. That he could handle your body with a tenderness and loving that would make you weep. Everything you want in a lover will be given to you in one act of demonstrating how undeniably in love with you he is.
His attempt at slow sensuality never reaches you. His arms are hooked tightly around your thighs to prevent you from squirming away from his greedy mouth. He wants everything you give him to never end. The melodic sound of you moaning his name, the sweet nectar that just keeps drooling out of your cunt, the sting on his scalp from the firm hold you have on his hair and the tugging. He's in heaven. If the possibility of this reoccurring is nonexistent, he wants this moment to loop. For there to be a glitch in real life that allows him to replay this scenario as many times as he likes, like a story with multiple endings.
"You taste so good. So fucking good, princess. Wanna give you a taste," he rambles. He unwraps his right arm from your thigh and uses his forearm to pin it down so that he can use his fingers on you. He bends all his fingers down except for his index and middle fingers. Your slick is already streaming out of you, ready to be collected, but he can't resist the urge to dip his fingertips into your pulsing hole. "Oh fuck, you're so wet," he utters in awe, quickly tossing the idea of just his fingertips going in when his long, lithe fingers sink into you with ease.
"Satoru," you choke out, a sharp gasp following. The pads of his fingers brush against that spot within you that forces you to bite your lip. Your heart is racing. What if you get caught? How would you explain what's going on to your friends and would the dynamic of your living situation change because of it? You care, but clearly not enough to second guess this moment again, like you did in the car.
"Mmm..." he moans against your clit, his lips smacking after releasing the now throbbing bundle. "So sweet." He pulls his fingers out of you and admires the glaze that drips down to his knuckles. He wants to be selfish and put them in his mouth, but his need for you to know how good you are to his tastebuds overpowers those thoughts. "Open, pretty," he says, tapping his wet fingers against your lips. He watches with parted lips as you take his slick coated digits into your mouth, shutting your lips around them to completely suck off your essence. "Good, huh?" A pleased grin appears when you nod. "Yeah... I want it back." He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and puts them on your right breast, smearing your saliva all over your nipple until it pebbles.
All you can do is say "huh?" before your lips are enveloped by his. The kiss starts out slow— he's taking a moment to appreciate how perfect your lips feel against his. For a minute you can feel the way he innocently wants you. You have butterflies in your stomach all over again.
His hunger for you grows with every sharp breath you release and the squirming beneath his unrelenting hands on your chest. Your heart has been pounding in your ears since he slipped his tongue into your mouth and you have goosebumps from all the rubbing, brushing, and tweaking he offers your nipples, the throbbing in your cunt only intensifying as you withstand it. He thinks the whimpers that seep into your kisses are the cutest sounds ever and he doesn't want them to stop, so he glides a hand down your abdomen and gives you the touch you're missing.
You break the kiss, throwing your head back into the pillow at the feeling of Satoru rubbing your clit. He watches through gleaming eyes the way your jaw hangs and allows the sweetest moans to spill from your kissed up lips.
"Feeling good?" He asks, grinning when you respond with a moan that makes you clasp a hand over your mouth. "Yeah? That's an answer, too." He chuckles, watching intently as you crumble beneath his touch, not some zero's who made a fool out of himself.
You uncover your mouth, your sounds amplifying and flowing freely. "Satoru," you gasp. "Oh, fuck– S-Satoru!" The last words you manage to cry out before you cum without a warning.
You look way too pretty arching your back off the bed and chasing friction from his hand. Your neck looks palpable like that, exposed for him like you want him to mark it up and take a few bites.
"Let me make you feel good, pretty girl," he coos, drunk off the cute sounds of the heaves and sobs that wrack through your chest, your little whines shining through them. Lustful, lidded eyes watch as you try to wriggle away from his touch.
"P-Please," you huff out, your trembling thighs working to shut around his hand. It's too much, your peak has passed and now you're left to bear the overwhelming feeling of his unstopping fingers.
