Tags : NSFW, mdni, religious guilt, breaking vows, modern au, slow burn, corruption arc, blasphemous thoughts, smut, oral sex (m receiving), pwp, riding, creampie, consensual but morally fucked
Pairing : priest!choso x fem!reader
Synopsis : The confessional is quiet, he isn't.
Word count : 6.2k
Authors note : Had this hidden in my drafts for a while decided to finally finish it :)
Choso did not arrive at faith the way most people did.
The was no moment of divine clarity, no sudden warmth spreading through his chest as he fell to his knees. What drew him in was quieter than that, structured, deliberate. The promise that if he followed the rules closely enough, the chaos that once defined his life might finally still.
The church offered him order.
Routine.
A place where every hour had meaning, every word had weight, and every desire was meant to be surrendered.
He took his vows seriously.
Celibacy was not the sacrifice people imagined it to be, at least not at first. Choso had lived much of his life denying himself things he wanted. Hunger. Comfort. Attachment. This was simply another form of discipline, another way to prove that he could be obedient, controlled, untouched by the distractions that had once ruined him
He told himself that devotion was not supposed to feel good.
Only right.
Days passed in repetition: morning prayers, quiet sermons, confessions whispered through wooden screens. He listened more than he spoke. People came to him burdened with guilt, with regret, with sins they could barely bring themselves to name. Choso never judged them. Judgement was not his role.
Forgiveness was.
He learned to keep his voice steady, his expression calm, his thoughts pure, even when confessions lingered longer than they should. Even when certain words stayed with him after the doors closed.
Especially then.
By the time evening settled over church, he would sit alone in the pews, hands folded, eyes fixed on the altar. He prayed not for forgiveness, but for clarity. For the strength to continue believing that his path, his quiet, restrained life, was what he was meant for.
That peace would come eventually.
It always had.
Until one morning it didn't
The sermon was familiar, one he had given before, one he could recite without looking at his notes. His voice carried easily through the church, steady and unmeasured, each word chosen with care. He spoke of devotion. Of surrender. Of trusting something greater than oneself even when faith felt thin.
The congregation listened as they always did.
And then–
something changed.
There was a presence where there hadn't been one before.
All the way in the back pew.
Choso noticed it without meaning to, a subtle shift in the room that pulled at his attention like a misstep in a practiced rhythm. A single seat occupied where there was usually none. Still. Quiet. Separate from the rest.
You did not bow your head when others did.
You did not kneel when the congregation moved in unison.
You did not sing.
You only listened.
He told himself not to stare.
A priest was not meant to fixate on any one soul during sermon, not like this. Yet his gaze flickered back again, just for a moment, as if to confirm you were real. That you hadn't been a trick of tired eyes or wandering focus.
You were still there.
Hands folded in your lap. Posture relaxed, almost casual. Eyes forward, attentive but unreadable.
You didn't look lost.
You didn't look devout.
You looked.. present.
By the next sermon, you returned.
Same pew. Same distance. Same quiet observance.
And the one after that.
Choso began to notice the pattern before he realized what he was doing.
He looked for you before he began speaking.
A brief scan of the pews, subtle enough that no one would notice. When he found you seated in the back again, something in his chest eased, just slightly. When he didn't see you right away, he felt an unfamiliar tension coil low in his stomach.
It unsettled him.
You never approached him afterward.
Never lingered to speak with others. Never joined the line of parishioners who thanked him, who asked for guidance, who sought for reassurance. You slipped in quietly and left the same way, untouched by the rituals everyone else seemed so eager to perform.
And yet–
you came back.
Again and again.
Choso told himself it meant nothing.
People came to church for many reasons. Habit. Curiosity. Desperation. Some never stayed long to matter. Some hovered at the edges, uncertain and transient.
Still–
He wondered what you were listening for.
He tells himself it is none of his concern.
He notices your absence before he means to.
The pew in the back remains empty as the congregation settles, and for a fleeting, irrational moment, his eyes linger there longer than they should. He corrects himself almost immediately. Whatever expectation had formed is dismissed just as quickly.
People come and go.
Faith is not attendance.
Still, as he begins the sermon, something feels.. off. His words are steady, practiced, but his focus falters once, just once, as his gaze drifts again toward the back.
Empty.
Choso exhales through his nose and continues. He has a duty. He has a message to deliver. Whatever unease stirs in his chest nothing more than a distraction, human, fleeting, meaningless.
You return the following week.
He doesn't let himself react.
The sermon ends as it always does. Parishioners rise, murmured conversations filling the chapel as people file out in small clusters. Choso offers soft smiles, nods, brief blessings. Familiar motions, all of them. When the last few footsteps fade, he turns toward the altar, preparing to genuflect.
"Father?"
He stops instantly.
The voice soft, but firm enough to carry.
He pauses, breath caught just before ritual can complete itself, and turns back around. The practiced smile comes easily, trained into place by years of habit.
And then–
It's you.
Standing there. Close. No longer a distant figure framed by wooden pews and quiet distance, but real and present and undeniably before him.
For a brief moment, he forgets what he was about to say.
You're not dressed immodestly, not in any obvious sense, but it's different from the others. The line of your neck is visible, unhidden, skin catching the low chapel light in a way that draws his eye before he can stop himself.
He does stop himself.
Immediately.
A priest does not linger on such things.
"Yes?" he says instead, voice warm, open. "How may I help you?"
Up close, he notices things he hadn't before. The way you stand, relaxed, but not careless. Your expression unreadable, eyes steady on his face. You don't look nervous. If anything, you seem composed, deliberate.
As if you've already decided to be here.
It unsettles him more than nerves ever could.
He reminds himself, again, that he is here to guide, not to wonder. To listen, not to imagine. Whatever curiosity stirs beneath his ribs must remain exactly that.
Curiosity.
The following Sunday, you are there again.
Not in the back this time.
He notices it before he means to, the subtle shift in where his gaze lands as the congregation gathers. You sit several rows closer to the altar now, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely in your lap. Still observant. Still detached. Still refusing the rituals everyone else performs without thought.
He remembers, unbidden, what you told him the week before.
That you are not a beliver.
That you are curious.
He had nodded then, offered gentle reassurance, spoken of faith as something that can be approached slowly, without pressure, without expectation. He had meant every word. Still does.
And yet, standing at the pulpit now, he feels something loosen where it should remain tight.
His sermons begin to stretch. Not in length, but in thought. He lingers on passages about searching. About doubt. About those who stand at the threshold rather than crossing it. He tells himself it is coincidence, that such themes are universal, applicable to many.
His eyes find you anyway.
Week after week, you move closer.
Never dramatically. Never enough to draw attention. Just enough that he can no longer pretend you are a distant presence. He starts to recognize the way you listen, not with reverence, but with intent. The way your expression sharpens when something resonates, the way it smooths over when it doesn't.
After services, you begin to stay.
At first, it is brief. A question about a phrase he used. A comment about a story you hadn't heard before. He answers easily, comfortably, always in the open space of the chapel, always with others nearby.
Then one Sunday, the doors close behind the last parishioner.
Silence settles, deep and echoing.
You are still there.
He shouldn't look forward to this.
The realization comes abruptly, unwelcome in its clarity. He should not mark time by Sundays in this way. Should not feel that small, traitorous lift in his chest when he sees you waiting. Its wrong, quietly, insistently wrong, and yet it does not stop.
You speak more now. Not about faith, exactly. About the church itself. About its history. About what draws people to places like this even when belief eludes them.
He listens. Truly listens.
And somewhere between answering your questions and walking you toward the doors, between the measured cadence of his voice and the way your attention never wavers, he begins to want, just a little, to know what you will ask next.
It is a dangerous thing.
He tells himself it is still only curiosity.
But it no longer feels like nothing.
When you being taking the Eucharist, it changes something.
He tells himself it shouldn't
He stood there countless times before, hands steady, voice practiced, offering the sacrament with reverence that has never wavered. This is ritual. This is sacred. This is not personal.
And yet–
You step forward, hands folded, eyes lowered as you approach him. Close enough now he can see the faint rise and fall of your breath. Close enough that he becomes acutely aware of the space between you.
"The body of Christ," he says, voice even.
You gaze lifts.
Just for a moment.
It's nothing.
It should be nothing.
And yet he knows he should not be looking at you this way, not at the careful parting of your lips as he places the Eucharist upon your tongue, how part of him wishes it was his body you were taking instead.
He bites the inside of his cheek.
What has come over him?
It has been a long time since anything like this has stirred within him. Too long. Long enough that the feeling unsettles him more that it tempts.
His heart should not be racing like this. His palms should not be warm every time he stares at your plump lips wondering if he could taste the church wine off of them if he just leaned in.
Later, alone, the weight of it presses down on him.
He kneels longer than usual that night. Fingers slip over the rosary again and again, prayers murmured until they blur together. He prays for steadiness. For discipline. For the quieting of thoughts that should never have surfaced at all.
It does not fully leave him.
If anything it sharpens.
You follow him into his thoughts in fragments, the sound of your voice after mass, the way you linger when others drift away, the quiet certainty with which you ask questions meant for someone who listens. He finds himself distracted during sermons, words practiced and memorized slipping from his mouth while his attention strays to the pews, searching without permission.
For you.
He hates that he notices when you stay behind.
He hates that relief settles in his chest when you do.
"Father?"
The chapel is mostly empty now, late sunlight stretching long and thin across the stone floor. He turns, already arranging his expression into something gentle and composed, the face of a man meant to guide.
"Yes?"
You hesitate, hands clasped loosely in front of you. Not nervous. Thoughtful.
"I wanted to ask you something," you say. "If that's okay."
"It is," he answers easily. Too easily.
You glance toward the altar, then back at him. "I've been.. struggling. With my thoughts."
His spine stiffens before he can stop it.
"Struggling how?"
You exhale through your nose, almost embarrassed "I can't seem to keep my mind clear. It's like.. it keeps pulling me somewhere I don't want it to go."
He swallows.
"You feel distracted," he offers, carefully.
"Yes." A pause. Then, quieter: "Lust, mostly."
For the briefest moment, his composure fractures.
A flinch, microscopic, but real.
He recovers quickly, folding his hands together, grounding himself in the familiar weight of his collar, the certainty of routine.
"You're not failing," he says, voice steady. "Intrusive thoughts aren't sin. Acting without care is."
You look unconvinced. "It doesn't feel that simple."
"It rarely does." He studies you, then asks, "Have you prayed on it?"
You shake your head. "Not really. I wouldn't even know how."
The answers settles between you.
He should end the conversation there.
Instead, he says, "If you'd like.. you could pray on it tonight. Or–" he hesitates, then continues, "--we could speak more privately. Confession is always an option. Later, if that's easier."
Your gaze lingers on him, unreadable.
"I'll think about it," you say at last. "Thank you, Father."
You leave him alone with the echo of your footsteps and the weight of his own words.
That night, he cannot sleep.
The rosary passes through his fingers again and again, prayers murmured until they lose shape, until repetition dulls their edges but not their meaning. You voice intrudes between Hail Mary, each plea for mercy.
Has he strayed from the righteous path?
The question is quiet. Persistent.
He presses his forehead to the cool wood of his bedside, breath uneven, ashamed of the way his thoughts circle back to you no matter how many times he pushes them away.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow he will be steadier.
Still, he wonders if you will come to confession.
And that thought alone feels like a failing.
By the time he settles into the confessional, he has already heard dozen of voices. The familiar rhythm returns easily, murmured admissions, rehearsed guilt, the quiet relief that follows absolution. He listens, nods when required, offers counsel where he can. Some confessions stretch long, circling the same regret until even patience thins.
He does not let it show.
But his attention drifts more than it should.
Each time the small door creaks open, he finds himself listening for a voice that does not come.
Eventually, he glances at his watch. It is late. Too late. The church should be locked soon, candles extinguished, silence restored. He exhales softly, preparing to rise–
The door opens.
He does not see you. The screen between you remains dark, obscuring the shape and form
Then–
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
His breath catches.
It is unmistakably your voice.
"This is my first confession."
For a moment, he forgets to respond.
"You may begin," he says at last, voice steady despite the sudden tightness in his chest.
At first, your words are careful. Ordinary. Small transgressions spoken hesitantly, as though you are testing the weight of them aloud. Missed prayers. Harsh thoughts. Doubt. He listens more intently than he ever has before, each syllable threading itself too easily into his awareness.
Why does his body feel like this?
God, he is pathetic.
"I have been.. lusting after someone."
He spine straightens.
He remains silent, allowing space, as he has been trained to do.
"For too long now," you continue, "I've come here seeking something like salvation. But instead, the urge grows stronger."
He should not ask.
He does anyway.
"Are you in any relation to this person?"
A pause.
"In a way," you say. "Yes."
His fingers curl against the wood.
"I doubt I could ever be seen by him like that."
He swallows.
"What makes you say that?"
Another pause, longer this time.
"He has a commitment elsewhere."
The fabric of his cassock feels suddenly too tight. He shifts in his seat, the movement restrained, controlled.
"Do you believe," he asks carefully, "that he would ever stray from that path?"
Silence stretches between you.
Not the uncomfortable kind. Not the kind filled with nerves or second-guessing.
It's deliberate. Weighted.
And in that quiet, he realizes, too late, that this is no longer a confession unfolding under his guidance.
He is standing on the edge of something he was never meant to approach.
"I believe," you begin at last.
Your voice is steady. Measured.
Not ashamed.
"I believe he is conflicted."
His fingers tighten around the rosary before he's aware he's moved. The wooden beads pressed into his palm, grounding and accusatory all at once.
"Conflict," he says, carefully, "is not sin."
A pause.
"No," you agree softly. "But restraint can feel like one."
His breath catches, barely. Just enough that he notices it.
Are you leading this confession, or is he?
He should redirect. He should bring you back to doctrine, to distance, to clarity. He should remind you that desire is human, that discipline is learned, that temptation passes.
Instead, he hears himself say–
"Then perhaps he is choosing righteousness."
The word tastes thin on his tongue.
You exhale. A quiet sound. Almost a laugh.
"Or perhaps," you reply, "he's afraid of naming what he already wants."
The rosary still.
His grip goes white-knuckled.
This damn-
No.
The thought cuts itself off the moment it forms, chased down by guilt sharp enough to sting. He bows his head, just slightly, as if posture alone might restore order to his mind.
He is a priest.
He is here to guide, not to wonder.
To listen, not to imagine.
"Desire," he says, low and deliberate, "does not absolve action."
"No," you murmur. "But it does explain it."
Another pause.
Closer now. He can tell without seeing you. The sound of fabric shifting, the subtle change in the air between the partition.
He swallows.
"And if," he asks, too quietly now, "the path he walks forbids what he feels?"
You hesitate.
Just long enough to make his chest ache.
"Then I think, he's already straying."
The words settle heavy and unmovable between you.
He knows he should end this. Offer penance. Close the booth. Step away.
Instead, his thoughts betray him, spiraling inward.
