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resident evil fanatic!!

masterlist

i hoepep you guys enjoy reaidngng

[gojover]

A LESSON ON LOVE

with your love life in ruins, the last thing you want to do is think about romance. unfortunately, between passive-aggressive notes and an infuriating neighbour named 4B who won’t leave you alone, love might not be done with you just yet

pairing: frat!jo x reader

content: mdni idiots in love, satoru as a faceless voice for a while, larping abt frats again, one (1) frat party scene, voyeurism, p in v, slightly intoxicated but consensual sex, cunnilingus, slight public sex/hidden sex 30k+

note: there are some images in this fic for immersion but if there's any difficulty in reading them, please click the alt text option! alternatively, you can read this on ao3 !!

When you eventually gained the courage to break up with your shitty boyfriend, you knew it would be a public spectacle considering he’s the vice president of Tau Delta Phi. What you didn’t expect, however, was to find yourself spotlighted in the living room of some random houseparty, an empty red plastic cup in your hand and whatever had been inside now poured over your ex-boyfriend’s head.

It was almost funny watching humiliation and rage surge across Naoya’s face, marked by that red-hot blush you’ve seen far too many times, spit flying from his mouth when he yells that you’ll regret this, he’ll make sure you do. To no surprise he had you kicked out, leaving you stranded on the side of the road at 2am, alone, slightly intoxicated, and with a massive hole punctured through your concept of love.

Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do. 

a/n: oh my GOD this is another draft that i started writing in 2023 (?) and is affectionately known by my friends and i as the jorkin' it fic <3 b99!au fic coming next !! not that i don't love the other fics i've written but it's definitely my favourite wip so i hope you all love that one too! thank you so much for reading until the very end and i hope u enjoyed :3

[pillsatoru]

gonna re-read in the morning this was too good 🥹

[moonlightengel]

Haven't posted in months, but here's the mechanic Toji I spent forever on.

I don't typically post on tumblr so if you'd like to see updates and more drawings, follow my TikTok _moonlightengel_

[splurtz]

is it ever casual? — toji f

sum ⋮ ⌗ ┆what's it like being in a situationship with toji (18+)

there’s a few reasons why toji fushiguro is single. 

he’s a man that likes his freedom way too much, coming and going as he pleases without explaining himself to anyone. he keeps his life simple on purpose. he likes his space, his schedule, and the freedom to disappear for a while whenever he feels like it. relationships mean drama he doesn’t have time for, so he stays detached. well that’s the basic reason. 

then there’s his ex-wife and his kid. their marriage crashed and burned years ago, but they still have to co-parent their son. it left enough baggage that toji keeps most people at a distance. he sees himself as a decent enough father even if he knows he fucks up sometimes, showing up for megumi’s games when he can and making sure the kid has what he needs. he thinks he loves in a quite weird way, he doesn’t do big gestures but he does make time when it counts and worries about the boy more than he lets on.

and then there’s you. 

toji thinks you fit in his life perfectly. starting in just one night bleeding into the next until it became routine. he wasn’t the type to stick around in the first place, yet here you are months deep in whatever unlabeled mess you guys are in. you’re younger than him, not by much but enough that he notices it in the way you see things sometimes, the energy you bring that cuts through his usual detachment without trying too hard. he likes that about you, how you dont push for more than what’s there but still manage to make space for yourself in his day.

he found out through you that young people would call this type of relationship casual, the word slipping out one night when you were both tangled up in your sheets and he asked what you thought this was between you. he likes that label better than friends with benefits, which sounds corny and juvenile to him, like some college hookup that doesn't fit the way you two keep circling back to each other. 

casual for him simply means he can let you into his life without promises. it means he can let himself into your apartment on random nights, you go to his place other nights. conversation stays easy, him ranting about work stuff and you sharings bits of your day, but it always shifts quick after a few minutes, his mouth on your neck and his hands pulling you closer until you’re riding him. that's how it is with the both of you. he likes how casual lets mornings with you happen, waking up to you stealing his shirt and making coffee together before he heads out, no questions about when he’ll be back. 

some days he picks you up after work, the weekends where he stays over feel even easier under that label, him fixing small things around your place or just lounging with you in bed, his big frame taking up most of the space while you talk about anything and everything, he even makes the effort to text you during the week now and then. casual makes it simple to keep things separate like that, his like with megumi in one box and this thing with you in another, no overlap unless he wants it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“that how you ride?”

toji teases as he leans back against the headboard, hands loose on your hips  while you sink down onto him. you're straddling his lap in the middle on his bed, sheets already kicked to the side. he’s thick and deep inside you, stretching you open.

“shut up,” you mutter, rolling your hips slow, grinding down so heels every inch. “you love it when i take my time. can literally feel how hard you are.”

he groans fingers digging into your ass as you lift up and slide back down. “yeah? keep talking like that and i might start believing you being in charge.” his green eyes drag over your body, watching the way your tits move with every roll of your hips. “fuck–look at you. so wet already, you’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? dirty girl.” 

you brace your hands on his chest and pick up the pace, riding him harder. “..maybe i have. maybe i touched myself earlier thinking about how good you stretch me. you gonna do something about it or just talk shit?” the words make his grip tighten, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, rolling  it between his fingers until you moan louder.

“keep riding me just like that and i’ll give you whatever you want,” he says, toji then thrusts up to meet you on the next downstroke making you gasp. “that’s it.. bounce on this dick, baby. show me how bad you need it.” you lean forward so your clit grinds against him, toji’s freehand comes up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you down into a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth while you keep moving on him. 

when you pull back for air he doesn't let you go far, forehead pressed to yours. “s-sooo fucking tight..this pussy sucks me everytime. you feel that? love how deep i am?” you nod, breath shake as you ride him faster, thighs burning but you don’t mind because the pleasure is just so good. “yes—fuck, toji, you’re so deep.. love it–love it so much…. don’t stop.”

“good fucking girl. tell me more, yea? want to hear you beg for it while you’re creaming all over me.” you lean back, hands on his thighs for leverage, riding him with every energy you had left.  your voice wrecks as you keep moaning his name telling him how close you are. “then cum. lemme feel it… soak me baby.”

you keep grinding down on him chasing that edge. “i’m so–i’m so close.” he kept his eyes on you watching as your orgasm hits you, your walls clamping down around him as you cry his name. “toji–! shit shit….oh god–” your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans loud. you lean in close, still riding him with little energy, whispering against his mouth, “cum inside me. fill me up, toji, i want all of it baby.” that pushes him over the edge, he lets out another groan, hips jerking as he starts to cum. “shit–take it. every fucking drop.”

you keep moving your hips in lazy circles, milking him though it while he twitches inside you. toji wonders how you could still do that after all that. right as he’s coming down, he looks up at you pulling a lazy smirk, “spit in my month, baby.”

you don’t hesitate, leaning down and letting a string of spit drop onto his tongue. swallowing it as he pulls you down into another kiss, tongues sliding together. you two stay like that for a long minute, connected and messy, until toji starts cleaning for the both of you. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you stay pressed against his chest for a little while longer. toji eventually sighs and shifts under you. 