"I know, I know. It's terrible..." he murmurs. His tip is leaking so much at the sight of your body jerking and your eyes welling with tears. He really loves the way you've surrendered yourself to him. "You're so pretty." He sighs, dreamily. He stops and wiggles his hand out of the tight embrace of your thighs. You take a deep breath and blink away tears, focusing on the comforting movement of his hands caressing your thighs. He can see the way you look at his body. His chest, the sculpted muscles of his abdomen, the pale happy trail that leads to a part of him that you are unfamiliar with.
He crawls over you, his lower body wedged between your legs. "Don't be scared to touch," he says, his tone sultry. He grabs ahold of your hand and places it on his chest, initiating the contact for you. You take control and allow your hands to roam his body. Like you're in a room full of random unpressed buttons, you explore the different reactions you get from touching different parts of him. You discovered that his nipples are sensitive. He groaned into your neck when you palmed at his pecs and borderline whimpered when you focused your touch on his peaks. He shuddered when you traced along his ribs, but once you neared his stomach and waist, things got hot for you all over again. Your heart raced as he breathed into your neck due to the feeling of your nails gently scratching along his abs. He was rutting his clothed bulge against your cunt, desperate, low moans leaving him with every graze of your nails along his waist.
"F-Fuck, I can't wait anymore. Please, let me in." He whips out the cutest puppy eyes you've ever seen, and though they're unnecessary, you're not opposed to him having to resort to those means.
"Y-Yeah, okay," you breathe, feeling the throbbing in your cunt intensify when he stopped rolling his hips against you.
He's rushing, his movement stuttered and his hands shaking with desperation as he works his boxers off. He's impressed with the amount of precum that went into them, but he doesn't waste time admiring the mess any longer once he frees his achingly hard, drooling cock. It's sensitive to the touch. He'll cum if he doesn't play his cards right while lathering his length with the essence that beads at his tip. With that taken care of, he comes close to you again.
"This is gonna be the slowest start ever," he says under his breath, eyeing that sweet little smile on your face, like you understand the turmoil he's going through with just trying to get inside you. His tip nudges your clit, spreading some of his precum onto the nub as he guides it up and down your slit a couple times. He's working himself up to sinking in because he knows how wet you are. After a few more strokes, he presses just the tip in, nestling it into your warmth with a groan. You gasp as he slowly drives himself into you, the stretch his girth induces proving to be immense. He tries to steady his stuttering hips as he pushes more of his length in.
"Little more, just a liiittle more," he says through soft breaths, more to himself than you. Once he glides the rest of his length in, he feels like he's going to explode. He's throbbing so hard and you're not helping at all with the brief, inconsistent spasming of your walls. "Oh fuck... shit," he whimpers, thrusting only halfway into you. "Sorry—fuck—s-sorry... I can't-" He gasps when he thrusts the rest of the way in, spewing his load as he just grinds against you.
Your eyes widen as you watch him, his eyes shut tightly, his jaw hanging ajar to release shaky breaths. His cheeks, neck and chest are blazed, bright color smothered over his pale skin.
"Shit..." he rasps, still taking deep breaths.
You can't even ridicule him for this when he looks so fine. The laugh he let out was enough to make your thighs twitch.
"It's alright, Satoru. It's getting pretty late, anyway."
"No-the-fuck it's not," he says, looking down at you with the smallest crease between his brows. He's wanted this—wanted you—for way too long and he can't leave your room without showing you just how badly he desires you. It's a need, at this point.
A chill runs down your spine and your heart drops at his response.
"I mean, i'm not tired. Are you?" He asks, softening a little after coming in so hot with his last response.
You're not and even if you were, it's those eyes... They compel you to want to do things for his sake. They're so soft and you feel wanted beneath their force. You feel everything he said to you in the car when you peer into his eyes.
"No. I'm not tired either," you respond, which instantly puts a smile on his face.
"Good. Let me try again."
Neither of you mentioned any of what happened within that quick span of time. No mentions of him spilling the second he got inside you or you trying to end the night to save him the embarrassment, and it turned out for the better. No awkwardness once he recovered and went back to proving his love for you. He went straight into it, thrusting at a slow pace to start you off. He held onto your hips as he leaned in and kissed all over your chest, sucking your delicate skin to leave little reminders of him for you to see in the morning.