The confessional feels smaller all at once. The air thickens, pressing against his lungs until each breath comes slower, more deliberate. The collar at his throat, once a comfort, a reminder of devotion, now feels too tight, an unyielding ring he cannot loosen.
He shifts in his seat.
A mistake.
Heat pools low in between his legs, unmistakable and humiliating, his cassock suddenly feels too close, too revealing of what should never be stirred. He stills immediately, heart pounding hard enough that he's certain you must hear it through the thing wooden divide.
This is wrong.
He knows it with terrifying clarity.
"Father?"
Your voice reaches him again, softer this time. Concerned.
It sounds distant. As though it's traveling through water.
He tries to answer. He truly does. To speak, to ground himself, to pull the weight of doctrine back over his thoughts like a shroud.
Nothing comes.
The silence stretches, heavy, dangerous.
Lust.
The deadliest of sins.
Not because of the body, but because of the way it devours the mind.
He bows his head, fingers digging into his knees as he fights for control, for restraint, for anything that might pull him back from the edge.
Then–
A soft sound.
The door on your side of the confessional closes.
His breath stutters.
Footsteps follow. Unhurried. Certain. Each one louder than the last, approaching his side of the booth.
No.
This should not be happening. He had offered distance. Prayer. Guidance. He had done everything right.
And yet.
Sin, he knows, has never needed permission.
The handle turns.
The door opens.
There you are.
Standing in the narrow doorway, framed by shadow and candlelight, watching him as though you've been here before, watching him unravel.
He's painfully aware of how he must look to you. Seated stiffly, breathing heavier than he should be, hands clenched in his lap as though restraint alone might keep him whole. His eyes lift to meet yours, and he hates the way they linger. Hates that he doesn't look away.
You take a step closer.
Lifting your hand.
He recoils before you can touch him.
"No," he says, sharply, too fast. "Do not–"
His voice falters.
You don't withdraw entirely. Instead, your fingers rise again, slower this time, until they rest at the side of his jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just enough to guide.
"Look at me," you say quietly.
His vows surge to the front of his mind like litany.
I chose this. I promised. I am meant to be stronger than this.
And yet, his chin lifts beneath your touch.
His eyes meet yours.
Something in him loosens. Just a fraction. Enough to terrify him.
He does not pull away when you step closer. Does not stop you when you settle in his lap, even if his hips jerked when you rubbed up against his clothed erection.
His hands remain useless at his sides, fingers curling into fabric, refusing to touch you even as his body betrays him. His breathing stutters. His collar feels unbearably tight.
"This is wrong," he murmurs, though the words lack conviction.
You lean closer, your voice warm against his ear.
"Then let it be wrong," you whisper. "Just this once."
His eyes close.
He has sworn never to stray. Never to waver. Never to want more than what had been given to him.
But here you are.
And here he is.
His head bows, forehead brushing your shoulder as the final thread of restraint snaps, not violently, but quietly, like a prayer whispered too late.
May God forgive me.
And this time, he does not pull away.
Your fingers curl around his neck, brushing skin that has known only discipline, only restraint. He flinches, not away, but inward, as if his body betrays him beneath your touch, frantic and exposed.
When your lips meet his, it is not gentle.
It is reverent.
A collision of hesitation and want, of vows fraying at the edges. The kiss stills the air from his lungs, draws a sound from him he does not recognize, something broken, something human. He melts despite himself, the warmth of you seeping into places prayer never reached.
This mouth, he thinks dimly, this mouth once spoke scripture. Once offered absolution.
Now it is lost.
His hands betray him at last, settling at your hips as if they have always belonged there, as if they know exactly what to do. He pulls you closer, desperate, as though distance itself might damn him. The thought of you has haunted him in silence, during mass, during prayer, during nights spent on his knees, and now you are here, real and devasting.
Your hips begin to move, slow and deliberate, rolling against the swell of his cock. His body reacts instantly, a broken sound tears from his chest, swallowed by the kiss as his hips snap upward. You feel it, the way he responds so helplessly, and you don't relent.
He denied himself for so long that now, faced with it, he does not know how to be anything but desperate.
You pull back just enough to see him, his face flushed, lips parted, breath coming uneven as the movements of your hips refuse to ease. His composure is gone, stripped away piece by piece. There is no authority left in his eyes now, only need.
"Please," he breathes, the word barely holding together.
You smile, soft and knowing, fingers lifting to his collar, that symbol of discipline, of obedience, and begin to loosen it. The fabric yields easily beneath your touch.
"Tell me what you want."
He swallows hard, throat working around words he has denied for years. His hands tighten on your thighs, grip firm, anchoring himself as though he might drift apart otherwise.
"Please," he whispers again, voice breaking as he finally gives voice to it.
"Please touch me."
With that, you draw back from him.
The absence is immediate. His body leans forward instinctively, as though you are something vital and he cannot bear the thought of you slipping away. A quiet whine leaves his lips before he can stop it.
"Relax," you murmur, a gentle hush meant to steady him.
You lower yourself slowly in front of him, knees pressing to the floor. Your movements are unhurried, deliberate, reverent, even. Your hands glide over the fabric stretched beneath the cassock, patient, exploratory, as though learning him.
He watches you closely, breath uneven, clearly unsure where to place his hands, whether to keep them at his sides, clasped in restraint or reach for you.
When your hand finally lifts, brushing upward to his zipper, his breath catches. You pause just long enough for him to feel it, to understand what you're offering.
Then, almost unconsciously, he shifts, hips lifting slightly, as he helps you pull down his trousers along with his briefs.
He's larger than you expected, enough that it catches you off guard for a brief moment. You wonder how he managed to keep all of that hidden beneath layers of restraint for so long.
At the tip, flushed a soft shade of red, it glistens faintly with precum, sensitive beneath your touch.
Your hand wraps around his cock, grip gentle but intentional. The response is immediate, a sharp intake of breath, his shoulders tensing as your hands begin to move, slow and measured, testing his limits.
You glance up once.
His eyes are heavy-lidded now, lips parted as though he's forgotten what to do with them. The sensation has him unraveling, pulse quick and unmistakable beneath your touch, each reaction betraying how badly he's been holding himself together.
You lean down, kissing the head of his cock.
The sound it pulls from him is unguarded, a low drawn-out whine that he doesn't even try to suppress. His head tips back instinctively spine arching as if his body is surrendering before his mind can catch up, and you're fairly certain the back of his skull meets the wall of the confessional with a soft, careless thud.
You take more of him, slowly, deliberately, and the sound he makes this time is wrecked, a fractured whine that slips past clenched teeth, breath hitching as something raw tears loose from his chest. It's not just pleasure, it's surrender. The kind that terrifies him.
You want more of it.
So you don't rush. You take what you can, patiently, letting the rest be guided by your hand when it becomes too much to take all at once. His body responds immediately, hips shifting despite himself, chasing sensation he's denied for far too long.
He bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to hurt, a last, futile attempt at restraint. His mind is at war with itself, vows echoing uselessly in the back of his thoughts. But he's already crossed the threshold. Already broken what he swore to protect.
Why should he care now?
"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely more than a confession as you begin to bob your head.
Then, softer, more helpless.
"Oh.. fuck."
You lick a slow, deliberate stripe from his base to tip, letting your tongue linger, swirl, savor. The sound he makes in response is unrestrained, your name spilling from him in a way that feels almost obscene. He's never sounded like this before. Not when speaking of prayer. Not when speaking of salvation.
He's so vocal now.
It makes something greedy bloom in your chest.
You want more, more sound, more reaction, so you take more of him, enough that his tip brushes the back of your throat. His response immediate, fractured.
"Your mouth-" he gasps. "Your filthy fucking mouth."
The words hit you low and deep, sending a sharp ache to your core. On your next dip down, you push further, and his moans are nothing short of heavenly. Your thighs press together instinctively as your cunt throbs in answer.
His hand finally lifts from where his nails have been digging into the wood, heavy and decisive as it settles at the base of your skull. He pulls you closer, harder and you gag slightly, breathing catching, but you don't pull away.
You want to ruin him.
His hips are now thrusting up into your mouth, now fucking your throat, and he's lost, completely. There is no chapel. No vow. No God. There is only you. He presses you down further, bordering on overwhelming, but you welcome it.
"You're going to make me- fuck!"
You hum softly in response, reassurance more than mercy. His hips begin to thrust up harder, and you handle him, refusing to give in to your gag reflexes even as he repeatedly hits the back of your throat.
"You wicked woman," he mutters, jaw tight, fingers tangled in your hair as if anchoring himself to you. "Don't stop. Take everything!"
He groans deeply, breath turning ragged movements faltering as his vision blurs. He releases into you, and you do your best to swallow every drop, surprised by how much you enjoy the taste.
When you finally pull back, coughing softly as air rushes back into your lungs, his hand lingers at your skull. A bit of his seed escapes, resting at your bottom lip. You swipe it away with your finger and lick it clean without breaking eye contact.
When you look up at him through your lashes, he looks wrecked, body still trembling, aftershocks chasing through him. His cock twitches faintly, nowhere near spent.
You rise and settle into his lap once again, and his hands move immediately, gripping the hem of your shirt pulling it up as it slips over your head. You kiss him again, moaning and unrestrained, as you work open the buttons of his cassock, exposing his chest. Your fingers trail down from his neck, brushing over his nipples.
"Father--"
"I think we can abandon the formalities," he says roughly. "Choso is fine."
His hands slide down your spine, gathering the skirt you chose, the one you knew was too short for this chapel, peeling it away with little ceremony.
"Choso," you murmur as your hips begin to rock again, you soaked panties dragging against his still hardened cock. "How long have you been depriving yourself?"
He fumbles with the lace of your panties, fingers slipping beneath, touching bare skin before he tugs sharply– tearing the fabric. Your breath stutters.
"Longer," he admits quietly, voice stripped of reverence, stripped of guilt,
"than I ever should have."
The feeling of his bare cock sliding between your wet folds makes him shudder openly. His hands return to your hips, guiding you movements with practiced desperation as curses spill from his lips under his breath. The weight of his tip pressing against your clit draws a soft sound from you, head bowing as you pull him closer, lips finding the vulnerable curve of his neck.
You kiss, bite, suck, careless of marks, of bruises, of whether the congregation might see the evidence of his undoing later. His hands leave your hips only to reach behind you, fingers working deftly at the clasp of your bra. You help him without hesitation, fabric falling away as you breasts spill loose.
His touch is immediate, fingers brushing over your sensitive nipple, tugging just enough to pull a whine from your throat. You grind harder against his cock, the friction sharp and overwhelming. He's going to come like this if he doesn't stop you.
"You eager little thing," he mutters, head tipping back.
You don't get a chance to respond.
In one swift movement, he grips your hips, lifts you, and pulls you down onto his cock. Your body jolts a the sudden stretch, a gasp tearing from you as he moans out helplessly, teeth clenches at how tightly you grip him.
You barely give yourself time to adjust before you're moving first, hips snapping down against his as his hand dig painfully into your thighs, eyes locked on you like you're the only thing tethering him to reality. He leans in, mouth capturing yours, tongues tangling as he tastes himself on you and doesn't care.
You're a curse. A sin.
He knew it the moment he saw you sitting in the back pew. Knew that no prayer would ever bring him peace again. His vows, his celibacy, his desperate attempts of holiness, all of it undone by you. And still, he doesn't care.
You break the kiss, foreheads pressed together as you moan sinfully into his ear. He's forgotten where he is, forgotten the confessional entirely, there's only you, only your tight cunt threatening to consume him whole.
"You–mph–you're going to ruin me," he groans, hips jerking up involuntary as he drives deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your back arch. You nails bite into his shoulders as you moan his name without shame.
"Is this what you wanted?" he breathes against your ear.
"To tempt me until I break?"
Each thrust punctuates his words as you writhe helplessly in his lap.
"Yes!"
Your true confession, stripped of disguise, stripped of pretense. And still, he doesn't care. Not when you're milking his cock like this.
Heat coils low in on clit as friction builds, your body betraying you now. The roles reversed, you're the one pleading, whining, desperate.
Then he stops.
His stillness is immediate, panic flashing across his face as your climax slips away unfinished.
"Shh.."
Voices. Footsteps. Too close.
He pulls you tight against him, silent prayers spilling from his lips as he begs God for mercy, for the door to stay closed. Anyone could open it. Anyone could find you like this, pressed against him, impaled on his cock. Balls deep.
The danger sends a sharp thrill through you, excitement curling with shame. Slowly, deliberately, you begin to roll your hips against him again, coaxing a new kind of friction. He looks down at you in disbelief, eyes screaming, What are you doing?, but the way his cock twitches inside you tells you everything.
A deep, guttural sound escapes him as you move again, slow and sinful.
"Any luck?" a voice calls.
"No. He must've left early."
"He'll be back tomorrow evening for confession."
The footsteps fade.
You bury your face into his shoulder, stifling your cry as you chase you climax, moving fast, reckless. The release crashes over you, leaving you weak slumped against him, breathless, hazy, undone.
But it's not over.
His hands clamp down on your ass, holding you as he thrusts upward again and again, chasing his own release. You whine at the oversensitivity, biting your lip as you take it. His restraint gone now, curses spilling freely as he pounds into that spot inside you over and over.
His head bows, voice breaking.
"Forgive me-"
Another wave builds, stronger than the last, and when he releases deep inside you with a strangled groan, you follow, breathless, shaking, overwhelmed, full.
His thrusts slow as it ends, both of you spent, lightheaded, dwelling in the shared feeling of elation.
His hands finally loosen on your hips.
A long breath leaves him.
Forgive me lord
The confessional is too quiet now.
Not the heavy, suffocating silence from before, but something softer. Fragile. As if the room itself is holding its breath.
You're still close to him, close enough to feel the slow, uneven rise of his chest beneath your cheek. His hand remains at your waist, not restraining, not claiming, just there as though letting go might cause everything to unravel all at once.
"You're a sin," he murmurs at last, voice low, worn thin.
"A sin dressed as a prayer."
You shift slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face is still flushed, dark lashes casting shadows beneath eyes that refuse to meet yours for long.
"I thought confession was meant to end in absolution," you say quietly.
A breath leaves him, almost a laugh, but there's no humor in it.
"This isn't absolution."
"No," you agree. "It's honesty."
That finally draws his gaze back to you. Something tight flickers there, recognition, maybe. Or surrender.
His thumb lifts, hesitant, brushing beneath your jaw as though he's still unsure he's allowed to touch you at all.
"God will not forgive me," he says.
You don't argue. You don't comfort. You only lean in, close enough that your lips brush the corner of his mouth.
"I didn't come here for forgiveness," you whisper.
"I came to be seen."
His eyes close.
For a moment, just one, his forehead rests against yours, and you feel the weight of everything he's been denying press down between you.
"Then consider this," he murmurs, almost to himself,
"my failure."
The following Sunday, the chapel is full.
Choso stands at the pulpit, hands folded, posture perfect save for the scarf wrapped carefully around his neck. Dark. Deliberate. Impossible to miss if one knows where to look.