“shower,” he grumbles. he lifts you off him carefully and stands up, stretching his back. “you comin’?”

you shake your head still too tired, ‘in a minute.”

he quietly heads to the bathroom. toji showers really fast when alone, you doubt he’ll take longer than 10 minutes inside. you pull his discarded shirt and pad into the kitchen for a drink. the doorbell rings just as you set the glass down.

you walk over and open the door without thinking. 

a woman with sharp features and dark hair stands there. she’s dressed like she just came from work–blouse, jeans, purse on her shoulder. her eyes drop straight to your bare legs, toji’s oversized shirt, and the obvious fucked up state of your hair. her mouth presses into a thin line. 

you think you can safely assume who she is.

“so this is what he’s doing now,” she says as she looks you over again, slower this time, judging every detail. “you look young.”

you open your mouth but nothing comes out right away. 

you hear heavy footsteps from behind. toji appears a second later, towel low on his hips, water still running down his chest. 

“cleats?” he asks, guessing what she’s here for. 

“yeah, megumi left them again.” her eyes flick back to you. “didn’t realize you had a guest.”

toji exhales through his nose. “go wait inside,” he tells you. he then steps out and pulls the door almost close behind him.

you don’t go far. as bad as it sounds you wanna hear a bit. to be fair…. they’re obviously going to talk about you? you should hear. you sit on the arm of the couch, close enough to hear through the crack. 

“she one of your regulars?” his ex asks, not even trying to be quiet. “barely looks old enough to be out of college.”

“she’s a friend,” toji says evenly. “and she’s out of college. she helps out sometimes, it’s not a big deal.”

a friend. the word lands like a slap.

it sucks hearing it out loud like that. you don’t even know why it bothers you so much—you keep telling yourself you don’t want to get attached, that this casual thing is perfect because it’s easy and he never makes you feel like you have to ask for more. but it still stings, sitting here in his shirt after he was just inside you, knowing he’s out there drawing that clean line with her. you don’t want to be the girl who catches feelings and ruins it. 

his ex laughs, “right. a friend who answers your door half naked. real classy, toji. try not to let megumi walk in on your ‘friends’ next time. he doesn’t need to see that.” 

“drop it,” toji says, his tone hardening. “i’ll grab the cleats, you can leave.”

“just keep your shit seperate. that’s all i’m saying.”

their voices drop after that. normal co-parent talk about schedules and practices. you stay on the couch, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to ignore the knot in your chest. you swallow it down. a minute later the door opens.

“sorry about her,” toji says as he closes the door, “she’s always been like that.”

you shrug, “it’s whatever, it’s none of my business.”

he watches you for a second, like he’s trying to read you, but you don’t give him anything. he walks over and stops right in front of you. 

“you good?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say softly. you still lean into his touch instead of pulling away. the sting is still there, but you push it back where it belongs. this is what casual means. his life, his kid, his ex—all in their own boxes. you’re in yours. you knew that from the start.

toji nods, seeming satisfied with the answer, and pulls you closer. “c’mere.” his mouth finds yours, slow and comforting like always. you let it happen because with toji fighting wouldn’t change anything.

not proofread ! © splurtz 2026 — all rights reserved.

[mimuju]

i don't even. play lads but i drew valko bc i feel bad everyone's bullying him

[syluses]

Fuck all the valko haters genuinely and fuck infold for pandering to their bullshit

[romantichomicide95]

…spider-man gojo

credit aliyartss on instagram

[cocoaxia]

guys this is actually…quite serious to me…oh my god…oh wow…

[sunsetagain]

After the gods of twilight fell, all that remained was a thick dusting of gold on someone's lashes.

"You want to see if my tears are made of gold? All right, I'll cry for you next time."

Inspired by Alexandre Cabanel's The Fallen Angel

[calebunny]

Sylus noticed you borrowed his jacket, it engulfed you entirely. Now he's wondering just how tight of a fit it will be

Warnings: Explicit, MDNI . Size Difference, Overstimulation, Dubious Consent (Dubcon), Squirting/Belly Bulge.

Rest of the Li’s here

It was a particularly cold day in the N109 zone. The base’s heating systems seemed to be working overtime, yet they failed to provide the warmth only your walking space heater could, Sylus. But he was away on business, so for now, you resorted to wrapping yourself in as many blankets as possible. 

Scrolling through videos under the huge pile of bedding, you buried your face beneath the thick quilts, choosing potential suffocation over the biting chill of the room. Eventually, even you grew bored of staying in one place for half the day. 

Dramatically pushing the layers off your body, you were hit with a sudden draft that raised goosebumps all over your skin. The fact that you were only wearing shorts wasn't helping, but the rest of your clothes had ended up in the laundry. 

Right as you were about to give up and huddle back into your haven, you spotted something resting on Sylus’s desk chair. Squinting to get a better look, you realized it was his motorcycle jacket. 

Mmm, he wouldn’t mind, would he? You thought as you walked over to the desk, wondering if it would even be able to keep you warm enough. You had never borrowed his clothes before, never needing to since you had your own closet prepped here in his base. But today was a special case. As your thumb ran over the heavy fleece lining inside the jacket, you knew you definitely needed it. Plus, knowing him, Sylus would let you take his soul if you wanted to; What was a jacket? 

So you went on your merry way, spending the day wrapped in his scent, exploring the new corners of the base you somehow still managed to find after all this time. 

By the time Sylus finished his affairs and returned home, you were left bored and twiddling your thumbs on the couch, sprawling across it while playing a video game on your phone. It was evening and the house had settled into a comfortable temperature, but you still couldn't bring yourself to part with the cloud like material of his jacket. 

Sylus, looking weary as ever, stepped through the main door, slipping off his shoes and coat. Hearing his entrance, your body jolted up and you rushed over to where he stood. “Sylus! You’re back!” 

Glancing up at you, he let his shoulders relax just a little as he took in your entire figure. Realizing what you were wearing, his eyebrow cocked up, his face shifting into immediate amusement. Reaching him, you leaned up and hugged his neck, letting his strong cologne and physical warmth replace the flimsy reassurance the jacket had given you all these hours. 

Looking down at you, Sylus seemed to realize a few things. Of course, it had always been obvious that you were much shorter and smaller than him. But seeing his jacket, tailored to him perfectly, now resting on you almost like an oversized cloak... The sleeves easily reached past your hands, leaving your fingertips completely out of sight. The broad shoulder pads drooped almost halfway down your arms, and the hem spanned all the way to your mid-thigh. Yeah, you were engulfed.

A part of him felt strangely territorial at the sight. His lover, in his clothing, showing him exactly how small and fragile you were compared to him. 

Noticing he was still staring, you looked down at yourself, remembering your little thievery earlier. “Oh yeah, sorry. It was so cold in here, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed it.”

“Quite the contrary, sweety.”

You were splayed on his bed, entirely naked except for the jacket still draped over your trembling body after Sylus insisted you keep it on. He was a man who usually let you take the lead, letting you use him however you pleased. But today, his restraint seemed to be teetering on snapping entirely. 