He groans, muffled by your warm skin, when you scratch the back of his head, guiding your nails through the short hairs of his undercut and down the nape of his neck. He's purring like a satisfied cat, the soft breaths he lets out through his nose grazing your neck.
With all these good feelings comes Satoru picking up the pace. His hips meet yours a little more quickly and suddenly both of you get a little more courage to make more sound.
"Fuck," you whimper. "Satoru... S-Satoru..."
"I know..." he grunts. "I know, baby. I feel really good, too."
You just look so damn pretty, with your starry eyes and your messy hair, and the way you keep moaning his name. He has to kiss you again. Each time he kissed you before was accompanied by fireworks. This time... who knows? He certainly won't unless he gains the courage to do it once more.
He leans forward and stares deep into your eyes. The level of intimacy has doubled down and you feel like your heart is trying even harder to lurch out of your chest. He's not stopping, you can feel his breath on your lips as he pants through the exertion of his hips. Then, once again, with a whimper as he closes the distance between your mouths, he kisses you. It's not fireworks this time, it's an entire fire and you kissing him back like you need him just as much is fanning the wild flames.
"Love... you," he disperses the words through his kisses. He doesn't only say it once. He says it multiple times as your lips are moving, making those pauses purposeful. "Fuck– I love you," he repeats, breaking the kiss when you don't say anything. "Come on," he chuckles. "Say it back."
"Satoru..." you say, softly.
"You say it all the time to us. What's another time?"
You bite back a laugh when you see those brilliant eyes again. He knows the effect they have on people and uses them to his advantage.
"It doesn't..." he groans, cursing under his breath when you suddenly clench around him. "...have to mean anything more than it usually does."
You're hesitant, but figure that as long as he doesn't take it as more than what he's used to—at least until things are talked through—there can't be any harm in saying what he wants to hear.
"Love you, 'toru."
The words are way too sweet, too gentle on his ears. The smile you offered as you delivered those words was devastatingly beautiful. You've said this a million times, each time so friendly, so lovingly, the meaning never feigned or faded with its repetition, but in that moment, he felt the words more than he ever did before. Your plush thighs are pressed against his hips, your hands are on his chest, and he can still smell that perfume you spritzed on your skin before you left. He's never heard you like this before, so sultry that it almost seems like an invasion of privacy.
"Again... say it again, p-please." With the scene that is playing out before his very eyes, he wants to imagine you meaning it as a term for lovers.
"I-I..." you let out a sharp gasp, your words cut off by the feeling of his cock brushing against that weak spot within you. "I love y-you, Satoru."
You're saying it to him only, right now. It's not 'I love you guys', it's 'I love you, Satoru', and he's drowning in it all. Your voice, the words, the blissed out look on your face. He's weak.
"Yeah?" He laughs, sounding almost delirious from how good he feels and how he's trying so hard not to cum.
"Mhm," you respond.
"T-That's good to know," he says, breathily. He's picking up the pace again, almost knocking the wind out of you with that first thrust in the change of pace. You're scratching up his back, wrapping your legs around his waist while he moans into the crook of your neck.
"G-Gonna cum, gonna fucking cum, again."
"Please... cum inside," you babble, nonsensically.
"Yeah? You want it inside again?" He asks, grinning when you hum and nod in confirmation. Who is he to deny you of such a simple want?
With a few more harder thrusts, he's filling you to the brim again with his warm cum. He's breathing heavily into your neck, mouthing at your skin sloppily as your cunt flutters around him. He's babbling on and on asking you if you came and if you feel good, while you're trying not to cry out too loudly from how hard you did. It's only until he unsticks himself from your tacky skin that he sees the aftermath of your orgasm. Your lidded eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the sound of your shuddered breaths brushing past your lips. He's thinking about it again. No one deserves you, but clearly, he was the closest.
He tosses himself beside you once you both come down. Your blanket is shared between the two of you, it reaches just above your chest and above Satoru's hips.