His sermon is measured. Gentle. A little different than before.
He speaks of restraint. Of temptation. Of the quiet ways devotion can fracture when it is built on denial instead of truth.
He does not mention sin by name.
And yet.
His eyes drift, once, twice, toward the pew nearest the altar.
You sit there now.
Closer than before.
Not kneeling. Not praying. Simply listening.
When your gaze meets his, he does not look away.
The scarf itches.
The chapel breathes.
And Choso knows, with clarity that no prayer can undo, that your confession never ended.
I don't care how long ago @ojiroweek was. I'm doing all the prompts and you can't stop me (and yeah, I missed his birthday by almost a week. I still feel terrible about it orz).
Pairing: Ojiro/Shinsou
Summary: There's not much need or desire for an elaborate birthday ruse orchestrated by his friend, but Ojiro can roll with it. If it makes Hagakure happy, then it makes Ojiro happy, too.
AO3 Link: HERE
"Okay, okay! Just take my hand and follow my lead. And don't you dare peek!"
Ojiro chuckles as soft fingers interlace with his, "Hagakure, you put two blindfolds on me. There's no way I can see out of these."
"Yeah, that's a precaution," Hagakure replies and tugs at Ojiro's arm, her steps impatient. "This is supposed to be a surprise. I don't want it spoiled!"
Ojiro laughs again but complies with Hagakure's demands, "You got it, ma'am. I'll even keep my eyes closed."
"Good!" Hagakure exclaims and continues to lead him down the hall. She stops when they presumably reach the elevator, and Ojiro can hear her bouncing up and down against the carpeted floor, her clothes shuffling. A soft, excited hum soon escapes her as the elevator climbs up the dorm complex, and Ojiro smiles at her unbounded enthusiasm. He suspects she might even trump his joy with this whole surprise birthday party. And he's the actual birthday boy.
His birthday landed on a Monday this year, so he spent most of the day in class and training. Not like it was a bad thing: Kaminari offered to buy him lunch and Hagakure made cookies for their whole table to share. They were his favorite, too: cinnamon chip snickerdoodles. And he'd spent the weekend with his parents back home. They had gifted him with a few new outfits and a bright red running watch that could monitor his heart rate and the intensity of his workout regimes. For Ojiro, his birthday was already great. There's not much need or desire for an elaborate birthday ruse orchestrated by his friend, but Ojiro can roll with it. If it makes Hagakure happy, then it makes Ojiro happy, too.
Besides, there's something about this whole escapade - walking into the elevator blindfolded, Hagakure's hand wound tight around his - that warms his shoulders and elicits a soft flurry of butterflies to swish through his stomach. He's reminded of a similar scenario last year with Iida. Their whole class had prepared a birthday celebration in honor of their class president. It had been at Uraraka's request, but almost everyone was on board, given how much work Iida put in as their dutiful representative. That had been special because Iida's special. It had brought their whole class together. Even Bakugou, with all his foul-mouthed charm, took part in the festivity.
Ojiro knows his class cares about him. They're his friends, his partners.
But this is beyond morning greetings and cordial conversation. This is special.
Ojiro feels special.
When the elevator opens, Ojiro can hear hushed whispers to his left and several pairs of feet move closer together. Hagakure pulls away from Ojiro and settles behind him, her fingers fiddling with the double knot on the back of his head. She giggles, her breath tickling the base of his neck, "Okay... you ready, Ojiro?"
He smiles and curls his fingers into eager fists, relishing the anticipation. This is special, this is exciting. This is something Ojiro thought unlikely for a boy like himself. He really must thank Hagakure the next time they're out shopping. Maybe buy her a gourmet lunch at one of those bunny cafes she adores.
"Definitely," Ojiro nods, waiting for Hagakure to untie the blindfolds. He keeps his eyes closed, keeping a hold of the jittery expectation floating across his skin. This kind of unified joy, focused solely on him - he has to savor it, bottle it up for future bouts of doubt or insecurity.
"All right..." Hagakure trails as she finishes unfastening the knot, her hands on either side of Ojiro's head. "Blindfold comes off in three... two... one!"
The blindfold's soft fabric lazily hits his shoulder, and Ojiro opens his eyes to the sight of his classmates popping confetti bombs beneath an assortment of white and yellow streamers. Their faces are bright, smiles wide and laughter hearty.
"Happy birthday!" they (mostly) shout in unison, crowding around the birthday boy as he approaches. It's a little warm and Ojiro's cheeks flush, but he doesn't mind. Midoriya and Iida pat him on the back and offer their congratulations while Kaminari and Ashido present him with trinkets to decorate his "absurdly plain" dorm room. Ojiro begrudgingly returns their well-meaning grins and thanks them for their gifts. Admittedly, the Hawks' figurine will be a nice addition to his tidy desk, and the squirrel plush can sit atop his bed near his pillows.
"We got you something, too," Jirou says to his right, gesturing towards Yaoyorozu. Their fellow classmate holds out a hardcover book, titled: The Indomitable Spirit of the Martial Arts Hero. "We thought you could read it for inspiration."
Yaoyorozu bows her head. "You're a wonderful classmate and friend, Ojiro. Please accept this gift as a token of our appreciation."
"No need to be so formal, Yaoyorozu," Ojiro chuckles and takes the gift from her hands, his fingers skimming over the glossy silver letters. "This is a really nice birthday gift and I'll be sure to read it. Thank you!"
"It was our pleasure," Yaoyorozu attempts to bow again, but Jirou swipes at her shoulder and frowns.
"He just told you not to be so formal!" Jirou chides, though her words lack any real bite. Must be a girlfriend thing.
"Oh, I apologi-"
"Momo!"
Ojiro laughs at the pair's antics, reminding him of the harmless scuffles in his own relationship. Though, that thought stirs another: did Shinsou help plan this party? He hasn't heard from him since last night, after Ojiro made it back to the dorms.
"Yo, birthday boy! Turn around and take a look at this cake," Kaminari's voice rings from across the kitchen. Ojiro tries to turn around, but two pink hands clasp onto his shoulders and prevent him from doing so.
"Wait, Ojiro! Close your eyes. It'll be better that way," Ashido chirps at his back, her fingernails strumming against his collarbone.
Her grip doesn't loosen until Ojiro complies and scratches at his temples, a little embarrassed. All this attention - it's overwhelming. He's not used to his classmates doting on him, catering to his happiness alone.
However, despite his abashment, his heart sings and laughter seems to spill endlessly passed his throat. He closes his eyes and hopes the cake was prepared by Satou, like Iida's. Then he'll feel on par with the rest of his classmates, like he's worth all this celebration. "All right, they're closed, Ashido. You can turn me around now."
Ashido wastes no time and twirls Ojiro around, unable to contain her frivolity, "Great! Now I'll count down like Hagakure. Get ready to open those big ol' eyes of yours in three... two... one... go!"
And when Ojiro snaps his eyes open, his mouth drops and his breath hitches, the image before him both unexpected and captivating.
Shinsou stands four feet in front of him, a large three-tier cake iced with a thick layer of maple frosting sitting above his hands. His smile is small and lopsided, and his eyes shimmer, the seventeen candles lit beneath him highlighting their soft violet hues. He's even dressed well - a pair of black slacks, accompanied by a navy blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Ojiro decides then: this evening has surpassed special. It's one of those nights your mind carves into your subconscious, to push you through when tears sting your eyes and your body aches with grief.
Before Ojiro can voice his delight, Shinsou cocks his head and his smile widens, devolving into an impish simper, "I know I look good, but please try to concentrate on the burning cake in my hands. Or else I might have to steal your little birthday wish."
"Ack, Shinsou, play nice!" Hagakure jumps to Ojiro's side, an invisible hand clutching his bicep. "Let Ojiro make a wish when he's ready."
"Yes, Ojiro should be provided ample time to come up with a wish worthy of his character and ambition," Iida says to his left, hovering close to Shinsou and pointing a finger to the ceiling. "Stealing a birthday wish from not only a friend but a romantic partner seems both thoughtless and obviously rude."
"Iida, I think it was just a joke," Uraraka tugs at her friend's sleeve, her smile nervous. "Right, Shinsou?"
"Yeah, calm down, you dolts," Shinsou shrugs, keeping his gaze locked onto Ojiro. "See what I have to put with? You're lucky Satou's a decent guy, or this cake would have been a pile of mush."
It's then that Ojiro notices Satou a few feet behind Shinsou, his large hands fixed onto his hips. He shakes his head and beams at the cake, wax dripping past the candles' stems and coating the frosting's top. "Don't sell yourself short, Shinsou! I hardly touched the thing. You should have seen him, Ojiro - looked like a total pro in the kitchen."
Warm adoration blossoms over Ojiro's chest, and his fingers tingle, aching to cup Shinsou's chin and kiss his exhausted eyes. He opts to take a cautious step forward instead, inspecting the cake Shinsou made from scratch. "You... made this? For my birthday?"
Shinsou looks away, his grip on the porcelain plate tightening. "Satou's being modest. I just followed his instructions."
"But you made it, right?" Ojiro presses onward, feeling the weight of his classmates' stares. They've seen little of their fledgling relationship, most likely curious about their daily interactions and affectionate gestures. "This... it was all your idea, wasn't it? With Hagakure?"
"Can you please ask questions later and blow out these damn candles?" Shinsou retorts, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "This cake's gonna turn into nothing but hot wax soon."
Ojiro chuckles, closing in until his hand brushes against the other boy's forearm. He forgets Shinsou can be... cute. It's still odd to think about, given where their relationship started. "Okay, okay. I'll make a wish, but... thank you. This means a lot."
Shinsou neglects to smile as Ojiro's classmates gather around, encouraging him to make a fun, exciting wish. Ojiro shuts his eyes and reflects for a moment, trying to come up with something. But with his friends around him, with Shinsou glancing down at the cake, processing Ojiro's gratitude and gentle touch...
There's not much else to wish for.
Still, Ojiro blows out the candles and his friends clap and cheer, setting off another round of confetti bombs. He makes a wish and approximately ninety-seconds later, it comes true.
He bites into the snickerdoodle cake, rolling the cinnamon chips and maple frosting across his tongue. While everyone else squabbles over the largest piece, Ojiro briefly kisses Shinsou's jawline, his words faint and giddy against his neck, "This tastes amazing."
Shinsou turns his head and stares at Ojiro before whispering back, his voice soft and earnest, "You deserve it, Mashirao. Happy birthday."
And once Ojiro's heart flutters, once Shinsou kisses his temple and Ashido spots them, shrieking in response - he knows. This evening has indeed moved beyond special.
Official Post from Bliss Morgan: [fiction][short story][public]Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was twelve years old, and yearned for adventure, as girls are wont to do. One fine afternoon when it was neither too hot nor too cold, and the sun was shining, there was nothing much to do at home except to do her chores. Therefor
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tags: frat!gojo x fem!reader, college au, on-and-off situationship, toxic exes, emotional damage, slow burn, angst, mutual pining, EVENTUAL SMUT, mndi, signs of depression, gaslighting, alcohol use, party culture, miscommunication, suggestive themes, eventual smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), creampie, pet names (baby), slight choking, fingering, overstim, HEAVY PWP, a lot of plot (sorry)
synopsis: you swore you were done with him, but five months later, gojo texts you at the end of september claiming he’s changed—and like a fool, you believe him. he was your first love, maybe your only one. now it’s winter, your dorm feels colder than ever, and his memory clings to you like a bruise. you and gojo were never meant to last—he was loud parties and broken promises, you were soft edges and quiet hopes. when it ended, it wasn’t dramatic, just a slow, aching silence where he stopped showing up. still, you check his page sometimes. maybe he checks yours too. you never expected to see him again—not at another party, not looking at you like he still remembers, and not asking for one more chance like it still belongs to him.
word count: 13.6k
authors note: first fic in 6 years... and it's finally out! i hope this is up to everyones expectations :,D
monday mornings had their own rhythm. you liked them quiet, still air, soft clothes, the comfort of a routine that made you feel just a little more in control. you took your coffee black now, not because you liked it that way, but because sweetness reminded you too much of him. you sat in the back of your lecture hall, half-listening to the professor drone on about things that didn't matter while your mind drifted to things that did.
everyone says you're doing better. and in alot of ways, you were. your grades are solid. you wake up on time, most of the time. you've started doing your skincare routine again. you show up, laugh when you need to, and you've learned to exist without waiting for his name to light up on your phone. you're doing the damn thing. but sometimes when the day slows down and you're alone in your dorm—when the noise stops—there's a heaviness that settles in your chest. quiet, familiar.
you never used to believe in first love. you thought the idea was romantic nonsense. but then he showed up with that crooked smile and chaotic charm, and ruined that certainty. you didn't mean to fall for him. but there was something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only real thing in the world, that made it impossible not to.
he wasn't perfect. far from it. there were nights he didn't call, parties he didn't leave early for, promises he made with all the right words but none of the follow-through. he hurt you. over and over. and still, when he texted you after five months of silence last september, you answered. you shouldn't have but you did.
you gave him another chance, even though something deep down told you not to. he swore he changed. told you this time would be different. that he was ready. and maybe he meant it, part of him did, but it didn't stop him from vanishing again. from proving that nothing had really changed. you still remember the date. november 14th. the last time you heard from him.
and now? now you exist in the after. you tell yourself you've moved on, and maybe you have. but there are nights you still check his. page, still scroll through old texts, still wonder what it might've been if he'd just shown up like he promised. you wanted to hate him. god, you should. but you dont. because he was your first love. and no matter how much he messed it up, some pieces of him still live inside you.
what he doesn't know, what he never let himself say out loud, is that he loved you. he really did. but he was scared. of what? you never got the answer. maybe of being known. maybe finally having something real. or maybe... of you.
the thought slips down your spine like cold water, dragging you out of the haze you didn't even realize you'd sunk into.
buzz buzz
you glance down at your phone.
'you good?'
another message follows immediately.
'you should come with me and yuji to get food after. my treat. you look like you're going to pass out mid-lecture lol'
its nobara, obviously. no one else texts with that mix of blunt concern and thinly veiled affection.
you stare at the screen. the words don't sink in right away. you feel too heavy for language. too stuck inside your own silence.
you really don't want to go out. the idea of sitting across from someone and trying to form coherent words feels exhausting. but then again, maybe that's exactly what you need, someone loud enough to shake you back into the present.
you type out simple:
'sure. where?'
you don't even have to look to know she smirked at that. probably leaned back in her chair like she just made something happen.
The lecture continues around you—cognitive development, memory, retention—but your mind is elsewhere. november 14th still circled in your planner. still untouched. still loud.
you're fine.
you're so fine.
you have friends.
you're doing well in school.
you're healing.
but it shouldn't ache this much.
the ache sticks to your ribs even as the world shifts around you. now, its a greasy booth. a sticky table. fryer oil, sugar and artificial vanilla clinging to the air.
you blink, realizing you missed the first half of whatever nobara just said.
she's mid-sentence, waving her fry like she's underlining a sentence.