Two of his fingers were curled up deep in your cunt, more than enough to stuff you fully.

“Just so pliant for me, aren't you, kitten? My fingers are all you can take,” he huffed mockingly, looking at you pathetically squirming and struggling over practically nothing compared to what he could really be giving you. 

He worked rhythmically, letting his digits plunge in and out of you with obscene squelches. “I wonder if I'll even fit.” Sylus could basically be talking to himself; you were too far gone with the way he kept prodding and bullying against that one spot, making your eyes roll back into your skull. 

“We should check, no?” At your lack of response, Sylus retracted his fingers suddenly, the glisten of your juices dripping down his knuckles as he lapped it all up devotedly. 

“Sylus- wha–,” you started to protest, but he cut you off with a hard rub to your clit, effectively silencing you. You let out a desperate whimper, arching off the bed as he delivered the final push into your unraveling. 

Too distracted by your orgasm, you didn't notice that Sylus had already pushed off his pants and underwear. You looked up to see his dick spring up against his abdomen, an angry red that looked almost painful. Reaching back to hover over you, he lined himself on top of your stomach– heavy and warm, the tip reaching all the way to your belly button. If it wasn't for the rolling afterwaves of your high,  you would've tried to claw away from him at the sight. 

Sylus looked down at you, slotted perfectly beneath him, the jacket falling open further with the rise and fall of your chest. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in as you tried to anchor yourself while his thick cock kept shoving inside you, inch by inch. 

You just felt so goddamn full.

Gazing past your chest, you saw he wasn't even halfway done feeding you his length, yet you could already see the faint outline of where his cock rested, peeking through your belly.

“You can do better, sweety. Be good and take everything for me, hm?” He still had that insufferable smirk on his face, thoroughly amused by your plight. This prick. To take your own little revenge, you dug your nails into him deeper and clenched his cock with everything your poor pussy could offer, which earned a sharp hiss from him. 

“Stop! No– no more, Sylus- AHH-!” Your breathless words were cut off entirely as he leaned over, placed a palm flat against the growing bulge in your lower tummy, and pressed.

You swore you could see nothing but white. You practically drenched him with how much your cunt squirted. Sylus chuckled darkly, looking down at you like his new little plaything.

“You can give me more of that now, can't you?”

Perm: @lanalemonn @hilliserose  

♡ Bunny's Note: Let me know if you want the rest of the LIs for this trope! Whose hoodie or shirt shall we steal next? ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎ 

edit: I resposted this to see if it'll show up on search and tags again, cause i think tumblr was spam filtering me.

[d3sertfr0g9]

With Valko's debut, ppl on lads twt are referencing twilight and saying whether they're team Edward (Sylus) or team Jacob (Valko). I'm voting for the secret third option where we form a throuple and dissappear into the sunset.

[star-strawb]

everyone can like and dislike what they want but a buff 6’2” man having wolf ears and a tail is peak actually

[vnxqla]

im going feral for valko

[itadoriahh]

YUUJI & THE GANG 🗣️‼️

[kamiflix]

▶︎ Fever (starring . pervy roommate!toji)

synopsis . In which the overwhelming heat in your apartment sends you and your perverted roommate into a different kind of heat. content . afab!reader, mutual masturbation, heavy tension, implied perv x perv, not-so-dry humping, dirty talk, filth, spit, size kink, rough sex, teasing, thigh riding, high tensions, slight spanking, man handling, groping, nipple play, perversion, degrading, oral sex (f!receiving), pussy slapping, toji’s realllll nasty, praise, both of you are super needy and stupid, finger sucking, etc.

word count . 7.3k || author's note: no, not fever by enhypen. fever by vybz kartel, lock in w me now. fic based on this request! (not proofread) banner art by rororogi mogera <3

You told Toji to get that old piece of garbage you both called air conditioning fixed months ago.

Ever the cheapskate, Toji promised you he’d handle it himself. That was four weeks ago and now the machine has finally croaked—having breathed it’s final breath of cool air into your apartment somewhere throughout the night.

It’s the following day since then—where you've returned after a looong, exhausting day of work—and now the apartment is hot. The sun is outside blazing against the building’s exterior but due to the lack of cool air circulating the interior, you're left irritated rather quickly.

The heat occupying the air wouldn’t even be that bad if you had a fan or two but the ones you did have are more tasks that have fallen victim to Toji’s lack of handling as they lay broken in dusty closets.

And as for the man in question, he's laid out on the couch in nothing more than his boxers as if he owns the damn place.

Lazy bastard. He doesn't even pay his rent on time!

Ignoring the fact that you make up for it most months, it is all the more annoying to see him lounging around as soon as you get home. Especially when the house feels like what you imagine the inside of hell's darkest ass crack to be. Too much movement would surely result in one of you passing out from overheated exhaustion.

It's with great urgency that you strip yourself of your things, purposefully making an unnecessary amount of noise as you toss your keys onto the nearby counter. The sound seems to pull Toji's attention away from the TV ahead of him, earning a lazy turn of his head as he glances back to you.

He can't even get a full greeting out before you scoff.

"Toji," His shoulders slump in instant reaction to the sound of scolding in your voice. It's way too fucking hot for you to start an argument with him now. "You've been home all day and you still haven't fixed anything."

He grunts from across the way, turns his attention back to the TV, and then rolls his eyes, "Can't work in the heat, doll."

"You wouldn't have to if you fixed it as soon as I said something months ago." You throw back at him, pulling your body through hot air just to get to your fridge.

You wanted to be disappointed to see that there's no water in the freezer nor fridge, really. But when you look back over to where Toji's been sitting on his ass all dat—spotting more empty water bottles than you can count—you find an expected wave of disappointment slither into you.

"Said sorry for that already, didn't I?" He asks, the lack of true care in his voice doing nothing to ease your irritation with him.

At this rate, you'd be sending out offers for a new roommate by tomorrow morning.

The freezer is opened back up for a moment, your hand diving in to try and get some sort of cooled relief, even if only for a second. Unfortunately for you, that seems to be yet another thing in your apartment in need of fixing.

You let the freezer door slam and your forehead follows after it as you rest yourself against its outside. Sighing, "Sorry doesn't fix anything, Toji."

You couldn't see it but he was smiling at that. The only reason he's lasted this long in this apartment with you is because he doesn't mind your nagging too much—it keeps him on his toes most times. But after not listening to you for months, he wonders if he'll actually get in trouble with you this time around.

When he turns to get another look at you, he's met with the sight of your back as you make way towards the bathroom. Toji figured you're off to shower in hopes of cooling yourself off in the process.

Unfortunately for you, the building you live in has the opposite issue most complexes do and instead of running out of hot water, your place has an issue producing cold water. This wouldn't be so bad if the person who showered before you was conscious of how much he used.

But when annoyingly mild tempered water hits your fingers, you're left knowing exactly who to blame. Again.

He may enjoy living with you because he doesn't mind hearing you cold him, however you are slowly starting to dread sharing this apartment with him more and more as each day lugs on.