He sighs as he turns over to face you as you stare up at the ceiling. "You think they heard us?" He asks, voice low and intimate, yet a mischievous smirk that tells you he wouldn't care if they did, plays on his lips.
"Not sure. I guess we'll find out tomorrow." Now it's your turn to sigh. You don't even want to think about how weird breakfast might be in the morning.
"Hey," he calls for your attention. You turn onto your side to face him, keeping the blanket close to your body. "It's gonna be fine. What's the worst that could happen? They tease us or call us dumb?" You give him a soft smile. Normally, you're the one calling him dumb while the others agree. "Don't know about you, but I don't mind. They don't know the story, anyway. Right?"
"Right."
Time slowed down in that moment. You both just stared at each other in silence, thinking about what just happened. You were comfortable together, lying there, satisfied with your decisions. He pulled you closer by your blanket covered waist and pressed kisses into your cheek, enough to make you giggle until you started returning the kisses. To anybody, this would be considered a sight of two lovers taking care of each other after a night of intimacy. The whispered words, the quiet laughter between kisses, the gentle drags of fingers on harsh marks—it all points to love. You think things might be okay, after all.
It took a while for you and Satoru to untangle yourselves from each other. Eventually, he got up and dressed into everything but his messy boxers. You weren't going to get back into your dress so you laid back for a while and watched as he collected himself.
"Well... I'll see you in the morning." His hand is on the doorknob and he's looking at you, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body as if he's trying to memorize you all over again within the short span of his goodnight to you.
"Mhm. Goodnight."
He pulls the door open, still not detaching his gaze from you. "Goodnight," he says, his voice low, yet warm and brimming with love. He spares one more soft smile for you, before walking out and clicking the door shut behind him.
You think you finally understand why he's so hung up on the way you say goodnight.
Gojo’s body irl:
argue with ur mammy about it.
Cerise
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x f!reader
Content: SFW
Content Warnings: Not many it’s pretty SFW, just some kisses really
Description: Cerise is a sacred word for you and Gojo. It means peace or truce. It cancels any grudge out and it forces you to talk. Gojo is the king of using Cerise ;)
Word Count: 0.7k
Gojo can’t stand when you give him the silent treatment, because when you do, everything about you goes silent. You silence his notifications so when he texts you, you don’t know it until you manually look at your messages. Even then, you look at the message and don’t respond. It’s usually something along the lines of:
Hiii baby ❤️
You still mad 🥹
To which you don’t respond because he’s only on the couch across the room. You can feel his eyes watching you, but you refuse to look up at him. So you turn your screen off and continue what you were doing previously.
Gojo knows how to get you to talk. It’s very simple, but he wants to see if you’ll ever reach out first during these bouts of annoyance.
When he notices that you’re not doing much, he decides that it’s time to turn on the charm.
You’re finishing washing some dishes, when he comes up behind you. He doesn’t get close enough to touch you, but enough so that you can hear him even if he’s whispering.
“Cerise.” The word comes out smoothly, and his lips curl into a sly smile as soon as he hears you sigh.
“God, what, Satoru?” You throw the dishrag you had in your hands, and turn to look at him. You had to bite the inside of your cheek just so that you wouldn’t mirror the smile on his face once you saw him.
“You can’t break a promise we’ve followed through with for years. Sorry, but I didn’t make the rules. You know what I did do, though? I said cerise, so now you have to talk to me.”
He was unbearable, yet so damn lovable with his prideful smile.
Cerise, or the French word for cherry, was a word you and Gojo decided was made for truces. When you were just dating, he invited you over to spend the night in his apartment one day. He told you to make yourself at home, and allowed you to rummage through his cabinets and rooms.
He forgot something in his car so he went to go get it, leaving you alone for a maximum of four minutes. In those four minutes, you found a bag of cherries that was almost empty. All but three cherries remained, so you thought finishing them and tossing the bag would help him make room for more groceries. Gojo came back and caught you red handed, his jaw dropping.