"anyway," she says, dropping it onto her tray. "thats enough about me." her voice softens as she reaches for her drink, but she doesn't look at you right away.
"how've you been holding up since the whole.. you know."
her eyes flick up. the question doesn't need to be finished. you both know what she means.
you dont answer right away.
because for a second, you're not in the booth.
you're back there.
that goddamn night.
the memory hits before you can stop it.
the shouting. his voice rising, yours right behind.
“you always do this!”
“oh, so now it’s my fault you can’t show up when it matters?”
it spiraled.
words neither of you meant were thrown like knives.
he slammed the door behind him. or maybe you slammed it after kicking him out — you can’t remember anymore. just the silence that came after.
the memory knots itself in your thought.
"hey." nobara's voice cuts through the noise of clattering trays and a group of frat boys laughing two booth over. "you okay?"
you blink, the scene recalibrates—grease-stained wrappers, crumpled napkins, the salt-sharp scent of fries lingering in the air.
"yeah," you say quickly. "yeah, i'm fine."
she doesn't believe you. you can see it in the way her brow tightens slightly, but she doesn't press.
"just been.. busy," you add. "classes. work. you know."
"mm," she hums into her straw. "you're doing that thing where you're one inconvenience away from spiraling."
you snort, which helps. "that obvious?"
"painfully." she pops another fry into her mouth. "but also relatable."
you try to smile, try to lean into normalcy. it helps. a little.
outside the window, the sky is soft and gray, the kind of muted backdrop that makes fluorescent lights feel too harsh. inside, the world moves on—music from the speaker above the soda machine, yuji complaining about someone stealing his fries, nobara picking the sesame seeds of her bun like they've personally wronged her.
and you?
you sit there, heart still hollow, forcing yourself to be present.
because heartbreak doesn't mean the world stops turning.
it just means you have to pretend it doesn't hurt as much as it does.
the crinkle of a burger wrapper cuts through the quiet of your thoughts. yuji leans forward, lips shining from his bite, eyes lit with that familiar chaotic energy.
"oh! did you guys hear?" he says with too much enthusiasm for someone who just inhaled an entire double cheeseburger. "there's a. party saturday—sukuna, geto and gojo are throwing it."
you don't react right away.
but your heart does.
it thuds—just once, sharp and low—and your jaw tightens so slightly it might go unnoticed. might.
nobara looks up from her fries. "the hell for?"
yuji shrugs. "i dunno, some fundraiser-slash-rage hybrid. knowing those three? probably just an excuse to get blackout drunk and make it tax deductible."
nobara raises an eyebrow. "you mean like last time, when we had to carry your ass out because you tried to fight a house plant?"
"it looked aggressive!" yuji defends.
"you tried to arm wrestle it."
"..okay but i won."
their bickering barely registers. you're still stuck on the name, gojo, still trying to unhear it.
yuji turns towards you mid-sip of his milkshake. "you gonna go?"
you blink
"what?"
"the party. you coming?"
your stomach tightens.
"oh, no," you say, a little too fast. "i think i'll just stay in."
yuji frowns. "c'mon, it might be fun. you need to get out more."
"im fine, really."
"you're always saying that."
you inhale quietly, willing yourself not to snap. but his persistence scratches at something raw.
"i said i'm not going."
yujis smile drops. "shit. sorry."
the silence is sudden and heavy, like someone turned down the music of the world.
you soften. "shit—i'm sorry. that wasn't fair. i'm just.. tired"
"yeah," nobara says softly, "we know."
the conversation shifts. it always does. you all return to safe topics—classes, professors, which cafeteria food might kill you. but the part lingers in the back of your mind like a storm cloud.
the evening slips by in a blur of static and small talk. you go through the motions—thank them for the ride and walk into your resident hall, unlocking your room door, dropping your keys in the bowl by instinct.
you're not sure how long you've been lying there.
but your dorm feels colder than usual.
not freezing. just.. quiet. like the walls are listening. like the air is waiting for something that isn't coming back.
you're curled up on your bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, phone glowing dimly in the dark. you know you should sleep. you have an early class. a quiz, maybe. or a lab. who knows. who cares.
but your thumb hovers.
instagram. burner account. you know the routine by heart.
you swipe to the side, open the page, and there he is.
gojo satoru.
your thumb twitches, almost like muscle memory. you dont even have to think about it anymore. tap, hold, view story.
there's no adrenaline. no butterflies. just that dull, awful pull in your chest like someone tied a string to your ribcage and keeps yanking it, slow and cruel.
the first slide: a repost. him and geto at the gym. he's not even facing the camera fully, but you'd know the back of his head anywhere.
the second: his own post. some trendy bar downtown. a drink in his hand, rings glinting. that smug, too-perfect smile. the one you used to kiss between laughter and eye rolls. the one he'd flash at you after saying something that made you want to punch him in the chest and kiss him at the same time.
you stare for a second too long.
your chest tightens.
there's no tag. no caption
still. you know that look. that ease. that comfort.
he's doing fine. of course he is.
meanwhile you're—
"fucking rich asshole," you mutter under your breath, the words catching at the edges of your throat.
the screen dims. you turn your phone off and set it beside you with a quiet thud.
you sigh—not angry, not sad, just tired in a way that sinks bone-deep.
"god. grow up."
you shift onto your side, facing the wall. the quiet presses in.
no music. no city noise. just the faint buzz of your mini fridge and that goddamn ticking clock.
you're fine
you're so fine.
you've said it enough times to almost believe it.
but then:
if you're so fine, why are you checking his page from a burner account?
you shut your eyes. hard.
it wasn't—
it wasn't stalking. it was just curiosity. just checking.
just making sure he's okay.
thats what you told yourself. closure. right?
the silence doesn't let you lie.
you turn again, dragging the blanket up to your chin like it might shield you from your own thoughts.
you remember the voicemail.
the way he would say you're my girl like it meant forever.
the way it all fell apart.
god, i should hate him, you think.
i should
but you don't, and that's the worst part.
you stare at the ceiling like it might give you answers.
why does forgetting him feel like grieving someone who's still alive.
and why, no matter how many times you try,
does it feel like its never enough?
your alarm blares like it's pissed off at you specifically. you groan, dragging the blanket over your head like it might shield you from the world.
no such luck.
your phone buzzes from somewhere across the bed, like it's got something urgent to say.
you roll over with a half-hearted grunt, arm flailing until your fingers brush against cold glass.
8:05
you blink.
again.
damn
9am class.
your thumb hovers over snooze. you could skip. you really could.
you'd still pass. probably. maybe.
maybe no one would notice.
but then the thought comes—quiet and cruel: if you don't go today, you won't go tomorrow either. or the day after that. or the day after that.
you sigh.
push yourself upright
your body aches—not from anything specific, just the kind of heaviness that lives in tired people it's not sharp. just there.
the bathroom tiles are cold under your feet as you shuffle in, still swaddled in sleep. you turn on the shower, let the water heat while you splash cold water on your face. it stings, in the best way— reminds you you're still here.
still trying.
you reach for your phone again, this time to check the weather:
snow. of course.
you step out to open your closet. gray pants, a white long-sleeve tee, your thickest black puffer, and maybe a scarf, if you're feeling generous.
you lay everything out neatly on your bed—just like you used to before life got messy. its your routine. you way of saying i'm trying. even if it doesn't feel like enough most days.
back in the bathroom, the mirror fogs as you undress. you step into the water like it might wash something away— him, the ache, the burner account, that stupid smirk in last night's photo.
it doesn't. but you scrub anyway.
after, you towel off in silence, pull on your clothes, zip up your jacket, and sling your backpack over one shoulder. you stare at the door for a second. just a second.
then a deep breath. a promise to yourself.
you can do this. just get through today.
the world outside is still and white, snowflakes drifting from a pale sky. it's too quiet. like the morning is holding its breath.
your shoes crunch the path as you walk across campus, scarf pulled up to your chin. the wind bites, but you keep going. the walk to the psych isn't long.
but today, like most days lately, it felt like a thousand miles.
the lecture hall hums with the low buzz of laptops, shuffled paper, and half-whispered side conversations. you sit somewhere in the middle, surrounded by bodies but completely alone.
the professor's voice weaves through the room, explaining attachment theory or maybe something else, you've stopped really hearing it. the tone blends into background static, the kind you only snap out of when silence falls or someone calls your name. your pen hovers above your notebook, a few phrases of half-caught information scattered across the page, filling the gaps with lazy spirals and jagged hearts shaded in black ink.
you look up.
9:47.
you look again.
9:46?
you frown. did the clock just tick backwards?
a sigh slips out before you can stop it. it pulls something from your chest, like the heaviness you've been carrying is trying to escape in the little exhales.
you're tired
not in the "i need a nap" way, but in the kind of way that seeps into your bones, that follows you from sunrise to long after the lights are off and campus has gone still.
you're tired of pretending you're fine. tired of dragging yourself out of bed for lectures where none of the words feel like they matter. tired of smiling when someone walks by and says, "hey, you good?" like it's not the hardest question you've had to answer all week.
the professor's voice breaks through again, sharp and clear.
"—and that's why heartbreak is often considered a form of trauma. the brain reacts similarly to physical pain. loss triggers the amygdala, the fight-or-flight response. and no, it's not just in your head."
you glance up.
damn. right on the nose.
you didnt mean to say it out loud, but it slips through anyway—soft, sardonic, barely above a whisper.
it earns you a glance from the guy sitting next to you. you duck your head, lips tugging into that kind of smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
your phone vibrates once on your desk, the screen lighting up with a text from yuji.
'you alive???'
another buzz
'also this meme is you rn'
you tap the notification. it's a picture of a cat— small, gray, slumped against a windowsill like it's given up on life entirely. its eyes are half-lidded, barely awake.
you huff out a soft snort through your nose, thumb already typing.
'shut up. im here physically, at least'
yuji's not even on campus today — no classes on tuesdays. nobara, on the other hand, was supposed to meet you after this one for stats. just as you think of her, another text rolls in.
'cant make it to stats. stuck in lab. wish me luck before i throw this beaker at my partner'
your shoulders sink. that means you'll be on your own the rest of the day.
figures.
you drop your phone back into your bag and glance toward the board. but your eyes aren't really following the lesson. they drift to the empty chair in the far right corner of the hall. it's always empty, ever since he dropped the class. but sometimes, in your head, he's sitting there—legs spread too wide, hoodie half on, grinning like he knows you're looking.
you chose criminology as your major because you wanted to understand people —or at least, the things they do when they think no one's watching. there's something fascinating about how people unravel. how decisions build on top of each other until you can't tell where things went wrong. you used to think behavior could be mapped out. explained.
but gojo satoru proved otherwise.
if human beings were unpredictable, he was the thesis. the embodiment of chaos theory in one annoyingly pretty package.
you still remember telling your advisor during orientation: "i just want to understand why people do the things they do."
you didn't mean to be that honest, but it slipped out like most truths do — fast, quiet, irreversible.
and now here you are. sitting in a psych class that's supposed to help you understand attachment styles, but really all it's doing is reminding you that your favorite person is a stranger again.
the professor's voice trails off and the lights flicker slightly as students start packing up their bags.
you blink out of the haze, tugging your jacket tighter around your body. the room's gone colder — or maybe you just noticed it now.
the snow had slowed, softening into a lazy drizzle of flurries that melted the second they touched the salted sidewalks. the clouds hung low, tinted silver, casting everything in that dull winter glow that makes the day feel slower than it really is.
the air as still sharp, but bearable now—cold enough to sting your cheeks, not enough to stop you. you pulled your scarf tighter as you made you way toward your next class: statistics.
your shoes crunched faintly over the slush, breath curling in front of your face in soft, ghostlike wisps. you didn't mind walking in the cold anymore. in some strange way, it reminded you that you were still here. still moving.
your fingers stiffened from the wind, so you tucked them deeper into your jacket pocket. that's when you felt it—a buzz.
then another.
you fished your phone out without thinking. one thumb swipe across the screen:
new email: statistic midterm grade available.
you stopped walking.
right there, between the half-circled sidewalk and a bed of frost-covered rose bushes, your stomach twisted. you had completely forgotten that you took midterms last week.
you hadn't look at the test since after you turned it in. you couldn't.
you remembered the way the questions blurred together, how your eyes had stung from nights spent crying instead of studying. you remembered submitting it and walking back to your dorm, crawling under your blankets and not resurfacing until the next day.
a slow breath escaped your lips, visible in the cold. you tapped the email open.
wait. what?
you blink.
91%
you read it again. 91. still there.
for a moment, you just stand there, phone still in hand, the cold biting at your fingers. then slowly—so slowly it almost feels unfamiliar—you mouth lifts at the corners. a real smile. quiet. but yours.
you didn't fix everything.
it didn't erase the ache.
but it was something. a reminder
you were still here. still showing up. still moving. still you.
and maybe that was enough.
you remember sitting at your kitchen table years ago, watching true crime documentaries until the credits blurred together, fascinated by the psychology of it all. how someone could become a monster. how the system worked to stop them.
you remember reading case files late into the night, whispering facts under your breath like prayers.
you wanted to understand people, even when they were cruel. even when they broke the things they swore to protect.
especially then.
human beings were the most unpredictable, volatile force in the word.
satoru was living proof of that.
your smile faded—just a little at the thought—but you let yourself have this one. even if it was small. even if the light always seemed to flicker before it faded.
you adjusted your scarf again and kept walking. the path to the stats building curved left, tucked behind the line of evergreens just past the student union.
your fingers were starting to warm.
and then—
wham!
you rounded the corner and slammed into someone. hard.
the impact knocked the air from your lungs and jolted your steps back. before you could even register what— or who— you hit, a sudden searing warmth splashed across your chest.