——

After a warm shower, you tuck yourself off into your bedroom only to find that it is undoubtedly the hottest room thus far. You try to ignore it as you pull on some shorts and a t-shirt that won't have you drenched in sweat come next morning but naturally it's difficult to do so once you lay yourself down.

You toss and turn against your sheets—comforter practically tossed to the floor, and body already beginning to perspire in a thin layer of sweat—until you manage to doze off for a solid ten minutes. Apparently that was all it took for your body to decide that sleeping under this heat was going to be impossible.

Which is how you end up out in the living room. Toji wasn't occupying the couch anymore so you tried to sleep there, figuring that if he could spend the whole day in one spot, you could spend a night sleeping there and it would provide you just the slightest bit of coolness in comparison to what you bedroom had given you.

Yet, every slight shift in your movement somehow made you impossibly hotter. The couch cushions did nothing but toast your skin and the humidity in the air led you into peeling yourself right off of the furniture and trudging towards the last known resort.

Toji's bedroom.

Now, you're no stranger to your roommate being quite the pervert—which is why you avoid his bedroom at all costs—but sometime back during the winter season, you do recall a few weeks were your apartment's heating system gave out and it was established then that Toji's bedroom had been the chilliest. He ended up sleeping in your room for some nights because of that, cuddling up against you in the name of sharing body heat.

So now that it's summertime, you're standing outside of his door hoping that something similar still applies to the temperature of his room. Your room is obviously the hottest, the living room and main area of the apartment barely fairs any better, and all that leaves his room to be hopefully a few degrees lighter than everywhere else.

You push his room door open sluggishly, nearly doused in sweat from head to toe as you trudge towards his bed and smack at his foot while you walk by. "You up?" your voice cuts through the air carelessly, earning a low grunt from the man sprawled out across his mattress. "Cool, move over."

That seems to wake Toji right up. His eyes peel open and he lets out a huff heavy enough to add to the heat occupying the rest of the apartment, but neither of you have the energy to say anything about it. "Why're you in here?" he asks as he scoots his large body over to give you some room.

For a short moment—and a short moment only—Toji wonders if the heat has finally made you come to your senses where he's concerned. He hoped that maybe a wet dream involving him brought you into his bedroom.

The weight of your body makes the bed dip in a bit as you shuffle onto his sheets right beside him, instantly melting into the faint frigidity it provides, and letting out a short sigh. "It's cooler in your room, so I'm sleeping in here tonight. You better get that shit fixed tomorrow."

Toji looks over and feels the excitement he had to share a bed with you rapidly die inside him as he's met with the sight of your back facing him. This wasn't the worst scenario possible, but he was really wishing for something more interesting to have led you into this position next to him.

He doesn't say anything in response to you with his mouth and decides on letting his eyes speak for him with the way they slide down your body. The shirt you have on was hugging your torso due to how much you'd been sweating, glued to every slight curve and dip of your frame, and leaving him unable to look away quickly enough.

It didn't take a genius to see that you were at ease beside him rather quickly. Toji is suddenly very appreciative for the slightly chiller conditioning of his bedroom. Technically it's still hot—as too much movement could quickly result in exhaustion just as it would in any other area of the apartment—but with you laying beside him in shorts small enough to drive him insane, he figures it's all worth it.

Meanwhile, you don't have to be facing Toji to know his eyes are on you. You could practically feel the way his gaze crawled over you, eventually settling onto the scarce fabric of your shorts that did little to conceal the entirety of your ass. There's a sudden and prominent urge to adjust the way your clothes are sitting on you, and Toji watches as you slowly move a hand to tug your shorts down an inch.

The scar at the corner of his lips shifts as his mouth twitches and he fights off a smirk.

He would never touch you without your permission or anything like that, but he was aware that you knew the real effects you had on him. Even laying beside him was enough to make his hips shift against the bed.

There was only so much space between your body and his, and his mattress wasn't the largest thing in the world so most movement was easily acknowledgeable. Even so, you decided to ignore it as best as you could.

Even though you could tell his hand had lifted from his side and moved somewhere towards his legs. Your eyes squeezed shut and you hoped silently that Toji wouldn't do what you figured he was about to.

Surely it was too hot for that.

Right?

At first he wasn't going to do anything. It started off as his fingers going off to pinch and tug at the fabric of his gym shorts, giving the steadily rising erection in between his legs some space to breathe. Then he told himself he wouldn't give it any attention and try to sleep it away.

Toji was on the same page as you in the beginning, he really was. Jerking off with you trying to sleep beside him was way too hot of an activity under all this warmth.

And yet, he's palming at his dick within the next twenty minutes. You drifted off just enough for him to be able to move without you noticing, and while he didn't touch you, he did lean over to glance over your shoulder to make sure you were fast asleep before his hand had wrapped around the bulge that'd formed against his shorts.

You'd shift around in your sleep a little and he'd twitch against his hand, watching the way your hip looks adjusting against the bed. Oh, the things he'd give to perch his hand there instead, turning his body over to cup yours and rubbing the outline of his hard cock up against the natural curve of your ass instead of his palm like some loser.

The thought alone brought his bottom lip up in between his teeth. Then he was moving his hands beneath his shorts and letting out a quiet breath of air. He didn't intend to jerk off like this. Seriously.

When his hand first makes contact with his dick, he shudders. Toji's tugged at his cock in thought of you over the years more times than he could count, but somehow this was different. He'd never done it next to you like this, where leaning over a couple inches brought your scent into his nose and the natural warmth of your body closer to intertwine with his.

Even back when he'd shared a bed with you during the winter he managed to control himself each night and refused to stroke himself. Well, right next to you, at least. He most definitely got off like a whore the very second you were gone.

Toji ends up spitting into the palm of his hand as quietly as he can manage before he pulls his cock free and rubs at the head whilst staring at your body. You seemed so upset with him earlier, sending those slight jabs his way. He's sure if it was a bit cooler, you would've cursed him clean out like you normally do.

But just the thought of the few comments you'd made thus far is enough to have him leaking into his hand as he finally wraps his fingers around his thick shaft and jerks off. The sounds of his actions are a bit loud, schlick after schlick after sopping schliiick. Technically you should've woken up, but the fact that you didn't made him all the more horny.

He knows you'd get annoyed if you caught him like this—the fact that he can't even handle you sleeping in his bed is definitely enough to piss you off.

Little did he know, you were pretending to sleep the entire time. You were in and out of your slumber, sure, but you certainly weren't able to get a full night's rest when the sound of your roommate touching his wet cock next to you was loud enough to drive any woman insane. There was an image of it somewhere in your head, courtesy of accidentally walking in on him in the bathroom a couple times in the past, so it was a little difficult to sleep with those thoughts combined with his strokes all in one hot night.

Not to mention the way he was panting behind you with not one care in the world for how noisy he was. Hell, some of his breaths managed to slither towards the back of your neck.

You made the mistake of adjusting yourself again and accidentally pushed back towards him, your ass nearly making contact with the side of his body. Toji had to grip at the base of his dick to stop himself from cumming just then, his next breath choking its way out of him before he could help it, and his other hand moving to pull his shirt up.