“You know the French word for cherry is cerise?” You read the translations in Spanish and French, not noticing that Gojo was having a meltdown and was on his knees. You tossed the bag after popping the last one in your mouth, the stem thrown in the trash after.
“‘toru?” You call, seeing him on the floor. You squat down to his level, still making your way around the pit of the cherry, the sweetness staining your tongue.
“I wanted those cherries. Those were mine,” he mumbles, weakly.
“Please, don’t cry.” You pat his fluffy hair.
He sits up and looks at you in confusion. “I’m not crying.”
“Oh, good. So, the French word for cherry is cerise.” You put an emphasis on the word to make it sound even more regal.
He was so bummed, and spent a good ten minutes not talking to you, huffing and whipping his head in the opposite direction of you whenever you looked at him, like a child.
You couldn’t stand another minute of him ignoring you, so you scrambled into his lap, and tried to catch his attention.
“Baby, baby, baby~” you poked his cheeks, repeatedly. “‘toru, my pretty boy, i’m sorry.” You almost got him to smile with that. You covered him in kisses, his neck, his cheeks, but when you went for his lips, he sucked them in and made them disappear.
When all failed, you went for the last resort.
“Cerise,” you said, sounding wise. “Cerise,” you repeated, adding a dramatic hand in mid-air. “Did you know cerise is the French word for cherry? Also, did you know cerise is cerise?”
Gojo cracked, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled at your ridiculous rambling about this word you found on a bag of cherries. It was so easy for him to forgive you after that. You got him to laugh, and you promised that the next time you spent the night, you would bring him another bag of cherries.
“Cerise is…?” He says, waiting for you to finish his sentence.
“…the French word for cherry.” You crack a grin, walking towards him. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. Cerise is our live, laugh, love.”
You chuckled as you buried your face in his chest.
walking in on gojo flexing. perfect lighting, post shower shine. extra big from the pump. we fuckin.
mai i love ur thoughts so much. (i got slightly carried away but i hope this is what u were looking for)
tags! mdni, bf!gojo x f!reader, oral (f!receiving), vaginal sex, mirror sex, light choking, size diff (ofc), names (good girl, baby), cocky & buff gojo (but when is he not)
you're stepping out the bathroom when you catch that familiar glimpse of pale skin out of the corner of your eye.
in the amber ambiance of the room gojo stands in front of your floor length mirror, black boxers hugging his legs tightly, but not a single other inch of clothing in sight. he pulls his arm behind his side—unaware of your presence—observing the fine lines along his triceps and forearms.
there's a satisfied grin on his face, pride clearly evident as he displays the hours and hours of hard work poured into his body. he stands parallel to the mirror again, this time stretching his arms, just to curl them back towards his face, showing off the delicious bridge of his biceps—lats like wings underneath them.
your hold on the towel wrapped around your body nearly falters, jaw dropping to the floor as you stand in the doorway of your bedroom completely awe-struck.
gojo smiles again, letting one of his hands trail against the muscle of the opposite arm, feeing each hard plane of his skin. he's turning around, hoping to get a good look at his back until he sees you, stood still in nothing but your towel and glassy eyes.
the smirk on his face is tantalising. "how long have you been watching, baby?"
you can't take your eyes off of him, the contours of his abs deepened by the low lights, waist perfectly snatched. and the obvious bulge in his damn boxers—he's going to be the death of you.
he moves towards you, steps careful as you move your gaze to meet his—and his fingers are holding your chin, keeping you where he wants you.
he raises an eyebrow, waiting for your response.
"long enough, satoru," you whisper, blushing like a schoolgirl. your eyes try to move down to see more, to catch a glimpse of another sharp line of his muscles but he just keeps you there, clicking his tongue.
"my eyes are up here angel," he coos, and it goes straight to your cunt, your head growing dizzy from the proximity, even when it's so familiar. his free arm settles around your shoulders, the heaviness setting something within you alight.