"shit—"
a voice. low. familiar.
his phone hit the pavement with a heavy clack, followed by the paper cup that tumbled from his hand and landed, half-crushed between your shoes. hot cocoa, thick and steaming, pooled out over the sidewalk and soaked through the front of your white shirt—right under your half-zipped puffer. the burn didn't sizzle, but it stung the universe needed you awake for this moment.
and oh, you were awake now.
you didn't have to look up. not yet. your body already knew.
the voice.
the height.
the scent underneath the sugar and chocolate—warm cedar and some overpriced cologne.
your eyes traced the ruined hem of a sweater, gray and now drenched in cocoa. you didn't dare look higher. not yet. because the moment you did, it would be real.
but you did anyway.
and there he was.
satoru.
the name thundered through your head. loud. immediate. unforgiving.
he stood there, shoulders stiffened, mouth parted like he was halfway between a curse and an apology. his rounded sunglasses had slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, revealing the sharp, clear blue eyes of his underneath. eyes that used to look at you like you were his entire world.
now? they just looked surprised.
the white of his hair framed his face like you remembered. slightly messy, effortlessly perfect. a strand hung over his forehead and stuck to his temple, damp from the drink. his sweater clung to his frame, warm cocoa spreading across the fabric like a blooming bruise.
he was still beautiful. still magnetic. and still.. him
the silence stretched. your pulse roared in your ears.
he took a half-step forward. "I—"
his voice cracked. "I didn't see you."
then softer, like it was involuntary, he said your name.
not loud. not desperate. just quiet. like a prayer he didn't mean to say out loud.
your throat went dry. you were still frozen, chest damp, heart pounding, mind screaming.
you didn't speak
couldn't.
if you opened your mouth, you weren't sure what would come out.
so you zipped up your jacket, covering the stain—and him—with one swift motion.
and you walked. past him. away. fast.
no glances back. no deep breath. just movement.
back to your dorm.
back to silence.
you toss your backpack onto your bed and peel off the cocoa-stained shirt like it was poison, like it burned more now than it did on the sidewalk. your fingers trembled as you drop it into the hamper, the brown stain blooming across the fabric like rot.
you sit on the edge of your bed, eyes locked onto the floor.
satoru
you weren't ready, not for his voice, not for his eyes, and definitely not for the way he still looked at you like you were unfinished business.
your heart thumps violently against your ribcage, like it's trying to say all the things you didn't.
maybe today wasn't going to be so good after all.
the thought lingers longer than you want it to.
and then—
like water seeping through a crack you didn't know was there—
it starts.
the memory.
the last time you saw him before today.
it was late.
too late for visitors, and too late for apologies. but he was there.
a knock on your dorm door, light and almost playful.
you didn't expect it to be him—not after the week you'd had. not after the ignored texts, the missed calls, the night he promised to take you out and never showed. no excuse. not explanation. nothing.
but when you opened the door, there he stood. satoru.
his stupidly soft white hair falling into his eyes, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth soft white hair falling into his eyes, like none of it happened, like everything was fine.
"hey, baby," he said, grinning the way it used to make your heart ache the best way. "missed you."
you didn't say anything right away. just stepped aside and let him in. because what else were you supposed to do? he leaned in to kiss you, arms looping around your waist like he hadn't make you feel small all week. you kissed him back, barely mechanical. hollow.
he didn't notice.
or maybe he just didn't care.
you ended up on your bed. him lying halfway on top of you, one hand idly playing with the drawstring of your hoodie, the other scrolling endlessly on his phone.
it was like watching someone fall out of love in real time.
and maybe he had already.
"hey," you said after a few quiet minutes, brushing his bangs back just slightly. "wanna go grab food? like, actually like the room and eat something that isn't ramen or granola bars?"
he didn't look up at you, but smiled. "yeah, sure. you're lucky im starving."
you laughed lightly, slipping on your sneakers at the edge of the bed.
and then his phone lit up.
he paused mid-scroll
a message from suguru.
'yo party @ mine tonight. pull up'
satoru stared blankly at it for a beat. then sighed.
"actually.. i might not be able to go. suguru's throwing something. it's kinda important"
you froze. "seriously?"
he blinked. "what?"
"this," you gestured vaguely, a tension starting to build in your throat. "this is what im talking about, satoru."
he raised his brow. "you're really gonna start this again?"
you tried to swallow it down. you did. but it rose anyway.
"you said yes. you were right in front of me and you said yes. and now, because suguru's throwing a party, i get replaced. again."
"im not replacing you," he scoffed, sitting up fully up now. "its one night."
"its every night," your voice cracked. "every time i need you, you're gone. and every time you need something—fun, distraction, noise— im expected to understand."
"oh, come on," he rolled his eyes, laughing bitterly. "you never want to go out. all you do is hole up in this room. its depressing."
you flinched. "so now im depressing?"
"i didn't say that—"
"yes, you did." your arms were crossed, chest tight. "you make all these promises, and every single time, you break them. you keep saying you've changed, but then it's just the same shit over and over again."
he stood up now, anger flickering in his gaze. "maybe this was a mistake then."
there it was.
that sentence hung in the air, slicing through your ribs like glass.
you nodded slowly, trying to breathe around the sudden lump in your throat. "get out."
his eyes widened. "what? no, come on. baby, i didn't mean it like—"
"get out, satoru."
he took a step toward you. you stepped back.
"don't do this," he said quieter now.
"i said get out." your voice rose, shaking. "gojo, get the fuck out!"
you didn't even call him by his first name. that was the final blow. his jaw clenched. his hands balled into fists at his sides.
"fine" he muttered, pushing past you.
the door slammed behind him, shaking the frame.
you stared at it for a second. two.
and then you dropped.
right there on the floor, knees tucked to your chest, your breath coming out in broken sobs as your shirt absorbed the tears you didn't mean to cry.
that night burned into your memory like a brand.
and now, after all this time, he was back.
like nothing had changed. like he hadn't left pieces of you behind when he walked out.
you're sitting on the edge of your bed now—present day. same dorm. same room. same air. and yet everything feels completely different. or maybe too much of it still feels the same. maybe thats the problem.
the silence stretches around you, thick and pressing. the kind that seeps into your skin if you let it.
you eventually get up.
you go through the motions like muscle memory. the soft thud of your feet against the floor. the creek of the bathroom door. the hiss of water splashing against tile as you twist the knob and let it heat up. steam curls around the mirror, your reflection slowly blurring out of focus.
you step under the water and close your eyes.
you don't sob. not the ugly kind. not the loud, earth-shattering kind. just a slow, steady ache behind your eyes. a few tears slipping past your lashes and mixing with the water. hot against your cheeks, gone before you can even acknowledge them.
you wash your body like it's something you owe yourself. not tenderness, just obligation. you wrap your arms around yourself at one point, just to stay upright. just to make it through the rinse.
afterward, you towel off in silence. pull on the first oversized t-shirt you find. you don't bother with stats. you don't even check the time. you crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head like a child hiding from a nightmare—except this one followed you into the daylight.
you don't move for hours. maybe it's grief. maybe it's rage. maybe it's just.. him. all of it slamming back into your chest like the day you kicked him out.
everything you thought buried clawing its way back up.
why couldn't he have just stayed?
why couldn't he have just been better?
but thats the thing about people— you can't force change out of them. you can't love someone hard enough to make them different. no matter how badly you wanted to.
you dont go to class the next day. or the day after that. or the day after that.
by friday, the texts from nobara and yuji have started to pile up unread. calls you let ring until they go quiet. a few voicemails, maybe. you haven't listened.
your room is a mess again. not chaotic—just disarray. clothes draped over your chair. empty cups on your desk. your planner untouched on the floor.
you haven't even left to get food. just small snacks hoarded in drawers, half-eaten and stale. you've been surviving on whatever's close. watching old shows on your laptop without really paying attention. letting the noise fill the space where your thoughts used to be.
but you still miss him.
you hate it, but you do.
you miss the version of him that only existed in your head. the could've been. the what if.
and it hurts more now—somehow—than it did when you watched him walk out.
it's midday now.
you're still in bed. same shirt. same sheets that now feel like they've absorbed every ounce of your grief. the laptop beside you plays the next episode of a show you're not watching. your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling—until a knock comes.
it's soft at first. one, two. a pause.
you ignore it, burrowing deeper into your blanket. maybe they'll leave.
then it comes again—louder. firmer.
and then, a voice.
"open up! we know you're in there!"
nobara.
you groan, dragging yourself upright with a grunt as if gravity tripled. you shuffle to the door, peek through the peephole.
yuji's there, too.
great.
you crack the door open just enough for the blinding hallway light to sting your eyes. you wince, squinting. the brightness feels offensive.
nobara's eyebrows immediately pinch, eyes sweeping over your face with a mix of concern and frustration.
"where the hell have you been?" she asks softly, like it physically hurt her to ask.
"been busy.." you mumble. "with things."
they don't answer right away, they just look at you. your oversized shirt clings to one shoulder, the collar stretched from wear. your sweats are wrinkled, like you hadn't changed them in days. your eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that lingers, heavy and dull.
your room is dark, like the sun's been politely kept out for your sake. you haven't been to class in three days. haven't answered their texts. haven't been seen.
yuji steps forward. "can we come in?"
"no, its messy."
"too bad," nobara says flatly—and then pushes past you.
she flips on the light with the flair of a judge delivering a sentence.
the room isn't a disaster. not apocalyptic. but it reflects your mind, scattered. half folded laundry, empty ramen cups, notebooks everywhere, some papers on the floor.
"we'll help," nobara says, already crossing the room. she grabs a few cups and tosses them in the trash.
and then out of nowhere she hugs you.
tight.
you don't move at first, but something flickers.
they don't ask questions, they clean beside you. with you.
yuji makes dumb commentary about your hoodie collection, nobara critiques your snack drawer. they toss wrappers, fold clothes, laugh at stupid notes you forgot you wrote to yourself.
you could cry. god, you could cry right now. you love them, you have such good friends.
when it's done, when the air feels breathable again, the three of you sit on your bed. you're all quiet for a beat—until nobara speaks.
"okay," she says gently. "talk to us. what's going on?"
you breathe in deep. deeper.
and then, "i saw him."
yuji gasps like it's a scandal. "what?! did you guys kiss? talk? makeup? what happened?!" he fires off like a machine gun.
nobara smacks his arm. "shut up and let her finish, dumbass."
you actually laugh. a small one, but real.
"i bumped into him." you say. "literally. like—full-on impact. his hot cocoa spilled all over both of us."
they wince in unison.
"he said something," you continue. "but i sort of forgot. It felt like my thoughts were colliding with each other. i just.. panicked. it scared me. it brought up everything from that night."
your voice gets small.
"the breakup."
they dont interrupt. they just lean in and hold you. no fixing. no advice. just warmth and presence.
"you can't do this again," nobara whispers after a while. "you can't just lock yourself in here for days and pretend like nothing happened. you're allowed to feel everything. but you cant disappear."
you nod.
and something in you shifts again.
they make you change. nobara helps you pick an outfit that says "im alive" and not "i just rose from the grave." yuji waits outside the door like a bouncer. when you emerge, he whistles dramatically.
you head out into the city with them—your friends. real ones. the kind that drag you back into the world when you've forgotten how to exist in it.
you go to a thrift store, then a boba shop, then some offbeat boutique nobara's been dying to visit. you try things on. eat too much. laugh at yuji when he chokes trying to inhale a dumpling whole. he almost dies, actually.
and for a few hours..
you forget.
you forget gojo's name.
you forget how it felt to fall apart.
you're just.. living again.
even if its brief.
even if it wont last.
you return to your room, arms full of shopping bags, the city chill still clinging to your jacket. you kick the door shut with your heel, cheeks warm, a real genuine smile still curling at the corners of your mouth. you dont even notice right away—not until you're hanging up the new sweater nobara helped you pick out, fingers smoothing the sleeve like it deserves care.
your room is clean.
not just physically, but energetically. no wrappers on the desk. no laundry on the floor. no gloom choking the air. it smells faintly of that lavender plug-in you forgot you even owned. you turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. its the first time your space has felt like yours in weeks.
you nod to yourself, just a little.
yeah.
maybe this is the start of something new.
you don't need him.
you dont.
he can go on and enjoy his life—messy, dazzling, chaotic as ever— and you'll enjoy yours. quiet and steady and healing.
you shower. fix your hair. slip into your comfiest tee and socks with the little hearts on them. slide under the covers and plug in your phone, locking the screen without even thinking about checking his profile.
that might be the most progress you've made in months.
and tonight?
you sleep.
no chest-tightness.
no late-night staring at the ceiling.
just rest.
the next day is a slow, good kind of saturday. you meet up with nobara and yuji at that ramen place they love so much—yuji's already on his second bowl before you even sit down. they try convincing you (again) to go with them to the party tonight.
"you sure?" yuji says, mouth full. "what if i get drunk again and leave nobara leaves me for dead like last time?"
nobara glares. "i told you to sip, not chug."
you laugh. you really do.
you hold up your hands. "no party for me. but watching you two argue about it is honestly more entertaining anyway."
yuji dramatically clutches his chest. "wow. betrayal."
nobara nudges your elbow gently. "if you do change your mind.. we're leaving at 9:45"
you nod. "I wont. but thanks."
you head back to your dorm. sit down at your desk. open your laptop for once, it's not mindless scrolling or doom-looping on social media. it's your actual assignments. stats. psych notes. criminology readings you've been putting off. you're behind—but not drowning. not anymore.
7:47
you close your laptop and lean back in your chair, spine aching, fingers sore from typing. you stretch, arms overhead, and let out a long sigh exhale.
you're okay.
everythings okay.
the silence settles. just the hum of your desk lamp and the distant noise of someone playing music two floors up. you stare out the window at the black sky, the campus below dotted with golden lights.
and then the thought comes.
check his page.
just one time.
you fight it. for maybe two seconds. but your fingers are already reaching for your phone.
not your main account. god, no.
you log into the burner. the one you swore you wouldn't touch again.
the screen loads.
a new story.
you tap it.
at first it's nothing. a flash of light. music. a quick pan of suguru pouring drinks. laughter.
then the next slide.
satoru.
smiling. loose. careless. his arm slung around a girl you don't recognize.
the way he's holding her?
intimate.
his hand resting on her hip. her cheek pressed to his collarbone like it's a routine comfort. no tag. no caption. just vibes.
your stomach drops
what. the. fuck.
you stare at the image, blinking hard, waiting for it to morph into something else—some innocent version, some mistake in your eyes. but it doesn't change.
you don't cry.
you don't scream.
you just pace.
your breath catches, your mind tumbling through memories and words and questions with no answers. the heat crawls up your neck, wrapping around your ribs like barbed wire. you clench your phone, knuckles aching.
what do you even do with this?
then nobara's voice echoes in your head, soft but clear.
"we're leaving at 9:45. if you change your mind."
you glance at the time.
7:50
you have time.
yeah.
you have time.
you glance at the mirror. you heart pounds. the ache is back–but this time, it fuels you. you meet your own gaze like a challenge.
you know exactly what you're going to do.
you're going to that fucking party.
your body moves before your mind can second-guess it. you storm to the closet, ripping open drawers like they owe you money. buried deep beneath your oversized hoodies and lecture-day leggings, you find it.
a black, tight, slightly cropped shirt—one you haven't worn since.. god, who even knows. A black leather skirt, clingy in all the right places, riding that line between flirt and danger. you toss them onto the bed, pulling out your heeled black boots next. the ones that add height and attitude.
all black.
you pause, staring at the pieces you've laid out. clothes you haven't touches in ages. you can't even remember the last party you went to—not really. the last one left a bitter taste in your mouth, tainted with disappointment and drunken regret. but tonight? tonight isn't about parties.
it's about reclaiming yourself.
you dart into the bathroom, stripping down for a shower thats short but scorching hot, scrubbing away the heaviness that's been clinging to your kin for days. once you're out, your towel barely stays on as you move back into the room. you start your makeup with precision. soft. beat, but deadly. clean brows, lashes that could slice glass, and lips lined just right.
then the jewelry.
a single gold chain with your first initial glinting under the light, and gold hoops that catch the edge of your cheekbones. you lift your head at yourself in the mirror, hair done, face done, outfit clinging to your curves in the way it was designed to.
you barely recognize yourself.
but damn, you look good. too good.
you sling a white shoulder purse over your body, then toss a hoodie over your shoulder just in case. one last glance at your phone.
