satoru gojo is quite literally the worst person on earth to try and have a silent treatment with.
of course, he knows you’re mad, he knows he fucked up - but he also knows that if he can make your life "unbelievably" inconvenient, you’ll eventually have to break the silence just to tell him to stop.
here's the thing; you haven’t spoken to him in twelve hours.
you are a fortress of solitude, him?
he is a persistent, white-haired fly that cannot be swatted away because of his infinity or maybe a mosquito; sucking your energy out instead of blood.
he realised (unfortunately he is capable of realising things) that as long as you are self-sufficient, you can keep ignoring him. therefore, he must delete your ability to function.
it's 9am, you wake up and try to get out of bed - you can't.
no, not because he’s holding you, but because he has lowered the friction of the floor around your bed to exactly zero; you try to step down and your foot just slides back like you’re on the world’s most invisible ice rink.
satoru is sitting in the corner, casually reading a magazine upside down, doesn't say a word. he just watches you glide helplessly back onto the mattress. 0-1.
10:30am, you manage to "crawl-surf" to the bathroom.
naturally, you reach for the faucet - it’s not there.
you blink, and the faucet is on the ceiling. water flowing upward into the pipes - you look in the mirror;
he’s standing behind you in the reflection, holding a toothbrush and looking incredibly "helpful," "innocent," waiting for you to snap - you don't.
you use bottled water instead, winning the second battle of this "silent treatment war". 1-1.
by midday, he realizes you’re more stubborn than a cursed spirit, so he goes full on nuisance mode. (special grade sorcerer edition).
you open your closet to get dressed; every single item of clothing, every shirt, every sock - is vibrating. if you touch a sleeve, it teleports to the other side of the room.
you are effectively locked out of your own wardrobe by a space-time anomaly.
you go to make tea to calm your nerves, thinking 'if you can't fight it, then adapt to it.'
the kettle is suddenly encased in a "red" orb that repels your hand every time you get within six inches.
the final straw for you was when you tried to leave the apartment to get some space;
you open the front door and walk out, only to find yourself stepping right back into your own living room.
confused, you try again. door → living room. door -> living room, an infinite loop. he’s turned your hallway into a localized version of the prison realm.
you stand in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, fuming.
satoru is now sitting on the couch comfortably, dramatically sighing and checking his watch as if he's the one being inconvenienced with this whole thing.
you take a deep breath. you tried - you really did.
"satoru," you growl, finally looking at him.
"oh! someone spoke!" he teleports directly into your personal space, his blindfold pushed up so his blue eyes are practically glowing with "i won" energy.
"was that the wind? or was that my favorite person finally realizing that they need a certain handsome sorcerer to fix the literal glitch in their reality?"
"fix the door," you snap, trying to hide the twitch of a smile. "the tea, and the floor. you’re such a fucking brat."
"i'm your brat," he chirps, snapping his fingers.
suddenly, the world stops vibrating and gravity returns to normal.
he leans down with no shame resting his chin on your head. "apology accepted! let’s go get lunch. i’m paying - mostly because you can't reach your wallet since i put it on the moon."
asking nanami to put you in a headlock during sex. (18+)
you keep staring at his arms, even as he drives into you, hips snapping with a steady, punishing rhythm.
not because you mean to - you just can’t look away. his biceps flex and bulge with every thrust, veins standing out like ropes under skin that grips your hips hard enough to bruise.
the memory of his sleeve straining lingers as he leans closer, chest slick with sweat pressing against your breasts.
there’s nothing decorative about his arms; they’re functional - built for holding, restraining, pinning things that don’t want to be still.
and now, they’re right there: your wrists caught in one massive hand above your head, forearms caging you in as he fucks you harder.
your mouth dries, tongue sticking to the roof, arousal flooding your core, your walls milking him greedily. breath comes in ragged gasps, synced to his thrusts.
your nipples scrape against his chest, hardening into peaks that ache for attention.
nanami notices.
even mid-fuck, his eyes always flick to your face through the haze of lust - checking, because that’s the kind of man he simply is.
“something wrong?” he grunts, voice strained, hips never faltering as he grinds deep, head nudging your cervix.
you shake your head, hair stuck to your damp forehead. words tangle in your throat, swallowed by the ache climbing toward your climax.
teeth catch your lip a little too hard, sending a sharp jolt to your clit that makes you whimper.