"'toru—" you whine, as he simply just stares you down, waits for you to give in first, admit that you want it—that you admire him to the very pits of your soul. and you know that he's playing this game, which makes it so much more difficult to finally say those words he's been looking for: "satoru, do it again."
he's grinning from ear to ear, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek before he's holding your hand, guiding you to the edge of the bed. here you're beneath him, and even now his presence is overwhelming, commanding in the best ways.
"what'd you want me to show you?" he asks sweetly, stood before you with his arms crossed over his swole chest as he observes your shy expressions.
"just—flex like, yeah exactly like that..."
gojo repeats his earlier stretch, showing off to you close up the beautiful work of his arms and shoulders. he admires how your eyes light up, how you cross a leg over the other, hands supporting you on the bed as you smile at him.
he asks you again, and this time he's turning around as he aimed to do before, and you can already see the lines, they're always there now after so much tireless effort. his hands are pinching at his hips before rounding out his back, the art of his muscles in full display.
you audibly moan at the sight, your walls clenching as your boyfriend glows like a greek statue in your small bedroom. you hear the way he chuckles, amused by your reaction. he's still holding the position when he turns his head to the side, catching the sight of you biting your thumb. "like what you see baby?"
nodding you stand from the bed, letting your hands trace around the definition of his muscles—gojo relaxes under your touch, letting your soft fingertips dance along his skin. you place a kiss just below his nape, your arms embracing him over his beefy shoulders, feeling for every ridge.
his larger hand encases yours, and he uses it to bring it to his lips, another kiss placed upon the back of your hand. in the mirror adjacent from you, you see the way your towel holds on by a thread, the way gojo's eyes are closed as he kisses up your arm, the look of holding back.
gojo's eyes lock with yours in the mirror, the tension between you finally bubbling over as he pulls you in front of him. the towel drops to the floor and you're exposed, but his hands are wrapped around your waist immediately, sitting you back down on the edge of the bed, the mirror now right in front of you.
when he leans down to kiss you it's electric, excitement blending together as you make out. his hand holds the back of your neck, deepening the kiss, your moans muffled by his lips.
he doesn't stop until you're whining for him, your manicured nails digging into the scalp of his hair to push him south. he kisses down the skin of your breasts and stomach, heaven appearing in your mind when his breath fans against your wet cunt, eyes looking up at you from beneath as he looks for the okay.
his eyes are hypnotising like this, the brilliant blue alive in the moody lights of the room, and he lets you get lost in them—drags the plush of your thighs onto each of his shoulders while your breaths pick up. your fingers tug at the white strands of hair, and his mouth connects to your heat, tongue licking through your wet folds.
gojo groans into you, eyes falling shut at the pleasure of your taste alone. he teases you with his tongue until he finally latches onto your clit, gentle at first as he sucks at it, your thighs already trembling. "'s sweet baby," he hums against you, "gonna be a good girl and come for me, yeah?"
you moan out your yes as he draws circles around your clit with his muscle, heat building in your core. you glance up at the mirror in front of you, only the white strands of gojo's hair visible as his head is buried in between your thighs, the sloppy sounds of your cunt growing louder as he laps at you.
and there's you, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, body flushed as he eats you like he's been starved. your legs hooked over his shoulders look so small like this, the brawny expanse of his back tensing as he holds your thighs apart, nestling further into your cunt, his nose grazing against your clit occasionally.
you cross your ankles over each other, digging them into his spine as the pleasure builds, mouth latched to your cunt like his life depended on it. his tongue swirls around your clit again, your orgasm on the very precipice of forming, and you don't even have the time to warn him when he sucks on the bundle of nerves.
your body tenses and trembles as your orgasm crashes through you, breath caught in your throat as you cry out. "don't stop!" and your head is thrown back, your hands refusing to let him part from your pussy as his tongue continues to work at your wet muscles.
the way he moans against your cunt is even more addictive, overstimulated as he slows his movements—let's your breaths settle, placing soft kisses on the plush insides of your thighs. when he pulls away, still on his knees, and looks at you he's grinning from ear to ear.
his fingers brush against your folds, pulling them apart and watching the strings of your slick connect with the harsher pads of his. you jolt from the feeling, whining. "'toru, don't tease..."