9:38
you head straight to nobara's room, heart drumming in your ears.
you knock. firm. final
for a beat, nothing..
then—
that telltale shift of light at the peephole. a shadow moves across it.
a whisper. muffled.
"..is that her?"
"wait—check, check—open it—"
scrambling.
the door swings open fast.
yuji's the first thing you see.
his mouth drops open. "oh my god."
nobara appears over his shoulder, eyes widening as she takes you in.
"no way," she breathes.
yuji lets out a short laugh, stunned. "finally. you're actually coming out with us?"
you smirk, casual. "you'll see."
they don't press. they don't have to. nobara grabs her keys, yuji steps aside as she moves past him, and the three of you file out together—no questions, no commentary, just a quiet shift in energy.
you're not performing. you're not proving.
you're just going.
realistically the house isn't far—walkable on a warmer night—but tonight, the wind bites like it has something to prove. so you all pile into the car, bass already thumping down the block. music spills into the street before you're even parked. cars line the curb bumper to bumper, strangers weaving in and out with red solo cups and clouds of breath.
the house glows—chaotic warmth leaking from every window. people are dancing on the porch like heartbreak doesn't exist.
you breathe in deep, then shrug off your hoodie in the car. the cold snaps at your arms the moment you step out, but you don't flinch. you stand taller. your boots click against the pavement like a damn warning.
inside, it's loud. alive.
if the cold hadn't sobered you, the strobe lights and raw energy would've. the air smells like cheap weed and cheaper intentions.
in one corner, someone's passed out on a beanbag. girls are dancing on coffee tables. a couple sucking each others faces off like they're on a timer. the whole place buzzes like it runs on impulse and tequila.
yuji catches sight of the jungle juice and disappears into the crowd with a mumbled, "pray for me," over his shoulder.
nobara rolls her eyes. "he'll be face-downed in twenty."
she grabs your hand, tugging you toward the kitchen, the real action sits lined up on the counter: pink whitney—you wince— casamigos, fireball, smirnoff, and other bottom-shelf regrets. you pour yourself and nobara a shot in red solo cups and clink them together.
"you're diving in fast," nobara teases.
"just need to loosen up."
the first one goes down like fire. the second, smoother. enough to dull the ache sitting at the base of your skull. for a moment, the buzz is good. the warmth creeps through your veins like a long-lost friend. the world blurs at the edges in a way that feels manageable.
nobara finds maki near the back door and immediately disappears into the conversation. you wave her off, letting her go, assuring her you'll be fine. alone now, you lean against the wall just outside of the kitchen, watching the crowd move like waves in a storm. your thoughts drift before you can stop them.
you haven't seen him.
until now.
the music shifts to something louder—bass-heavy, intoxicating. a few cheers erupt from the living room where a round of pong is heating up you follow the noise with your eyes, and there they are.
sukuna. geto. and—
your breath catches.
satoru.
he stands there, cup in hand, laughing at something geto says. loose white curls frame his face, slightly disheveled. his black tank hugs his chest, arms flexing subtly as he raises his drink. grey cargos hang low on his hips like sin. it's infuriating how good he looks. how your body reacts before your brain can even process what you're seeing.
you're about to turn away—just breathe, get another shot, distract yourself— when she appears. the girl from his story.
she's bold pressing into him with too much familiarity, whispering something in his ear. her lips brush his cheek, too slow to be friendly, and her hands linger on his chest. you can see the smirk on her face. she knows what she's doing. knows who you are.
your teeth clench. you turn, the ache in your chest burning hotter than the liquor as you make your way back to the kitchen.
getos nudges gojo. "holy shit. she's here."
he blinks. "who?"
"your ex. she's here."
gojo's heart drops. "you're fucking with me. she doesn't go out."
"see for yourself."
he turns just in time to catch the bounce of your hair and curve of your back as you disappear into the kitchen, boots clicking against the floor.
he freezes.
the girl next to him looks confused. "whats wrong?"
"nothing," he mutters, swallowing hard.
but it's not nothing. it's you.
in the kitchen, your fingers tremble slightly as you pour another shot. you're just trying to hold it together. trying not to unravel. the cup shakes a little in your hand before you steady it against the counter.
"rough night?" a voice besides you asks.
you glance up—and then double take.
choso.
long dark hair pulled into a loose bun, eyes soft but focused, leaning slightly against the counter with a blunt in between his fingers. his lip ring catches the light when he smirks, just a little.
you blink processing.
"i—wait," you say, voice a little hoarse from disuse. "we have class together. psychology."
he nods. "yeah. tuesday and thursday. you usually sit in the back"
you're caught off guard by how observant that is. you want to say something witty back, something like, oh, so you've noticed me, but your mind's still too fogged by liquor and memory.
you offer a small smile. "didn't think you were the party type."
"i could say the same about you," he says, not unkindly. he lifts his cup. "guess we're both full of surprises."
you chuckle quietly, still not really looking at him—still trying to look past him, through the doorway, back into the living room.
but he's easy to talk to, in that calm, non-intrusive way. a grounding presence, even now. the warmth of the last shot hasn't even settled in your chest yet, and already the ache in your ribs feel just a little less sharp.
you find yourself smiling more than you have in days. there's a gentle flirtation there—not overbearing, just something warm flickering between you like a candle in a quiet room. you touch his arm lightly as you laugh at something he says, your fingers lingering just enough for it to be noticed.
across the room, it is.
you and choso are knee-deep in a conversation now, tucked into the corner of the kitchen. you're closer than before. close enough that when he leans down a bit, you noses are almost touching.
"you look beautiful tonight," he says, voice lower than before.
you blink at him, then grin, lips tugging upward. the compliment lands softer than you expect—softer than gojo's ever did, even at the best of times.
"thanks," you murmur, tilting your head. "you don't look too bad yourself."
and maybe it's the buzz from the shots. maybe it's the dim lights or the way the bass thumps beneath your feet. maybe it's that ache in your chest begging to be filled with anything other than memories. but when his hand gently lands on your waist, eyes locked on yours, you don't stop him.
your heart's thudding in your ears. you're not thinking. you're floating.
it's midnight now.
the party isn't dying down—it's mutating.
louder, sloppier, stickier.
beer-slick floors and shirtless boys yelling over bass line that long stopped making sense. someones crying on the stairs, someone is arguing in the backyard, someones throwing up in the guest bath.
but you dont feel any of it.
you're tucked into the corner of the living room with choso, his hands low on your waist, thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles against the curve of your hip like he's memorizing it. his voice soft in your ear, and you're laughing—not forced, not fake, but careful. polished
your back is arched subtly into him, shoulder blades grazing his chest, like this is something natural. like it's normal.
you're aware of your posture.
your angles.
your timing.
your fingers brush the base of his neck once.
maybe twice.
it's dangerous. it calculated.
but it doesn't feel like a performance.
not yet.
across the room, satoru hasn't moved.
not in a while.
he's been leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room for the past hour, he hasn't touched his drink since you walked in.
he never expected you to show tonight.
not really.
he'd joked about it earlier, sure—when geto had laughed and said, "watch her actually pull up." gojo had scoffed. "yeah, right. she never comes out."
he didn't want to drink.
didn't want to numb this.
he could've done what he usually did when you would pop into his mind, drink until he numbs that pain. but tonight?
tonight, he'd feel every bit of it. every spark of jealousy, every ounce of regret. tonight he'd sit in it—the consequences, the loss, the ache.
the girl on his arm tries again to get his attention. she says something flirty, something loud. her nails trail down his shoulder. he flinches.
why did he even bring her?
she doesn't feel like a distraction anymore, she feel like a mistake.
chose leans in, mouth near your ear, hands trailing a little lower now. you laugh again—lips parted, breath soft— and when your fingers brushed his collarbone, satoru's entire body tenses.
he's watching your every move like its life or death.
and maybe to him, it is.
he thought he was mad before. he thought he was jealous when choso first touched you.
but now?
now you're giggling with your head thrown back, face flushed, eyes glassy—and choso's leaning closer, closer, mouth just inches from yours. one more breath and he'll kiss you.
satoru's teeth clench so hard his jaw aches.
he shifts uncomfortably.
his drink forgotten on the table next to him
the buzz of the room fades into static.
he's not just mad.
he's fucking livid.
and just when he thinks it can't get worse, choso's eyes flick once, past your shoulder.
brief. quick.
toward him.
choso doesn't smirk.
doesn't wink.
doesn't say anything.
but he knows.
and still, he doesn't pull away.
his hands stay firm on your waist, the space between you barely even air. your breath stutters, caught somewhere between the buzz and the tension—until it all crashes.
a hand wraps around your arm.
you jerk a step back, lips parting in confusion.
"what the f—"
you turn.
satoru.
there's no grin, no teasing in his tone. just clenched jaw and those piercing blue eyes storming with something unreadable.
the warmth drains from your face.
"the hell is your problem?" you snap, yanking your arm from his grip.
he doesn't answer right away. doesn't even look at you. his eyes are locked on choso.
hard. icy.
"pick someone else," he mutters, voice low.
choso's brow lifts, slightly unfazed. "didn't realize she was taken."
"shes not!" you cut in, sharper than you meant. "what the fuck is wrong with you?"
"i need to talk to you," he bites, and before you can protest, his hand curls around your arm again—not hard, not rough, but firm. like he's done letting you slip through his fingers.
you hiss out complaints and curses, stumbling a little as he pulls you out of the living room, through the crowd.
he doesn't stop. not even when nobara calls your name. not when the girl he came with tries to grab his shoulder. he doesn't turn back.
you fight his grip halfway up the stairs.
"are you serious right now?! let go of me—"
he doesn't stop. he keeps going.
because he knows this house. gojo satoru always has a backup plan—and yeah, maybe its geto's place, but he's got a room here. for nights like this. when he didn't want to go home.
he pushes the door open, pulls you inside, and shuts it behind you. lock clicks. final.
you spin on him, the buzz of the liquor fanning your anger.
"have you lost your fucking mind?"
he doesn't respond. he stands with his back to the door, chest rising and falling, trying to get the words out before anger does it for him.
"my issue," he says, slow, low, "is you being downstairs. letting him put his hands all over you like that."
you bark a disbelieving laugh. "letting him? what, am i a goddamn dog now?"
"thats not what i meant—"
"then what did you mean, huh? you mad because i'm trying to move on? because someone touched me like i meant something?"
his jaw tightens. he doesn't speak.
"oh, thats rich," you sneer. "you've got a whole bitch downstairs begging you to fuck her, don't talk to me about letting anyone do anything."
"don't bring her into this."
"why not?" you shoot back. "you brought me into it the second you dragged me up these god damn stairs like you owned me."
his hands ball into fists at his sides. "because it's you. thats why."
"what does that even mean?"
"you're not just anyone, alright? and you know that." he grits out. "you think i give a shit if it were some random girl i barely knew?"
your laugh is sharp, bitter. "oh, so now you care? now, when its inconvenient for you? when you're not the one holding me?"
he flinches, barely—but you catch it.
"i didn't see you dragging your new bitch out of any rooms," you spit. "didn't see you saying please to her. didn't see you looking like you were about to fall apart."
"stop," he says, quietly. "just—stop.
"no. fuck that." your voice cracks. "you don't get to be mad now. not when you were the one who walked. not when you're the one who always leaves."
he's silent
"why did you even come out tonight?" he asks finally, voices strained.
"why does it matter?" you shoot back.
"because i hate when you get like this," he mutters.
"and i hate how you walk around like the world owes you something," you fire back. "like it owed you something."
that hangs in the air, hot and sharp and final. but something inside you stirs—the ache behind your ribs the one you've tried to drink away, laugh away, forget away. it pulses now, steady and painful.
satoru is still silent.
you glance at him again, expecting some stupid rebuttal, some smug quip. but he's not moving.
he looks like he's unraveling.
his jaw flexes once. his lips part, but no sound comes out. words scratch at his throat, but they don't form. he swallows, hard. he can't meet your eyes.
that's when it hits you.
this isn't the satoru, you remember—not the cocky one who always had an answer. not the one who walked out without looking back. this is someone stripped bare, someone trying to figure out where the hell everything went so wrong.
your shoulders drop slightly. still tense, but.. tired now. you're tired.
"i just.." you start, voice lower. softer. "you could've just stayed. you could've just.. been better."
it comes out quieter than you expected. a confession wrapped in resentment.
he exhales, like he's been holding his breath since the second he touched you. "I know," he says, barely above a whisper.
you look away, jaw clenched, trying not to let it show. the hurt. The disappointment. the echo of all the times you let yourself believe he was different.
"you said you wanted to stay," you murmur, eyes locked on the floor.
"if you meant it.."
your voice cracks, just silently.
"you would."
silence. it crushes the air between you.
"i did," he says, suddenly. "I meant it. I just.. didn't follow through, and im sorry."
you laugh once, humorless. "that's what you said last time. and the time before that."
"I know," he says, stepping closer now, the gap narrowing. "and i don't expect you to believe me. i broke that."
he reaches out, slow, like touching you too quickly might shatter you. his hand finds your arm, gentle. warm. real.
"but it fucking kills me that you think i didn't care. that i never cared."
you glance up. his eyes are red-rimmed. honest.
"i did care. i cared so fucking much i didn't know how to hold it without ruining it."
your throat tightens. you want to speak, but the words feel stuck. a lump rising, thick and unbearable. you blink, once, twice—trying to hold it in.
"i was just.. stupid," he continues. "and scared. i didn't know how to keep something real. something that meant everything to me.
you don't respond.
the room is too still. too close. your hands are trembling. you don't know whether you want to scream or fall into his arms or disappear entirely.
"i don't know if i can trust you," you finally say, and it's barely even a voice anymore. it's air and ache. "i dont know."
and satoru, for once, doesn't try to fix it.
he just stands there.
holding you like he's terrified to let go again.
you're quiet, you can't say anything.
you can't.
the room feels overwhelming, too warm. his hands still on your arm, thumb brushing soft, absent circles like he doesn't realize he's doing it.
and then
his other hand rises. slow. careful.
he brushes his fingers along your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't realize had fallen.
you lean into the touch before you can stop yourself.
it's muscle memory.
it's everything you've been aching for.
it's too late to pull back now.
his eyes flick to yours. bare. blue. searching.
"i've missed you," he says, voice ragged. "so much."
you swallow. your throat burns.
"when we ran into each other the other day, i wanted to say something—anything—but i didn't want it to be like this."