“…could you put me in a headlock?” the words come out quieter than expected, shy and heavy with unspoken need.
for a moment, he doesn’t move. you think he didn’t hear over the obscene sounds of your bodies colliding at first, or maybe he thought you had officially gone crazy, then his eyes lock on yours, dark and intense.
“…pardon?”
a flash of embarrassment hits - you even consider pretending you didn’t say a thing, but your pussy clenches at the anticipation.
“i want you to,” you whisper, softer now, voice breaking on a gasp. “if that’s okay.”
his gaze lingers, not assessing you but the request. you can almost see him imagine the press of his arm against your throat while he fucks you senseless, the way your body would yield under him.
a beat, two.
then he exhales, slow and gravelly. “…all right.”
he doesn’t announce it. he just moves, resuming thrusts with deeper, more deliberate force, jolting your body against the mattress.
his arm slides into your field of awareness. the coarse blonde hair on his forearm brushes your cheek first, rough against your flushed skin, before settling behind your neck - a living brace of unyielding muscle that weakens your knees on instinct.
he doesn’t tighten yet, lets you feel it.
weight syncing with the throb of your clit. your head is framed by him, trapped in the curve of his arm like it’s already his to command - an absolute pornographic scene coming to life.
his other hand stays occupied too: drifting near your shoulder, fingers circling your collarbone before tweaking your nipple, rolling the hard bud until you arch.
“…like this?” he murmurs, voice lower now with restrained hunger.
your answer comes out before thought - a needy whimper vibrating against his chest. he registers it, body tensing, cock swelling thicker inside you.
the space you occupy is his to shape: he could tighten and make you scream, or trail his hand to rub your clit and push you over the edge.
“yes,” you whisper, desperation lacing the word as hips buck, clit grinding against him, chasing release.
his arm tightens another degree - not to restrain you, but to remind you.
then it hits - a hot, shuddering wave that rips through your core, walls clenching greedily around him as your pussy spasms.
the weight of his arm behind your neck presses just enough to heighten every sensation, cutting off a little air so your body feels tighter, more electric.
you cry out, hips jerking, fingers digging into the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you, every thrust driving it higher, every squeeze of his arm amplifying the pleasure.
the kitchen is loud in that soft, lived in way - rice steaming on the stove, a window cracked open to let in the late afternoon breeze, the low hum of the city outside.
you’re at the counter, sleeves rolled, trying to finish cutting vegetables before the timer goes off again.
behind you - absolute chaos.
“why do we have to clean our room now?” your son whines, dragging the words like they physically hurt him.
your daughter slumps dramatically over the table. “you said later, you're insufferable - always changing your mind.”
you close your eyes for half a second, breathe in, and turn around. “i said after homework. homework is done. rooms next.”
they groan in unison.
“ugh, you’re so unfair,” your son mutters, just loud enough to sting. “you don’t even know how boring it is.”
the words land deeper than they should - not because they’re cruel, but because you’re tired, because it’s been a long day. because you’ve been holding everything together with quiet patience and the unspoken understanding that is just a part of you.
before you can respond, the air behind you shifts.
satoru had been leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with that lazy, half-amused expression he wears when he’s pretending not to pay attention.
his blindfold is gone; his piercing blue eyes in full view, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. when he straightens, the room subtly reorients itself around him - like gravity remembered where it belongs.
his voice is calm. low and definitely not playful.
“hey.” he starts - both kids freeze as if caught in the middle of a crime scene.
they turn toward him instinctively. gojo steps forward just enough to be unavoidable, hands sliding into his pockets. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t smile.
“don’t talk to my wife like that.”
the words hit the room - and you.
something in your chest tightens, then warms, then aches. "wife" - fuck - not corrective, not casual. possessive in the quietest, surest way. like a line drawn, no - carved in stone.
the kids go silent.
“she asked you to do something reasonable,” gojo continues, tone steady, unshakable. “and you don’t get to take your frustration out on her just because you’re bored.”
your son opens his mouth, then thinks better of it when gojo tilts his head slightly.
“you can be tired,” gojo says. “you can be annoyed. that’s fine.” his gaze sharpens - not cruel, just firm. “but you will be respectful.”
your heartbeat stutters from something else entirely. from being seen. backed. claimed without spectacle. it stirs something deep and private, something grounding and dizzying all at once.