He went to bite down on the fabric to hopefully help with the sounds threatening to spill from his lips but it didn't help much.

The man resumed with his strokes and it wasn't long before you felt something land on your butt in thick spurts.

Despite the fact that you already had your eyes closed, they squeezed shut a little harder as you fought the urge to flinch. You hoped desperately that what you just felt wasn't what you thought it was. There was no way Toji managed to cum on your ass while you were "sleeping", right?

You figure that right then is as good a moment as any to stop pretending to be asleep and let yourself yawn—giving him a sign that you've stirred awake. Toji's body tenses up almost immediately, his eyes widening a fraction as he realizes what exactly he just did. He gulps, frantically looking around the bed to see what he can use as an excuse for the white mess currently drooling down the side of your ass.

Fairly enough, he has half a mind to snap a picture before you turn over. Just so he can have something to remember this by, y'know?

He doesn't though, considering how he moves to tuck his dick back into his shorts and clears his throat.

After which he moves to prop himself up on one of his elbows, and you feel something brushing against your butt. You can't help the way your eyes broaden.

Then you peek back at him from over your shoulder, and your gazes meet for a breif moment. There's not an ounce of guilt on his face and he only holds the eye contact with you for a few seconds before he looks back down to focus on what he's doing.

You follow along with the redirection and angle yourself back just enough to catch sight of what exactly is brushing against you. You see a cloth in his hand and watch silently for a few seconds as he wipes you clean.

Somewhere in your mind, you wondered if he was going to casually explain that he just came on you and then try to go to sleep like it was no big deal.

To your surprise, neither of those things happen.

The next bit of eye contact that's exchanged between the two of you is awkward. He's still wiping and you're just starring at him as try to figure out what you're supposed to say to him. What exactly was the proper way to react in this situation?

You're too hot to argue, too tired to be disgusted, and fainly aroused since you've always had a mutual attraction for the man that you've been trying to ignore for as long as you've been living with him.

“Sorry,” Toji’s the first to break the ice. “Had this in the bed,” he moves his other hand up and within it is a convienent bottle of lotion. Part of you wanted to laugh at him because of course he has enough junk in his bed to use as a cover up for what he'd really just spilt on you. "Saw some of it got on ya'," he finishes off with a half-apologetic grin on his lips.

You obviously knew that wasn't true since you heard every little detail of what he'd been doing—from spitting into his hand, to thoughtlessly huffing out your name under his breath. Toji wasn't fooling anyone here, but you'd let it slide for now.

“Might wanna change out of these,” he suggests in reference to your shorts, tapping at your butt once he's done wiping you off, “I could lend you somethin’, or—“

“No, it’s fine.” is all you say before you turn your head away.

With no warning, Toji ends up watching how you slide your hands down and swiftly remove your shorts—tossing them off the bed and then laying yourself back down as if to sleep.

He blinks.

Then his eyes unfortunately find themself on your panties because surely you were doing this on purpose now. Coming into his room this late because of the heat, sleeping next to him and nearly rubbing your ass against his body, and now clad in nothing more than a thin shirt and even thinner panties?

If he squinted hard enough at the right angle, he swears he'd catch sight of your pussy.

You heard him scoff behind you, then the weight in the bed shifts around as he decides to pay no mind to your attire this time. He already got off, so naturally there should be no need to go again.

…Even if you're clearly testing his patience.

——

Minutes fly by. Neither of you get a wink of rest.

You're starring blankly at the wall in front of you and Toji's left blindly looking up at the ceiling. Both of you tried to go to sleep, honestly.

But Toji kept adjusting his legs to stop the constant twitching of his cock and you repeatedly rubbed your legs together as if to lightly soothe the ache that'd came about after that whole fiasco of his seed ending up on you.

At this point the only thing occupying Toji's bedroom were two idiots in heat. Whether or not that meant heat in the literal sense or in the physical sense was beyond understanding to either of you.

After thirty minutes of you two staring into space and waiting on the other person to make a move, both of you manage to get some rest.

Though, it doesn't take much longer for you guys to realize that this was the worst possible outcome. Somewhere in your sleeping, your bodies naturally find one another. You'd think that under the hot air some distance would be created, but it seems as though you both had unintentionally different plans.

The next time you wake up, it's to the steady sound of something thumping against your ear. When your eyes flutter open, you're met with a naked chest and the feeling of something weighty wrapped around you.

The weight in question seems to be Toji's arm and the thumping you hear is coming from his beating heart. You lift your head a little to look up at his face and he's already giving you a half-lidded, groggy stare.

“It’s hot as shit in here ‘n you decide to lay on me? You’re tryin’ to kill me.” He mumbles, the very vibration of his deep voice involuntarily causing you to shift against him.

Both of your limbs are already tangled with one another, so the next movement of your body wakes you up fully as your clit presses somewhere up against his thigh.

You try to nudge at him playfully to distract yourself from the sensation that invoked, “No one’s trying to kill you, Toji. Hush.”

None the wiser, your roommate tries lifting his legs to move over a bit and accidentally grinds the firm muscle you'd already been pressed against, into you. You turn your face away just in time to hide the expression that tugs out of you, but fail to swallow down the sound that follows.

“Mmnh,” The sound floats out of you before you can control it.

Then Toji's brows scrunch up—as if he has any room (literally) to be confused, “Fuck was that?”

Your head shakes, “Nothing.”

That singular word flips some type of switch in his head, resulting in that same leg lifting up a few inches in between yours, and simultaneously pushing your body further up against his whilst rubbing between the dampened fabric concealing your core. Your jaw falls open helplessly this time and Toji eyes the way your hand flies down to his chest as if to grab at it.

Technically you were trying to brace yourself, but the breathy bit of air you release along with all the movement makes him cock a brow.

“You sweatin’ down here?” Toji asks bluntly, now dragging his leg back down just to cop a bit of a better feel than the first time.

It would be obvious to anyone with eyes that neither of you were in your right mind at the moment. He was openly teasing you and you weren't shutting it down like you normally do. Perhaps it was the heat or the lack of proper rest under it—but either way—the two of you were clearly falling victim to the same sensations.

Your lashes flutter again and you hunch forward towards him a bit, “That’s not-," his leg adjusts again, the bulky muscle in his thigh flexing, "Toji.”

“What? That’s not what?” He grabs at your chin and tugs your face up to look at him properly, “Talk to me, doll. Tell me what that is I’m feelin’.”

The forced eye contact makes you throb. You suppose right then that the heat had finally gotten to you. Otherwise you wouldn't be feeling the way you do at the moment.

Right?

Your body adjust against him slightly and you fight the urge to let your eyes fall back as pleasure jolts throughout your body from the feel of your clit catching the firm build of his leg. “It’s not sweat, Toji.” You admit honestly.

There's a singular beat of silence that passes, filled only with your hardly discreet way of grinding against his leg, and him aiding you through every faint gyration.

“Mh.” His hum rumbles lowly, “So, you’re horny.”