"i did too," you whisper.
you can't stop trembling.
he notices.
he lets go of your arm, not to walk away, but to find your hand instead. he slides his fingers into yours, anchoring you. steadying you.
the trembling slows.
and then, something shifts.
his thumb brushes over your knuckles. your breath catches. his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.
and that's all it takes.
when he kisses you, you melt.
there's no thought. no logic. no shouldn't. no what ifs. just heat. just him.
just months of ache spilling over in the quietest, surest way.
your fingers thread through his hair, desperate to pull him closer. to the gap you've been pretending wasn't there.
the kiss deepens.
it's slow. messy. familiar. a million things neither of you could say aloud, all poured into one breathless, aching kiss.
he tastes like regret and want and something you swore you wouldn't let yourself miss.
and you don't care.
you don't care.
you're tired of running. tired of pretending. tired of being strong when all you've wanted was this.
you fall into him like it's the only thing that's ever made sense.
one hand finds your waist, firm and certain, the other bracing the small of your back as he slowly guides you down onto the bed behind you. the kiss breaks—just barely, just long enough to breathe—and then his mouth is on your neck.
and that's when everything else disappears.
his mouth trails down your neck, hot and unrelenting, leaving grazes of teeth and open-mouth kisses that makes your pulse stutter. his hands roam like they're remembering every inch of you— like they're reclaiming what was once his.
satoru’s fingertips glide along the sliver of exposed skin just beneath your cropped shirt, warm and deliberate. his touch trails upward, slipping beneath the fabric until his hand cups one of your tits, palm hot against your skin.
he pulls back from your neck, breath brushing your ear as he murmurs,
"I missed my girl."
the words barely settle before he pushes your shirt up, exposing your chest to the cool air — and to him. he doesn’t hesitate. his mouth finds your already-sensitive nipple, tongue teasing slow circles as a low hum vibrates against you.
your back arches, a soft gasp escaping your lips. you needed this. needed him. It didn’t matter whether you trusted him or not — not right now. not in this moment. all that mattered was the way his hands were on you, his mouth everywhere at once, like he was trying to make up for every second lost.
“satoru… please…”
the name leaves your lips like a whisper, soft and desperate — and to him, it sounds like prayer. reverent. delicate.
he pulls back from your nipple with a soft pop, eyes hooded as his fingers tease the slick skin he just left behind.
“patience, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with heat. “i’m gonna take my time with you.”
And he does.
his mouth lingers, tongue drawing slow, lazy circles over your nipple — not rushed, not eager. just savoring. he hums low against your skin, and the vibration sends a shiver rippling down your spine.
he pulls back just enough to nip at the sensitive peak, then soothes it with a warm swirl of his tongue. your hand tangles in his hair, breath catching in your throat.
he sucks on them without abandon like he’s starving — switching between gentle suckles and sharp, teasing grazes of his teeth. one of his hands keeps your shirt bunched up, the other slides along down your waist, massaging in between your thighs.
he groans softly, almost to himself, lips still latched around your nipple like he could stay there forever.
only after he’s traced every inch of skin he can reach, only after he’s made sure you’re trembling — only then does he move on.
his kisses trail lower, then back up again, one last swirl of his tongue over your aching bud before he finally pulls away, lips shiny, pupils slightly blown.
his hands trail down, slow and deliberate, until they reach the edge of your skirt. fingers toy with the hem before slipping underneath, dragging the fabric up inch by inch like he has all the time in the world.
one hands slides in between your thighs, gently guiding your legs apart, holding you open for him, warm, steady—almost reverential. the other hand moves in, fingertips brushing over your clothed wet cunt with the lightest pressure. barely there.
your breath hitches.
he watches every twitch, every gasp you try to suppress. his thumb start to move, not fast, not rough—just slow, deep circles pressing into your clit like he's memorizing how you fall apart.
the rhythm is maddening. not enough to tip you over, but just enough to make your body beg for more. you squirm beneath him, trying to chase his touch, but he doesn't let up.
"you're so sensitive," he murmurs, almost smug, eyes never leaving your face.
his movements stay slow—torturously slow—like he wants to draw this out for as long as he can.
you whine, begging for more, the tension in your stomach tightening with every second he stalls. it's almost painful, the way he toys with you, like he's enjoying every second of it. which he is.
"shh," he hums, pausing just to play with the lace of your panties. "let me take care of you, yeah?
his fingers slips beneath the fabric, trailing slow and deliberate. everywhere but where you need him. you twitch under his touch, your breath catching, the tease driving you halfway to madness.
"satoru, please!" you gasp, voice shaking. "i need it.."
he doesn't respond. just keeps playing with the lace like it's the most interesting thing in the world, eyes flicking down to the damp patch spreading beneath his hand. his jaw flexes. his mouth practically waters.
when he finally decides you've had enough of his games, he hooks two fingers around the crotch of your panties moving it to the side. your cunt glistens with slick under the low light and he can't hold back anymore—dipping his head, lips brushing against your clit, soft and gentle. the touch sends shivers down your spine.
he starts slow, calculated—pressing tender kisses that make your eyes almost roll. but your hips buck up into him, craving more, chasing every bit of contact like it's all you've been waiting for.
and finally, finally, he gives it to you.
unrelenting.
he dives in, devouring you as if he were starving. the filthy, moist sounds of his tongue against your cunt fill the room as he licks, sucks, teases you until you're a writhing, panting mess underneath him. he eats you like this is pleasurable for him as it is for you.
as your pussy drools on his chin, he teases, "you're so worked up." you quiver and twist your hips up on his face with every movement as he licks long, lazy strips across your entrance to clean up the mess you're creating.
you cry out his name when his nose nudges against your clit while his tongue slides inside of you, the warm, moist muscle probing your slippery walls as you scream out his name in choking sobs. every time you buck against his face, he sighs into you, yearning for more touch and a release. but he continues to tease you by sucking your lips and circling your clit with his tongue until his face is covered in your slick.
"you taste so fucking good."
he moans, his eyes closing as he loses himself between your legs. he rolls his hips against the mattress to get some stimulation on his straining cock while he flicks his tongue across your clit over and over. "so damn good."
you whimper your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging his face harder against you as you feel him building a steady rhythm. "toru'—feels so good—fuck!" you gasp as he sucks your swollen clit into his mouth.
you're shaking, mind spinning—its been far too long since you've felt anything like this. your body's practically thrashing under him as you get closer and closer to your release, but he just tightens his grip, holding you steady. he doesn't let up for a second, relentless in his pace, determined to watch you fall apart beneath him.
"please—im so close!" his groan of approval at your desperate pleas is the final push, like a band snapping, your body seizes with overwhelming pleasure. the rush of your orgasm hits all at once, your pussy clenching and gushing against satoru's chin as he licks and sucks you through waves, not missing a beat.
but
he doesn't stop, helping you ride through your orgasm, savoring every drop as he flattens his tongue on your sensitive swollen clit, moving it side to side. your eyes snap shut, and you can't help but scream as his rough tongue works your sensitive clit. your pussy is aching, and you mind is a total bank, all you can focus on is him. you attempt to push his head away, but he's stronger, grunting against your efforts.
he's completely fixated on this, fixated on you, he's got you back under him, and he's not letting go anytime soon. he doesn't mind that your thighs are practically squeezing his head. no. he's just craving more of this.
"s'too much!" you whimper repeatedly, but he's not hearing you, eager to pull another one out of you. he briefly pulls his head back, eyes locking onto your flushed face. his fingers rubbing on your throbbing clit, and his mouth covered with your juices.
"you can give me one more, right pretty?" he kisses the inside of your thigh. your eyes half lidded, your chest rising and falling rapidly. you shake your head no, but he just chuckles, his lips already making their way back to your clit.
"i know you can," he murmurs into you. his fingers circle around your hole before sliding them in, feeling you stretch as he pushes against your slick walls.
his tongue abusing your clit while his fingers pump inside of you hard and fast, your back arching in response. you're sobbing out his name, your hands pulling his hair tugging him impossibly closer. his fingers curl just right, hitting that spot only he could reach, you legs trembling from the overstimulation. he missed the way you tasted, the way you responded to his touch, this was way better than all those lonely nights he spent fisting his cock while stalking your page as well.
he maintains his relentless pace, your hips grinding to match his rhythm. you feel euphoric, intoxicated by how his tongue and fingers are unraveling you. you can't think straight, just your mind shouting satoru satoru satoru! you're biting your lip so hard it almost draws blood as that familiar feeling starts to build again.
"fuck! toru'- im gonna-"
"i know baby" he pulls away briefly, fingers thrusting in faster. eager for your release.
"give it to me please." he's almost begging, his tongue moving up and down bringing you closer and closer to the brink. you're practically pulling strands out from his head but he doesn't care, you could pull on his hair as much as you liked if it meant seeing you fall apart completely from his touch.
you were drowning in it—oxytocin, euphoria, everything. your body locked up, overtaken by the wave. you cried out his name, his fingers and tongue helping you through it as he slowed his pace.
he pulls away from your clit, your body glazed in sweat, shaking. he cleans his fingers with his tongue never breaking eye contact with you, sucking up all of your juices. he sits up crawling up to your body.
"wanna taste?"
you nod, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him into yours. his kiss wasn't gentle it was messy, frantic even as your tongue traces along his lips, tasting yourself in his mouth.
you moan into him as he pressed his body against yours. you wrap your legs around his waist and roll your hips against his cock.
"fuck me toru'—i need you," you whine while grinding your hips against his still-clothed cock.
he nips at your lower lip before pulling away, smirking. his hands are already working to get his pants off.
"how can i say no to my sweet girl?" he purrs, sliding off his pants and boxers, his dick slapping against his stomach. you're staring at it, realizing you forgot how big he is. it's been months since he's been inside you. his hand strokes around his girth, precum glistening at the tip. you swallow thickly.
"see what you do to me?" he groans, his cock now thrusting between your folds, your arousal smearing across his length. he pulls the crotch of your panties deeper into your thighs, giving him full access to your pussy. his hands hook under your thighs, pushing them up to your chest.
the thrusts forward against your pussy folds, the head of his cock nudging your clit with every thrust. the feeling of it against your skin makes you whine impatiently, but he doesn't stop. he slides his length along your arousal until he's fully coated in your slick.
"gonna give it to you good," he says, already out of breath at the sight of his cock between your folds.
his strong hands grip your legs as he pushes his head past the tight ring of your pussy with a satisfied sigh. there’s a dull pain from the stretch; it’s been far too long since he fucked you, and your mind almost forgets how much he stretches you out.
he glances up at your face briefly to measure your reaction, and you’re lying there mouth agape and breathless as he disappears inside you.
"missed this pussy," satoru moans, trying to keep his head from falling back as he bottoms out.
he rolls his hips into you, helping you adjust to his size once more. he groans, the grip on your thighs is almost bruising. your walls are suffocating him as he slowly pulls his hips back, thrusting into you faster, pressing you into the mattress. his thumb moves down, rubbing circles on your clit. the extra stimulation makes you jolt, choking on your moan.
he fucks into you, finding a steady rhythm, your pussy squelching around his size, the sounds echoing in the room, the bass from the music downstairs is barely heard now. you moan loudly when his curved tip brushes against your g-spot. he grins, continuing to attack that spot. his own moans of your name spill from his lips.
"mm, like that baby?" he groans. you nod eagerly as he shifts his hips, his weight pressing against you as he pounds into that spot, your head tilting back, his lips immediately finding your neck.
he doesn't even try to hide his moans, he's just as loud as you, his balls slapping against your ass with an audible, 'pat pat pat'. his lips pull away from your neck, locking eyes with you now.
"you been fucking anyone while we been apart?"
he spits, his pace relentless. the question catches you off guard. you shake your head frantically, unable to find the words, not with him pounding into you like this.
"good cus' you belong to me"
he's so drunk off you. his other hand wraps around your neck, not squeezing but tightly applying firm pressure, your mouth forming an 'o', tears welling in your eyes as his thumb rubs harsher circles on your clit.
he's completely consumed by pleasure, his hips slamming against yours as he whispers that you're his over and over.
you grip tightly around his words, his moans becoming more intense. your eyes roll back as the pleasure builds up in your stomach once more. it felt like a coil ready to snap at any moment, and its release promised another massive wave of pleasure. your body was ablaze, sweaty and hot, just like satoru's.
"toru'—mm — you're gonna make me cum!"
you manage to say. you feel lightheaded, euphoric again. satoru wishes he could pause time and stay in this moment forever, he doesn't want to come down from this high, but when you're moaning his name so beautifully, he can't deny you your release. he keeps thrusting into you, his balls tightening as his own orgasm approaches, fast and fierce. he can't think clearly, all he can focus on is filling you up, having your cunt overflow with his seed.
"i'm —fuck! i'm close too,"
"cum for me baby."
you can't hold on much longer, your release coming faster and faster as his pace never slows, eager to take you to that edge. your moans rise higher, eyes shutting tight, toes curling. the string finally snaps as you plunge off a cliff without hesitation, diving into your grave of erotic bliss, pleasure washing over your body in waves. your whole body trembles beneath him as the intensity of your climax hits you. he wasn't far behind, the way your velvety walls clenched around him pulling him into his own orgasm. he came deep inside you, filling you up, the thought of not having a condom didn't even cross your mind, you were too lost in the euphoria.
you both paused for a moment in the afterglow. his hand released from around your neck as he pulled out, sitting back to admire your spent cunt. his cum spilled out onto your thighs and sheets, just as he desired. he reached for the crotch of your panties and slid the cold, sticky fabric back over your swollen cunt.
you're still catching your breath, body warm and buzzing, when he collapses beside you—his chest rising and falling, skin slick with sweat. the second he's down, he pulls you into him like gravity, arms wrapping tight around your waist.
you melt into him. no resistance. just instinct. your cheek rests against his chest, heartbeat thudding under your ear. your eyelids flutter shut, lashes damp. the music downstairs is still going—low bass, laughter, the world is moving on. but not for you two. not here. not now
"you did so good," he whispers, brushing his nose against your temple. "so fuckin' good."
you just hum, too tired to talk too full of him to say anything back.
silence settles. not awkward, not tense—just soft. and then, after a beat, he moves. one hand comes up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. he looks at you. really looks at you.
"i meant what i said earlier." he murmurs.
you blink slowly. your voice is barely above a whisper. "satoru.. i know. but i can't trust—"
"i love you."
his words cut through everything. no hesitation, no deflection. just the truth, finally out in the open.
you freeze.
your breath catches, your body still. and for once, he doesn't fill the silence. he lets it hang. lets you feel it.
you pull back just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. and for a moment, it's all there—every fight, every bruise, every look you two never acted on, every night you dreamt of this.
"..say it again."
he does. softer this time. like a promise.
"i love you."
and you don't say it back. not yet. but your fingers curl into his chest, grounding yourself there. and for now, thats enough.
the next day comes with an ache in your legs and the ghost of his voice in your ear.
by the time 6:30 rolls around, the sun is already sinking, casting a faint blue-grey across the snow outside your window.
cold creeps in through the glass. so does doubt.
you're sitting at the edge of your bed, staring at your phone.