“i’m sorry,” your daughter says quietly.
your son nods. “yeah. sorry, mom.”
you hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until they finally drop.
gojo glances at you then - just briefly. the edge in his expression softens in a way only you ever see. a silent i’ve got you.
“alright,” he says, clapping his hands once, the mood loosening just enough. “rooms. ten minutes. i’ll check.”
they scatter down the hall - the kitchen settles again.
you lean back against the counter, exhaling. gojo steps closer, lowering his voice. “you okay?”
you nod, but the way your pulse is still racing gives you away.
he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering just a second longer. “you don’t have to carry everything alone,” he murmurs. “that’s my job too.”
your throat tightens but you smile anyway.
from the hallway, a voice calls, “dad - does shoving everything under the bed count?”
and as the noise resumes, your hand finds his wrist for just a moment - steadying yourself, grounding that stirred, glowing thing in your chest - because you know now, more than ever, that you’re not standing alone.
fucking you like a pro while talking business - gojo’s definition of multitasking. (18+)
your cheek is mashed into the sheets, drool wetting the fabric and his cock is splitting you open - hard, deep strokes that make the slick between your thighs obscene.
every thrust drives you up the bed, your pussy gripping so tight he hisses through his teeth, but his voice stays maddeningly even into the phone.
“yeah, nanamin, i’ll be there. don’t worry about it.”
he drags out slowly, lets you feel the stretch, then slams back in, the slap of skin loud enough you’re shocked nanami can’t hear it, your nails scrape the mattress - back arching, but he just presses your hips down harder and keeps his rhythm cruel and steady.
“uh-huh. no, no, i’ve got it - relax,” he chuckles into the receiver, like he’s not pounding your cunt mercilessly while your walls flutter around him.
his angle’s insanely perfect - hitting that spot inside that makes your eyes roll back, keeps fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, as if breaking you apart is second nature to him. his free hand grips the back of your neck, forcing your face deeper into the pillows.
“you’re dripping all over me, baby. pathetic,” he murmurs just for you, hips rutting harder, cock hammering into you until every breath is a broken moan - while he’s still talking business like you’re not coming undone underneath him.
your body jolts when he adjusts his stance, spreading your legs wider and driving even deeper, his dick punching your cervix with brutal precision.
your pussy gushes around him, messy and loud - that's when he tilts the phone slightly away from his mouth, whispering against your ear, “hear that? that’s the sound of me ruining you while i’m working. can’t even keep quiet for me, can you?”
he grinds in to the hilt, forces you to take every thick inch, then pulls out just to slap his cock against your soaked folds before shoving it back inside with a wet - lewd squelch.
his pace picks up - sharp.
cock bullying your walls while his voice stays calm, conversational. the cruel contrast makes you sob into the sheets, every sound muffled as he fucks you like he owns you and still doesn’t miss a beat of his phone call.
nanami’s hearing everything but choosing to ignore it - the next six months of his life are probably ruined.
gojo’s idea of fun? a wild, moaning showdown. (18+)
he’s pounding into you like a man possessed, sweat dripping down his collarbones. every thrust makes the headboard slam the wall, and you’re already moaning shamelessly when he pauses mid-stroke to grin down at you, his blue eyes shining with mischief.
“new competition,” he pants, voice cocky. “who can moan louder?”
“what?!” you wheeze, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolls his hips again.
“you heard me,” he drawls, then throws his head back and lets out the most fake, over the top - pornographic moan imaginable as a joke. “ohhh yeeeah, fuck me harder daddy, ohhhh-”
you break into hysterical laughter, but it quickly turns into a cry when he slams in deep, right against your oh so - sweet spot. “fuuuck toru-”
“not bad,” he smirks, hips snapping faster. “but you gotta be louder than that if you wanna win - c’mon babe, let me see that competitive spirit in action.”
you try to bite back your sounds, just to spite him, but he angles his cock perfectly, squelching wet noises filling the room as he pistons into you. the obscene slap of skin on skin mixes with your own desperate filthy cries.
“fuck - oh fuck, oh my god!” you scream, back arching.
he practically beams. “there we go! a natural!”
then he leans in, presses his mouth to your ear, and shouts “go on - ahhhh toru - i’m cummmiiingggg” - while still mid thrust.