"you're just so cute like this, sweets." and his fingers don't move from your cunt even when he reaches up to kiss you, the taste of you still on his tongue. he pushes a finger into you, curling at just the right angle, your moans muffled by his kisses.
another finger joins the first, pressing into your g-spot, preparing you for him. you're groaning as his fingers work you up again, but he's pulling them away—your head tilting to the side, pout on your lips at the loss of his touch.
"come here," he says, tugging his boxers down, discarded on the floor somewhere. you obey, standing on shaky legs as he positions you in front of the mirror. "so fuckin' pretty." a hand plays with your nipple, both watching in the reflection as he toys with you.
his frame looms over as he's stood behind you, kissing along the back of your neck, to your shoulders, whispers pressed into your soft skin. gojo wraps his hands around your hips, forcing your back to arch in response. "can i fuck my sweet girl now, hm?"
"mhm, yes," you nod, desperate for the feeling of him, "please, 'toru."
he presses his tip into your fluttering hole, cursing at how you clench around him, almost enough to draw an orgasm out of him. the stretch has never changed, even after being together for so long, it never got easier to take him, the initial burn deliciously painful.
his hands return to your hips, pushing them down to take the last of his length as you both groan. your head rolls onto his shoulder behind you, eyes shut as his hips press against your deepest spots.
"uh, uh," he tuts, and you feel the way a hand on your hip leaves, his heavy arm curling around the front of your shoulders, pressing ever so slightly around your neck. "look in the mirror, look at how i please you."
you return your gaze to the mirror, his eyes staring at yours as he pulls back and thrusts into you. they start off light, playful, letting your sweet pussy adjust to the heaviness of him.
your boyfriend kisses the side of your hair, pushing himself in deeper with each thrust, his hips slapping against your ass. the bicep around your neck flexes, and the pressure against your neck has you whimpering, the pressure of another orgasm creeping up.
"my good girl's going to come again?" he purrs, looking right at you in the mirror as he grazes his teeth on the shell of your ear. "tell me how much you love me and i'll let you, baby."
his hips don't falter, don't give you any reprieve or chance to collect your thoughts as he fucks them out of you. your head lolls down only to be brought up again by his arm. "know you can do it," he encourages.
"i—fuck, 'toru," you try your best to give him pleading eyes, but he only continues, not daring to let his hand crawl over your front to touch you until the words are spilling from your lips. "i love you—ugh, please! i love you so much!"
he's smiling at you, hips slapping into you quickly and his hand at your hips drifts to your clit. "good girl, let go 'f me." his thumb circles against the bundle of nerves, cock pounding into you so well that your vision is growing black.
coming for a second time, your legs barely hold you up as he fucks you through it, grunting in your ear and whispering how "you feel 's good baby. gonna come in this pretty pussy, yeah—know you like that."
the pleasure is overwhelming, static spreading to every crevice of your body as his arm keeps your eye line direct. he makes you watch the way you come undone, and the way his eyebrows furrow together, your bodies pressed so tightly against each other. thrusts sloppy, he's spilling into you, cursing at how you squeeze him.
you're both panting, tired, aching. gojo huffs against your skin, remaining buried in your tightness until he can catch his breath. his arm retreats from your neck, both of them now wrapped around your waist as he holds you steady. "you okay baby?"
his kisses are gentle along your skin as you hum, he pulls out, taking a moment to admire the way your cunt restricts at the loss of him, cum spilling down your thighs.
you turn around and he's immediately pulling you into his chest, praising you. his big hand strokes your hair, and you feel at peace like this, your cheek pressed against the hot, hard planes of his pecs.
there's content laced in his features when you look up, the glow of sweat illuminating him, blue eyes swimming with pride. he cleans you both up, as per, feeds you, has you gulp down a glass of water and is tucking himself into bed alongside you.
"do i really look that good?" he wonders, turning to look at where you're nestled in the comforter. but you're already snoozing, face lax as your breaths come slowly.
he laughs, settling down into the sheets with you, pulling you onto his large chest and placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head.