6:38
he said 6:25.
your chest tightens—slow, subtle, but impossible to ignore.
maybe you shouldn't have let him back in.
maybe he didn't mean it last night. maybe the words were just another sugar-coated lie. maybe you're walking back in the same cycle, hoping for a different ending.
your heart sinks. you start to wonder if it's you. you're the one who always believes too easily. forgives too fast. hopes too much.
and then—
a knock.
you freeze.
another knock.
you open the door and there he is.
a little out of breath.
a lot late.
but he's here.
hair messy, shirt wrinkled, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and that chaotic grin that's always been your undoing face.
"sorry" he breathes out. "parking was a bitch."
your heart, traitorous and tender, swells in your chest.
✧ synopsis: you and gojo were never meant to last. he said he changed. he didn't. you believed him anyway. you always did. he was all parties and half-kept promises—frat house loud, missing calls, showing up late, if at all. you were soft edges and quiet expectations. and when it ended, it hurt. not in the dramatic, screaming kind of way. but in the slow, aching silence that creeps in when someone you love just stops showing up. you never expected to see him again. not like this. not at another party. not looking at you like he still remembers. not asking for one more chance like it's still his to take.
✧ tags/warnings MDNI: fem! reader, alternate universe-university, modern setting, toxic relationship, exes to lovers, second chances, angst, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed reader, gojo satoru is a mess, alcohol use/party culture, fratboy gojo, heartbreak, mutual pining, suggestive themes, eventual smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), creampie, pet names (baby or angel), slight choking, fingering, overstim.
✧ word count: expect around 10k or more...
✧ authors note: hi! so i've been on a six-year hiatus (yikes), but im finally back—sorta. this is just a little teaser of something i've been working on. i know it's crumbs, but trust.. the rest is coming, and yes, it will hurt. i just wanted to drop this and see how it lands, im also going to be uploading the full draft onto AO3! if you like it, let me know (PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE). if you dont, thats okay!
i'm trying very hard not to disappear again >:)) <333
monday mornings had their own rhythm. you liked them quiet, still air, soft clothes, the comfort of a routine that made you feel just a little more in control. you took your coffee black now, not because you liked it that way, but because sweetness reminded you too much of him. you sat in the back of your lecture hall, half-listening to the professor drone on about things that didn't matter while your mind drifted to things that did.
everyone says you're doing better. and in a lot of ways, you were. your grades are solid. you wake up on time, most of the time. you've started doing your skincare routine again. you show up, laugh when you need to, and you've learned to exist without waiting for his name to light up on your phone. you're doing the damn thing. but sometimes when the day slows down and you're alone in your dorm—when the noise stops—there's a heaviness that settles in your chest. quiet, familiar.
you never used to believe in first love. you thought the idea was romantic nonsense. but then he showed up with that crooked smile and chaotic charm, and ruined that certainty. you didn't mean to fall for him. but there was something about the way he looked at you - like you were the only real thing in the world—that made it impossible not to.
he wasn't perfect. far from it. there were nights he didn't call, parties he didn't leave early for, promises he made with all the right words but none of the follow-through. he hurt you. over and over. and still, when he texted you after five months of silence last september, you answered. you shouldn't have but you did.
you gave him another chance, even though something deep down told you not to. he swore he changed. told you this time would be different. that he was ready. and maybe he meant it—part of him did—but it didn't stop him from vanishing again. from proving that nothing had really changed. you still remember the date. november 14th. the last time you heard from him.
and now? now you exist in the after. you tell yourself you've moved on, and maybe you have. but there are nights you still check his. page, still scroll through old texts, still wonder what it might've been if he'd just shown up like he promised. you wanted to hate him. god, you should. but you dont. because he was your first love. and no matter how much he messed it up, some pieces of him still live inside you.
what he doesn't know, what he never let himself say out loud, is that he loved you. he really did. but he was scared. of what? you never got the answer. maybe of being known. maybe finally having something real. or maybe... of you.
the thought slips down your spine like cold water, dragging you out of the haze you didn't even realize you'd sunk into.
Thanks @blackmoonbabe for inspiring me with this post here! Finally got to write out some Lotura, and I’m pleased with the result. I hope you all enjoy!
Pairing: Lotor/Allura
Summary: If the princess noticed his tone—noticed the worry that seeped from his veins and cloaked his skin—she ignored it. Allura’s face brightened at Lotor’s approach, her smile dazzling and elated. She ran to meet him at the temple’s front steps and she paused just as he reached her, arms outstretched and reaching towards him. As if reaching to embrace him.
AO3 Link: HERE
He didn’t want to believe it. That he was outside the temple, re-entry impossible. That he had failed this test—this test he had waited decades, centuries to take—and couldn’t fathom why. He was good enough. The marks were there. Everyone in the castle had seen them, Allura included! He had not climbed these cliffs, walked through those hallways to be denied his birthright. To be denied his destiny.
But he had been denied. He had failed the one test he wanted to pass, the test that would prove him worthy of his Altean heritage. It left his chest empty, a black void clasping onto his lungs and filling his throat with frustration and dread. He wanted to scream, but his body felt tight and motionless, as if he was made of stone. And it was cold: his anger was often hot and flooded his veins with rage, just as it had when he fought the lion mere seconds before. But this anger left him stiff and numb, staring at the temple in a defeated daze.
Perhaps it wasn’t anger, then. Perhaps it was contempt, directed at only himself.
All this work, all his research. All the mocking, all the abuse and isolation. They’d been for nothing.
Nothing could make up for this failure. He had lost his generals over this. He could lose the paladins’ trust if he came back empty-handed, especially if Allura couldn’t find—
“Allura!”
Desperation latched onto Lotor’s voice, the name sounding feeble and strained as it slipped past his lips. The chill encasing his skin and coiling over his stomach intensified, but neither fury nor self-pity settled into his chest. Something else pricked at his heart, and he pressed a shaky fist into his sternum to temper the nagging sensation. It drained him, more so than even the fight. He hunched over and breathed through his nose, almost coughing as he exhaled and warm air wafted over his face. It was a troubling feeling, and while his thoughts focused on Allura and her battle with the lion—what was her strategy, was she losing, would she survive—the feeling pooled into his throat and bordered on nauseating. Like he was sick, like he'd been drugged.
Like he was worried.
Lotor gasped and his breath stilled, leaving his heart to squirm. It had been so long since he’d worried. Or at least, worried about anyone but himself. He had never worried about his generals. They were skilled fighters, capable of completing any mission he gave them. His father was beyond worry: that was a given. The paladins were his allies with a powerful weapon to lead them to victory. Concern for their safety and well-being would prove futile. And with the witch, fear and loathing were all had ever mustered.
Allura was capable and skilled. She was a princess and leader of an entire coalition. She, too, like his father, should be beyond worry. He should trust she’d be fine, that she would make it out of that temple with the knowledge he had dreamed of receiving himself. To worry meant that Lotor did not trust Allura, that he thought her frail and weak.
Allura was strong. Allura was resilient and resolute.
He knew all of this—he had seen all of this—but he could not ease his quivering heart nor halt his thoughts of Allura in danger or Allura in pain or Allura collapsing onto that airy white floor, her eyes wide as the lion’s claws swipe at her chest, ripping through her flesh—
Blinding white and yellow lights shot out from the temple and through Lotor, interrupting his paranoia. He shielded his eyes, but the light dissipated a moment after, the cracks between his fingers revealing the calm pink sky above. Lotor returned his hand to his side and blinked, focusing his attention on the temple’s entrance. At first, he saw the lion and fear and anger struck at his core. Had the lion defeated Allura? Was it here to finish Lotor?
But like the lights, the lion vanished. And in its place was Allura, mouth open and eyes glazed in wonder.
Seeing the princess safe and whole dissolved the rage wedged into Lotor’s arms and legs, relief washing over his shoulders and chest in its stead. Feasibly, it could have been a trap by the lion, a way to ensnare him in that temple forever. That should have crossed his mind as he raced towards Allura, steps heavy and pounding the polished marble beneath them.
It didn’t. Because even if Allura failed like he had, she was fine. She was alive and they would leave together.
“Allura!” Lotor cringed as her name spilled from his mouth. It sounded scratchy and unsure. It could give the impression he’d been worried and thought her helpless.
If the princess noticed his tone—noticed the worry that seeped from his veins and cloaked his skin—she ignored it. Allura’s face brightened at Lotor’s approach, her smile dazzling and elated. She ran to meet him at the temple’s front steps and she paused just as he reached her, arms outstretched and reaching towards him. As if reaching to embrace him.
That was unexpected, and a jolt of panic and something else—something bubbly and warm and akin to joy—surged through Lotor, inhibiting him from further movement. Gods, when was the last time anyone embraced him, least of all someone he thought of as highly as Allura? How would his body react to her hold, to her lean arms wrapped around his waist and her fingertips pressed into his back?
Before Lotor could compose himself, however, Allura’s smile dropped, noticing his tense reaction. She immediately shoved her arms into her sides, fingers curling into tight fists. She recovered soon enough, a wide smile filling her face and a gentle, nervous laugh escaping her. Perhaps she hoped to ease him, reassure him that her hands would stay away.
Not that there was anything to ease or be nervous about. Lotor recalled when he held her hand, how small it felt underneath his. That night, he had idly wondered how small the rest of her body would feel against his.
But the moment passed, just as those thoughts had. He would not learn the answer today.
“I’m glad to see you are safe, Lotor,” Allura said, folding her hands in front of her. “When the lion separated us, I feared it would be some time before I found you again. Luckily, that was not the case. It seems the lion was far more generous at the test’s conclusion.”
Lotor had had that same fear and remembered calling out to her in that white-drenched plane. He hadn’t noticed his worry then, the way it crept into his voice so effortlessly. What was it about Allura that gave rise to such reactions? That made him want to reach out and…
And what?
“But are you okay, Allura?” Lotor asked, deciding to push those ambiguous feelings aside. He wasn’t here to question the change between them, however slight and natural it felt. “Your test lasted far longer than mine. I was—”
He paused, the word “worried” threatening to spill from his lips and make his feelings known. Allura didn’t want his worry. Allura needed his trust, his faith.
“You were…” Allura trailed, head tilted and eyes curious. Every second he scrambled for something, anything else to say thickened the air surrounding them, making him appear awkward and daft. And Lotor knew he was neither. But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it was terribly difficult to think while Allura’s illustrious blue eyes stared into him.
“I was—I was sure you’d pass before myself, given that you learned so much from your father,” Lotor said, suppressing the urge to wince at his makeshift lie.
Allura seemed disappointed in his answer as well, turning her stare away and towards the floating cliffs. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, her posture formal. “Oh, I see. That does make sense. I’m afraid I didn’t think of the solution until the very end. But I’m glad I did. The sages… it was all so beautiful.”
Before Lotor could ask her to elaborate (and consequently admit his defeat), Allura’s face brightened once more, and she took a step closer, her face only a foot away from his chest. “But you, Lotor! It sounds like you were waiting for quite some time. You must have figured out the solution right away! How did your test go? I would love to hear about it.”
Lotor’s eyes widened, but he did not turn his face away. Rather, sharp heat rushed over his neck and knots of embarrassment festered inside his stomach. Of course, he had to tell her, especially if she passed. There was no way to lie about this. And he didn’t want to lie to Allura. She deserved the truth. She always would.
His resolve didn’t make his words any less stilted, however. Nor did it steady his thunderous pulse. “I... failed, princess. I fought the lion and defeated it. But in doing so, I was banished from the temple. I did not receive the sages’ blessing.”
A brief pause hung between the pair, and Allura’s lips parted, brows lifted in surprise. She glanced down at the marble beneath her, catching sight of Lotor’s shaking fist, his knuckles a pale lavender. “I’m so sorry, Lotor. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have,” Lotor replied, trying to keep his voice soft and non-combative. He didn’t want Allura to think him envious of her achievement. They’d been here for her, anyway. Oriande was never for Lotor—he could see that now. There was too much anger holed up within him, too much pain to ever learn the secret wonders of Altea. “But it doesn’t matter. As long as one of us received the knowledge of Altean alchemy, then this trip was well worth it. Do not concern yourself with my failures. We should celebrate your success instead and depart the planet soon: the castle's oxygen levels must be dangerously low by now.”
Lotor offered Allura a small smile and turned his back, hoping she’d follow without further contention. He didn’t deserve her comfort or compassion. He had failed, and he would get over it.
Probably. Eventually.
But then a firm hand took hold of his forearm and he froze. Goosebumps flared across his arm and shoulder, warmth blossoming near his heart and spreading towards his stomach. Her fingers curled, and he was compelled to turn around and meet her gaze, understanding and kind.
All that from Allura’s fingers. All that from her touch.
“I know what it feels like to fail, Lotor,” Allura started, her voice solid and gentle, something Lotor imagined only she was capable of, “I know that it can humiliate and lead to doubt. But I want you to know this changes nothing. You brought me here of your own volition, you brought us here to help me. You have my absolute gratitude for that alone. Without you, we would have never found Oriande and my father’s abilities would still remain beyond me. So, please: allow me to thank you again. Everything that has happened today has meant so much to me, and it’s all because of you.”
The last of her words quickened Lotor’s heartbeat, and the warmth within his chest swelled and deepened. She had said words like that before, mere hours ago, but it did not diminish their effect. Despite his insistence he was fine, despite his desire to repress his embarrassing failure and push it far into the back of his mind, Allura would not stay quiet. She voiced her thoughts, how she felt about him and his defeat. But unlike his father or the Galra soldiers that mocked his small stature and interest in Altean civilization, Allura praised him, even when he failed. Even when he had done nothing to earn her praise.
Still, a smile crawled onto his lips, just as it had before. She had not let go of his arm. He hoped it stayed there. “Thank you, Allura. I am humbled by your praise.”
Allura returned his smile and stepped forward, her stare a touch more relieved. As if she’d been concerned. As if she’d been worried.
His head buzzed at the thought, and it surprised him, how his chest sung with joy. Rage should have shuddered his shoulders, should have shaken his legs and stabbed at his ribs: to worry about someone meant they were incompetent and weak, unfit for battle and victory. But Allura’s worry did not seem to stem from his failures. It was just about him—who he was and what he meant to her.
Because she was beginning to care about him. Just as he was beginning to care about her.
Emboldened by her smile, Lotor reached and clasped his free hand over hers, enjoying how small it felt in his own. He only wished her skin was exposed so that he could feel her lithe fingers against his own. He spoke again, and he remembered why he called her name in that plane, why his voice softened and constrained, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” Allura replied, eyes sparkling, a hint of pink spanning across her cheeks. “Very much so.”
Allura was strong. Allura was resilient and resolute. But that didn’t mean she was beyond protection.
If she would have him, have him despite his failures and mistakes, Lotor would protect her. Because she was his ally, because she was the future the universe depended on.
NANOWRIMO
Are you doing the thing? If so,
A: What's your name on the NaNo site so I can find you?
2: Are you interested in doing writing sprints with my in Google Hangouts at any point this month? A few daytime, a few evening .