“shut the fuck up!” you howl, tears in your eyes from laughing and the relentless way he’s fucking you.
the two of you go at it like lunatics, louder and wetter by the second, until neither of you can tell who’s winning anymore. by the time he makes you come around him - screaming hoarse and soaking the sheets - he’s crowing victory like he just won a sports match.
the next afternoon, you find a bright yellow notice taped to your door. bold letters across the top read “noise disturbance report.” beneath it, in sterile print: “several residents have complained of excessive moaning, loud banging, and prolonged screaming between the hours of 11:42 p.m. and 2:03 a.m. please be mindful of others in the building.”
you freeze, mortified, gojo leans over your shoulder, plucks the paper free, and reads it with a slow grin. “huh. they actually logged the hours. two - oh - three? guess we went into overtime.” he snorts. “did they seriously track how long we were fucking?”
you slap the notice against his chest angrily and march back inside. he only laughs harder, following after you with the complaint held aloft like a victory banner.
what happens when satoru gojo hears you thirsting over his dick? (18+)
you were one hundred percent sure you’d hung up.
so sure you didn’t even glance at your phone before tossing it onto the couch and collapsing beside your friends with a long, dramatic sigh.
“i swear,” you groaned, staring at the ceiling, “satoru gojo is a walking violation of human decency.”
one of your friends laughed. “you say that every single time.”
“well - that's because every time he opens his mouth, he flirts,” you shot back. “and i’m tired. you can’t be that tall, that pretty, and also have-” you paused, then said it plainly.
“-a huge dick.”
the room immediately exploded, a series of “oh my god.” “there it is.” “i knew this was coming.” to be heard.
“i’m serious!” you sat up, animated now. “it’s not even subtle. everything about him screams it. the confidence, the way he stands too close, the way his pants fit - like how am i expected to maintain eye contact when there is a whole other world down there?”
someone laughed so hard they wheezed. “didn’t you say it was-”
“yes,” you cut in immediately. “big. thick. veiny as if it has its own workout routine. obnoxious - it has its own gravitational pull too, i’d be soooo fucking mad at him one second - then i remember he’s walking around with that thing like it’s normal.”
you buried your face in your hands. “it’s unfair, it should come with a warning label.”
“and yet,” your friend teased, “you answer every call.”
“because he calls just to ask what i ate,” you groaned. “or to say he misses me. or to flirt for no reason. he doesn’t even say goodbye properly - did you know? he just hangs up like he owns me and honestly? with that dick? he kind of does.”
a beat, a horrible, damning beat.
then - “…wow.” - your entire body froze.
that voice. slowly, dread curling in your stomach, you turned toward the couch; your phone screen was still glowing, the call timer was still running.
you grabbed the phone with shaking hands. “sa- satoru.”
your friends lost their minds - screaming, laughing, one of them clutching the armrest like they were about to pass out.
there was silence on the other end for half a second, then he laughed.
low, slow. amused in a way that made your stomach flip even harder in shame and embarrassment.
“so,” he said smoothly, “this is what you say when you think i’m not around - good to know.”
“i-okay-wait-” you panicked. “i thought i hung up.”
“oh, i know,” he replied casually, you groaned and covered your face. “please tell me you didn’t hear-”
your friends were howling.
“i heard everything,” he interrupted, clearly enjoying himself now. “tall, pretty, huge dick, distracting pants situation, gravitational pull…”
“you also said,” he continued lightly, “that you can’t stay mad at me because you keep thinking about how big it is, isn't that right pretty?”
you made a sound that shouldn’t be human. “satoru!”
“what?” he said innocently. “i’m just repeating your words. very detailed words, by the way. you seemed… passionate.”
“i was venting!”
“you were describing,” he corrected. “very vividly.”
your friends made exaggerated gagging noises - you gasped. “you will not.”
heat flooded your cheeks as his tone softened, turning teasing and flirty.
“i could hear you smiling,” he added. “you always do when you pretend to complain about me and i'll bring this up at our wedding.”
“oh, absolutely,” he replied. “ ‘the moment i realized my partner spends a concerning amount of time thinking about my dick.’ it’s a great story.”
“do not say that out loud ever.”