You drop your face down into his chest out of embarrassment and you playfully smack at him, “Don’t say it like that!”

“Say it like what? It’s true." Toji cocks his head over and watches how your body is betraying your embarrassment. Then he finds himself smirking all over again as he his face back toward you, lips angling to your ear, "Your pussy’s droolin’ all against my thigh right now—should I have said it like that instead?”

You almost moan, “N-No."

“Hah.” Now he's smirking in full force, hands having gone to your sides just to feel your body twitching as they slide lower and lower, “Go ahead ‘n move your hips—rub one out against me, baby.”

There's a groan that snakes out of your throat in response before your hand curls into a frustrated ball against the planes of his abs, “Don’t call me that.”

Toji's hands grip at your hips and his voice seductively caresses itself throughout your eardrums, “Want me to do it for you?" Your head shakes in response to his question and he tuts, "Alright then rub that pussy against me, lemme feel her real good.”

And what more permission did you need?

You pluck your body away from being sandwiched to his, sitting up at some half-angle and let your hips buck forward just once. Toji smiles and wastes not one second in dragging his clammy palm around to properly grope at the fat of your ass.

“Mhm,” he hums encouragingly, to which you let off an airy sound that has his cock aching for attention all over again. “There you go. Keep making yourself feel good, pretty girl.”

“Toji," his name leaves you in something just short of a moan, and it's overtly apparent now that both of you are overcome with a mutual neediness.

His hand squeezes at your ass with each rock 'n shy rut of your hips—guiding you with your steady grinding over his thigh. Then you feel your clit roll at a rather juicy angle, quickly resulting in your upper half flopping back down against Toji.

He feels a hot pant fan out across his chest and he has to bite at his lip again to stop himself from making all kinds of noises. This was everything he'd fantasied about and more if he was being completely honest.

“So fuckin’ sexy,” Toji compliments with a greedy tug of your body, weeping a webby lather of precum from the slit of his cock in reaction to having your tits pressed against his naked skin—your perked nipples rubbing against him in a fashion near to the way your clit traveled his thigh beyond your panties. “My dick’s gonna start hurtin’ if I don’t do something. Can’t keep watching you like this.”

You're the one holding back responses now, instead answering him with a sudden kiss against his left pec. Toji's lips separate and he breathes out something soft once your hand slips down to the waistband of his shabby shorts.

“Can I?” You whisper against his skin, lips smearing.

Toji looks at you like you just asked him the dumbest question in the world. Then he scoffs, “Go ahead.“

You waste no time in dipping your hand beneath the dark fabric to haul his cock free. In your hand is a weight nothing could've prepared you for.

Toji's got a freakishly heavy cock, to say the least. It's massive within your fingers and when you look down at it, you almost moan from the sight alone.

Even though his room was rather dark, there was enough moonlight spilling in from the distant window to have the cum gathered around his plump head glistening. Your thumb pushed up and slipped right against that pretty slit of his, earning a sharp crack in his breathing.

Toji feels your the pad of your thumb applying pressure before he groans. Then you stroke downwards towards his base, feeling the dark, sweaty hairs of surrounding it tickle your skin.

“Shit," You mutter.

He—annoyingly—starts smirking at you again, “Big, ain’t it?”

Your eyes roll, then you turn your head back up to look at him, “Shut up.”

The next few minutes consist of you jerking him off whilst you continue grinding against his leg. Toji mutters filth under his breath that you're too horny to hear, and both of you are now sweating against one another for entirely different reasons.

Toji expects this act to be the very peak of his expectations, but amid your perfected strokes—because fuck if your hand isn't the best thing he's felt around his dick in weeks—your mouth meets his chest again, and he's quickly caught off guard by the way your lips wrap around one of his nipples. Your tongue swirls aimlessly, tugging the bud further past your lips whilst indulging in two other fruitless acts of pleasure simultaneously.

For a while you were convinced that Toji's laziness translated in the bed as well since he damn sure wasn't doing much aside from letting you rub all over him in every available aspect.

That was until he felt your breaths coming in shorter and your hand gripping at his cock a bit tighter to brace yourself for something. It was rather adorable how quickly you tensed up against him as your orgasm approached. All he could do was sit there and swallow down his groans as you gripped his cock and moaned against his nipple, clit throbbing at his thigh and cunt leaking your panties into a soaking mess.

The moment your body starts to convulse and he realizes you're cumming, his hand slides under your panties and he palms the bare skin of your ass before applying a hefty bit of pressure—weighing your body harder down against his thigh so you have no room to run from the orgasm that crashes over you.

Feeling you cum against his leg is easily one of the best feelings in the world in his opinion. He would have the air conditioning broken for months if this would be the result every night.

Not that he tells you this, of course.

As you're panting and trying to steady your breathing, Toji finally decides to stop being lazy and causes your hand to fall away from his length as he suddenly shifts about to push you over.

You land on your back and gasp, blinking rapidly before he's positioning himself above you—cock dangling nastily and sloppily kissing against the skin of your naked thigh. Toji's big arms bracket the sides of you body and you stare up at him innocently, as if you didn't just rub one out on his thigh and leech onto him throughout the entire ordeal.

“What’re you doing?” you ask.

“You want me to fuck you, right?” Toji hums, abruptly hooking an arm under one of your knees and lifting your leg up. Then he's doing the same to your other leg and your breath is tangling around somewhere in your lungs. You're barely given a proper moment to process what's going in before he's dipping down in between your clammy legs as if it's second nature, "Gotta make you cum for me first."

"But I just—"

"Nah," Toji's smiles once he's got a face full of your pussy in front of him—your flimsy panties the only thing between his starving mouth and what was about to serve as a refreshment for him, "Not like that. On my tongue."

That's the only warning he gives you before diving in.

It should've been too hot for half of the things you two had done so far and yet here you were anyway—letting him grind the entirety of his mouth against the gorgeously swollen mound of your pussy, his teeth baring out to tug your panties over to the side so he could properly suction his lips to you. Your underwear is kept to the side by a singular thumb that he angles over, and his mouth is nothing short of disgusting against you.

In fact, the entire lower half of his face is nasty when met with your pussy. The tip of his nose nuzzles against your frazzled clit, and his lips motion outwardly before he sucks the slick out from in between your folds—tongue coming through to lap at it as if rewarded. When he groans, you feel the sound thunder against the entire lower half of your body.

Toji's busy going to town until you both are a mess of mixed sweat and pleasureful tears. Your hand found his hair somewhere in between his long tongue curving up inside you, and since then you've been grinding upwards against him, practically riding his face whilst he fucked you right back down into the matress with his mouth alone.

The same mattress of which rocked with both of your combined movements. The volume of your moaning and his groaning was surely enough to earn a noise complaint from a nearby neighbor the following morning but obviously neither of you cared.

Between Toji's tongue and the heat that continued to make you sweat into his sheets at a ridiculous rate, your next orgasm comes far heavier than the first one had. So much so that you were squirming all against your roommate, trying to push at his head as if you didn't want to cum—your poor mind scrambled from everything that'd taken place thus far.