“…i’m never living this down,” you muttered.
he laughed, warm and unbothered. “relax. i’m flattered. really.” your heart was racing now, embarrassment being tangled with something stupidly fond.
“nope,” he said gently. “but don’t worry. i’ll keep calling anyway.”
you exhaled. “… bye, satoru - for real this time.”
“mmm,” he hummed, voice dropping. “next time, though - make sure you actually hang up before praising my... assets.”
the call ended. you stared at your phone. then at your friends.
“…i’m changing my name and leaving the country.”
they were still laughing as you smiled - soft, absolutely doomed, and already aware he’d call again.
just then - your phone buzzed with a new message from satoru:
“don’t worry… i’ll make sure you get a proper label warning on it next time ;)”
it starts out normal - which is already suspicious, because nothing in your life ever stays normal for long.
you’re settling into the moment, nanami’s fingers are sliding between your thighs, parting your slick folds carefully, his jaw tightening in the process.
his thumb circles your clit in firm, unhurried presses while his other hand cups your breast, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you arch into him.
eventually, you’re grinding against his palm, your pussy clenching around nothing yet, breath hitching as he leans in to suck on your neck leaving a hot trail of hickeys down to your collarbone, his hard cock pressing insistently against your hip through his boxers.
your mind suddenly lights up with a horrifying clarity:
you have an audit report due tomorrow - tomorrow.
your soul leaves your body, heart dropping as you try to stop your eyes from widening.
your physical form continues functioning on autopilot: you are breathing, responding - moaning softly as his fingers dip inside you, curling to hit that oh - so sweet spot that makes your toes curl. you are doing what looks like being present.
internally, however, you are staring at a beige website with bad fonts and a login page that never remembers your password or far worse, an email that says you're fired - hell no, you can't be fired from another job, this was the second one this month already.
you try to push the thought away - it wasn't the time.
nanami is being gentle, he looks so fucking good your throat tightens, saliva pooling, and you swallow hard without thinking.
his mouth is trailing down to latch onto your nipple, tongue flicking as he pumps his fingers deeper, your wetness coating his hand.
the moment deserves respect - a lot of it too.
unfortunately, your brain has now opened a second mental tab 'anxiety': “what time is it now.” “if i wake up at 7am, do i have enough time to finish it?”
you are no longer feeling pleasure - you are feeling pressured.
your breathing changes, not from the building heat in your core, but from the creeping panic of responsibility; you realize, with sudden certainty, that this is not going anywhere right now.
you are not going to arrive at the intended destination - his cock now buried deep inside you, pounding until you both shatter.
so, you settle on the only plausible way to start the report and get out of this situation: fake the orgasm.
you soften into him a little more, clenching around his fingers as if you're on the edge, you let your body relax in a way that looks intentional, thighs trembling as if from release, then - you let out a breath that is… emotionally convincing, a drawn-out “mmnnngh!” that echoes like you've just crested the wave.
you cling slightly, nails digging into his broad shoulders - selling it.
“…are you alright?” he asks quietly, his cock slipping free from your cunt.
you nod. “y-yeah, perfect - actually. amazing.”
except he has not moved yet; he studies you - the way you are breathing, the way your shoulders are sitting, the way your hands are still gripping him.
“that was fast,” he says neutrally, your stomach drops - you open your eyes.
“i’m efficient, that’s all.”
he exhales through his nose in that tiny, controlled way he does when he’s deciding whether something is worth questioning further.
the silence that follows is not empty, it’s active, as if he is turning the moment over in his head and checking all the angles.
you cannot hold it in anymore.
“irememberedihaveareportduetomorrowforwork.” you blurt out.
pause - “you.. what?”
“my brain left my body and went straight into a pdf.”
he blinks once, twice - slowly.
“so, let me get this straight; you pretended to finish,” he says carefully, “because of administrative responsibilities - that you forgot about.”
“yes.”
“you could have asked to stop.”
“that’s mean - i didn’t want to ruin the mood.”
“you didn’t exactly preserve the mood, did you?”
you sit up, animated. “listen - i tried to choose love, but my frontal cortex chose capitalism. it’s not my fault.”
he looks at you for a long moment - not angry, never angry, not offended either, just quietly recalibrating his understanding of you as a person.
then something almost like a smile appears, reluctant, as if he does not quite want to encourage you but cannot help finding it absurd.
“you are unbelievable.”
“but honest.”
“eventually.”
you move closer anyway, curling into him with absolutely no sense of shame, tucking yourself against him like none of this just happened.
“can you help me with it, by the way - it's an audit report.”
he sighs, tired in that fond way that means yes before he even says it.
“yes.”
you relax immediately. “then this was worth it.”
“this is not how i imagined tonight going,” he says, you smile into his shoulder.
“it is character development.”
“for whom.”
“you.”
he lets out a small, involuntary huff of a laugh despite himself, and you stay there like that, warm, ridiculous and held, knowing you absolutely did not deserve how gently he handled being lied to.
not proofread + you're not hallucinating if u saw this earlier i posted it accidentally also i feel like this would genuinely happen to me
gojo satoru is a well-known gentleman, he takes blind dates very - and i mean very seriously.
you check your watch for what felt like the tenth time in a minute.
your friend - the one you are currently plotting to erase from your contact list - had promised he was "normal, nice, and surprisingly available."
so far, the only thing he’s proven to be is late.
you were feeling good, though. your skin was hitting that perfect level of glow, and you’d spent a solid twenty minutes making sure your lashes were curled to that precise, doll-like fan you loved.
you sigh, stirring your coffee with unnecessary violence. five more minutes, five more minutes - that's it, you decide.
five minutes before you abandon this blind date, reclaim your dignity, and go home to watch a stupid show.
the café door suddenly chimes, violently.
the quiet, cozy atmosphere cracks in half like someone dropped a chandelier; conversations falter, a fork clatters against a plate - even the soft indie music seems to lower itself out of respect.
someone just walked in.
he is… tall.
no, tall doesn’t quite cover it - the man looks like he was designed in a laboratory specifically to intimidate doorframes; broad shoulders, hella long legs, a fitted black turtleneck that looks expensive enough to pay your rent for the rest of the year.
and to top it off his hair is white, not grey, not silver either. freaking white.
white - white like fresh snow. deadass.
but that’s not the strangest part, oh you wish it was, the strangest part is the blindfold; a thick, black blindfold wrapped neatly around his eyes. yeah, outside. in public. at night - what an odd man, you think.
he stands there for a moment like he owns the building, tilting his head slightly.
the café collectively stops breathing, heads turning towards him and wherever he's going.
then - somehow - he turns directly toward your booth.
your stomach drops.
no.
please keep walking.
please pick literally anyone else in this room.
but his boots are already striding across the café floor with confident, unfairly attractive ease.
he stops at your table, leans down slightly then of course you almost fucking choke when you catch a whiff of his strong cologne.
"you," he says, smiling like he just won the lottery. "are you the one waiting for a blind date?"
you stare up at him, blinking - yeah you are waiting for a blind date, not an actual BLIND date, blind PERSON.
what the fuck is wrong with this dude?
slowly, carefully, your eyes travel from the absurd blindfold… down to his smug grin.
"...did you," you say flatly, "walk here like that?"
he straightens, clearly delighted by the question.
"of course, teleported - actually. but let's leave that talk for later, you sure are curious about me eh?"
"you walked through tokyo traffic blindfolded."
"technically," he corrects cheerfully, sliding into the booth across from you, "i floated through most of it."
you blink again.
"...right, cool." peter pan syndrome - he has it, definitely. you ponder.
he leans forward, elbows on the table.
"so," he says brightly. "your friend said this was a blind date."
you glance at the blindfold again.
"yeah, i see you took that... very seriously."
"i take comedy very seriously."
"that must explain the outfit."
he gasps. actually gasps - "wow," he says, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "first five minutes and you're already attacking my impeccable, flawless fashion sense."
"the runway show for ‘people who think sunglasses indoors are passé’ isn’t until next week," you reply. "you’re early."
he pauses, for approximately half a second - then he bursts into laughter; the kind that echoes through the entire café and makes three nearby tables turn to stare.
"ouch," he says, grinning wider. "you’re brutal. i like it."
he reaches across the table suddenly, "gojo satoru," he announces.
you shake his hand, telling him your own in return, you could already tell this is going to be an interesting blindfolded.. date.
when do i ever proofread atp, @hanaegoaway @justiceforkira @cassiee444 @pegginggojo @satoruslvut @starzbrii @mspinkpanties @swirlybunni @honeybunny4808