It's not until after you spill something weepy into his mouth that he peels his mouth off of you and wipes at his mouth, licking the remnants that smear across his hand immediately after.

Yet even then Toji doesn't give you much time to recover. If anything, he gives you no time to recover whatsoever.

Your eyes are still stinging from prickly tears of pleasure, and as you're blinking them away, you catch sight of him crawling his way back up over you. Next thing you know and his mouth meets yours in a singular, haphazard kiss that consists of a slanted tongue sloppily breaking past your lips and a groan pouring into your opened mouth.

Then his cock slips against your exposed folds, a thumping vein felt mapping the outskirts of your sensitive clit before he angles one hand down to grip his base. Your body latches onto his all over again, arms wrapping around his neck despite the sweat on your skin making the both of you slip 'n slide against one another.

Toji smiles into his next set of smooches, trailing his kisses down to your jaw, and eventually the warm side of your neck before feeling you roll your body upwards—cunt kissing the head of his dick as he slides it downwards in one heavy motion.

“Awh, look at you grindin’ on my tip like that. You want this fat cock inside you, huh?” His voice slathers itself into your skin and it's making you impossibly hotter underneath him, but you couldn't be bothered with it right now. Which is exactly why you nod in response, and he leans up a little to look you in the eyes whilst releasing his length from his grip, “Yeahh? Here, take it then—let me see you put it in.”

No seconds are wasted as you dip your hand down and comfortably wrap your fingers around him, giving him a couple tugs that he can't help but glance down at. Toji eventually obeys your short tugs 'n pulls by letting his body follow the motion until his tip is getting snagged by your goopy entrance—globs of slick sobbing all over his first few pudgy inches.

The very moment he starts sliding into you, you're whining and he's left moaning above you.

“Ohmygodd,” His dick easily stretches you out a bit more than you were expecting it to, the sheer girth of him jerking a gaspy little call of his name out of your lungs, “Toji-, Toji!”

“What, what? What’s wrong?” He pauses rather quickly to ensure he's not hurting you or something, hardly even halfway inside you and staring down at your twisting face with worried eyes.

You’re panting, nails having moved to dig into his arms already, “You’re too fuckin’ big.”

That makes Toji grin before he huffs, “No such thing.” and pulls back to spank your cunt with the weight of his cock a couple times. He only tops to spit at his four fingers before smacking you with his dick again, inching in afterwards and reassuring you with a rather gently murmured, “She can take me.”

Your head shakes but there’s an eager glimmer in your eye whilst you whisper back to him warningly, “Just… go slow.”

“Mmmh, I’ll try,” He tells you before leaning down to kiss your cheek and whispering, “Just for you.”

Then he's nudging his way into you—inch by inch until his chubby balls are left flush against your sweat-glossed skin and his tip is bumping against your hilt.

He looks down and sees his cock bulging against your skin. Then he thumbs at your clit and tutts—popping a pout at how puffy your pussy lips are around his dick already. “Look at that slutty pussy—she knows how to take cock juuuust fine.”

Your walls constrict around him just once and the next thing you know, Toji's rocking himself in 'n out of you perfectly. Your insides seem to mold to the shape of him in a matter of minutes, getting used to his wide size and taking him in deeper as he moves along.

The sounds of sex practically cloud the room, his cock fucking into you faster than you can keep up with and your mushy walls sucking him in farther than he can comprehend. Sweat drips off of his body and onto your and the both of you are an utter mess of one another.

Every now and then he'd lean down to kiss you but the gesture always comes shabbier than the last, lips maligning across one another whilst warm saliva is exchanged and left across both of your faces.

Your hand makes the mistake of moving to his lower abdomen and pushing at his body just a few seconds after he starts fucking you down into the mattress—the bed rocking and shaking beneath your bodies—and Toji seems ticked off for half a second.

Then he nods his chin at your wrist, "Move your fuckin' hand and feel it, feel that dick inside you. Stretchin' you out real good."

He's not entirely sure if it's his words or the way he starts plowing forward even faster, but the slippery squelches one of those invokes from you most certainly is not something he imagines. Then your moans increase in volume and Toji figures he doesn't need a neighbor scolding the two of you for this tomorrow so he brings a hand up to your chin and then props his thumb up to your bottom lip.

“Open up, doll.” He orders plainly, to which you take his finger in without him even having to ask. Toji smiles at the sight, “Atta girllll, now suck on it.”

You do exactly that for him, the action suppressing how loud your moans are for a while until his cock knocks across your cervix and leads you to bite down on his thumb. The sensation is sudden and sharp, which nearly makes Toji's eyes cross for a moment.

Words couldn't describe what that little bit of pain did to him, honestly. All you both know is that within the next few seconds, something creamy is flooding your insides and making you two many degrees hotter than you'd been earlier.

Your brains turn off in sync after that and he's just thrusting mindlessly for another minute or two, as if to make sure he's properly bred you or something. Then his fingers move to the side of your neck and his thumb slides out of your mouth—leaving a thin trail of saliva in its wake—and his entire hand goes off to cradle the back of your head.

You gasp once Toji lifts you up from the bed in one, freakishly strong tug, still humping his dick into you slightly before your mouths collide somewhere in the air. You're hauled all the way up until he's sitting back on his heels and you're appropriately sat on top of him. Both of your arms and hands are everywhere on each other's body, and it feels like something utterly depraved as taken over.

The kisses you share is a slop of tugged lips and sucked tongues, mingled with breathy moans and murmurs of your names until his hands find the underside of your thighs and move to bounce you up and down on his cock.

A whine is punctured directly out of you as you're lifted, gravity aiding Toji in plopping you right back down onto his cum-smothered base. Then his mouth finds one of your tits and he's drooling all over you.

You thought you were unsure of what had gotten into you but apparently Toji was far worse off. It's like the heat of the room was of no concern anymore. The only thing that mattered to him was having your body be thoroughly appreciated by every part of him he had to offer.

He's even mumbling into you while his tongue swirls around your nipple, “So fuckin’ hot it here,” he puffs, “Making me lose my goddamn mind—fuckin’ you like this. Hahhh.”

You're babbling nonsense with your arms wrapped around hims head, “Tojiiii-, aanh! You feel s-so good inside me.”

Which, makes him feel all proud inside for the nth time tonight, “I know I do." His hands grasp at the thick of your hips again and he squeezes your skin just once before moving you vertically around the sticky inches of his length, “Feel good when I bounce you up ‘n down my dick like this too?”

You’re nodding stupidly. Then his hands find your asscheeks and he's groping you the way he's always wanted to.

Plap after plap after plap bounces against the walls and his cum has evenly started to leak down against his balls and drip onto his sheets—which were already a mess to begin with.

Then his head flies back and his hair is sticking to his skin due to sweat, “Fuuuck, I’m gonna cum again." He warns, tipping his chin down a moment to meet eyes with you, "You ready for it, doll? Hm? Gonna fuck it into you.”

He earns another dumb nod of your head as you press into him. Whimpering, “Fill me up, Toji. Pleeease?"

The next and final load that he shoots into you comes in uneven bursts, painting your walls in a sluggish fashion before both of your bodies go still against one another. Well, safe for you shuddering as you release right along with him.

You're still hugging his head and he's still got his arms wrapped tightly around you but that only lasts for a few seconds before both of you feel another wave of heat draft over you. Then, for the first time in forever, you're remind of how you ended up in his room to begin with.

Toji lifts his head up to kiss your shoulder, “I uh-, fuck." He snorts into your skin—regretting it directly after since the sweat on both of your skin is beginning to make your bodies feel glued to one another, "I would’ve put on a condom but uhm… s’too hot for that.”

You scoff at him, “Liar, you ran out of condoms three weeks ago.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He mumbles back.

Then he realizes there's no way you'd know that unless you were just as much of a disgusting pervert as he was and had been tracking the number of condoms he had in the same way he'd been tracking how many pairs of panties you'd allowed to go missing over the past month.

Pulling away from your shoulder and blinking, “Wait a damn minute.”

perm toji tags (1/2):

@chewiebee @darilovessfood @kalaiiixoxxx @scarfest @broimherebcsimboredok @c4tzons4turn @chansmai @ker-0-sene @wonderfullymickey @xxvendettaxx

@blcknebula @cupidstrace @iiakithegoat @hellodeeyanna @navyllll @grignardsreagent @kingofpiratesiguess @not-a-glad-gladiator @audiblez @hopelissromantiq

@ms-wiish @2kool4skoolll @daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @oookore @blubearxy @iaintblockinnobody @anothergojostan @kitassecretgf @iam-souless

@nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @kunababy @withersworld @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @yourlocalcatscammer @prettysexcgorgeous @lucy-lulu

@sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt @astral-arcana @satoruslxt @sinovi @mattsukitty @riameriash @liasacountgothacked

[hijkio]

Gojo’s fridge, 2006 & 2018

[hangenism]

♡ ⸝⸝ post nut clarity w satoru 🤫 ! ❤︎₊ ⊹ cw: suggestive ⸝⸝ fluff

“holy shit.”

satoru let his head fall against the pillow with a soft thud, closing his eyes as he exhaled. his white hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and his chest heaved with each breath.

“i know,” you murmured. you brought your hand to your face and sighed softly.

“that was… i don’t even have words, i—” he trailed off, shaking his head.

then, without warning:

“i think i wanna marry you.”

suddenly, you were wide awake.

you blinked at him. "what?"

the words barely processed in your head. your mind still felt foggy from your orgasm, so the last thing you expected to hear was this.

“marry me,” he repeated, rolling onto his side to face you. a lazy grin tugged at his lips. “so we can do that a hundred more times.”

you stared into his eyes, searching for any sign that this was some sort of sick joke.

“you don’t mean that.” you chuckled awkwardly, averting your gaze. 

“i do.” he said firmly. “this is not me officially asking but…" his voice softened "i just had to say it.”

without a word, you rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. your heart was racing as his confession sunk in. marriage? he wanted to get married? the thought alone made your stomach twist in knots.

after a beat, he whispered, “well...what do you say?” his voice quivered and you realized—satoru was scared.

you felt kind of bad for him. poor guy probably didn't even realize what he'd let it slip until it was too late. even though the idea of marriage frightened you a little, you turned to face him, a quiet smile breaking through.

“yes.”

reupload with some changes more gojo

[ttakdoll]

SATORU GOJO :: fratjo and his curated instagram profile!

(18+) :: content – frat!gojo x fem!reader, college au, smut, switch!gojo, p in v, riding, pussydrunk gojo

frat!gojo is one of those guys with a heavily curated instagram profile.

it’s not that it’s overly nonchalant, or so quiet that it looks painfully intentional, but so effortlessly busy while maintaining an air of carelessness that he makes it look like a modern day art form.

it’s all witty captions (“siri, set an alarm for those sleeping on me”, who even thinks of that?), vaguely motion-blurred pictures of neon lights and solo cups, polo clubs and martinis, late nights at the frat house, and highlights of well-shot travel pictures and selfies. 

it just seems like he always knows exactly what kind of picture to take in what setting, exactly what makes him look good in front of the many people (many.) that are hungry to see what’s going on in satoru’s life. it doesn’t even seem like he’s actively trying to show off how cool and interesting and luxurious his life is – he just fucking does it.

the cherry on top? an absolutely lethal follower-to-following ratio. satoru doesn’t even follow back half of the thousands of followers he’s got.

in short: he’s got it down to a science. you’d think you knew exactly who he was simply based on the curation of his profile.

at least, that’s what you think when your sorority friends first show you his account.

you – well, you’re the type of person who’s seen it all before. 

you think you’ve got it down to a science too, because you’ve always been able to accurately predict exactly who someone is based on what their social media looks like. and the minute your friends show you satoru gojo’s instagram, you don’t know whether you should laugh, scoff, or clutch your pearls tightly.

“no. he’s definitely an asshole,” you clock immediately, shaking your head. “if I tell you guys I’m bored, at least give me someone nice.” “he’s nice!”

“I mean, someone who isn’t the definition of ‘lights on, nobody’s home’, maybe?”

your friends look at each other like they’d expected the less-than-positive reaction, but they keep pushing anyways. “just try talking to him. if you’re bored, gojo’s the person to go to. Look at his profile: he’s rich as fuck. fine as fuck. good in pictures. he passes his classes–”

you groan. “yes, because that makes him the epitome of academic excellence–”

“–just fucking text him already!”

against your better judgment, you click on that well-curated profile, and you text.

and he texts back – quickly, you might add, for someone that chronically looks like he ghosts people simply because he doesn’t have time for all of them. 

it's not just that. the thing is, you and satoru keep texting – for weeks on end.

it’s not even you holding the conversations together, but him. satoru does the most; he sends you pictures of him with his brothers, him in his car, him walking to classes you didn’t think he attended.

you wanted to stop replying. you want to doubt him, call him a slut, find him annoying. but he’s really not.

you: gojo it’s getting late yk

gojo: but i wanna keep talking to you :((

you almost scoff.

you: how many girls did u JUST text that to be honest

it’s mostly a joke, partially your own morbid curiosity kicking into action. it’s late on a friday night, you’re trying to find any reason not to be intentionally texting someone who probably doesn’t give half of a shit about you, and amidst the darkness of your own bedroom, you’re fucking entertaining this. satoru’s probably off convincing some other girl she’s the only one, calling her up, coercing her into letting him come over at this hour–

gojo: [1 attachment] it’s just you beautiful

he sends a screenshot of his recent fucking DMs.

and he’s not lying – it’s just you (pinned?), a couple of his frat brothers’ dump accounts, absolutely nothing incriminating that could justify your premature judgments about satoru.

suddenly, you’re in it now; your lip is caught between your teeth, trying to process this revelation, and he’s still fucking typing. like he doesn’t care if it looks desperate. maybe he just thinks he’s incapable of looking desperate?

gojo: soo will you keep talking to me now i miss you its been 30 secs

you: ur so stupid fine

okay. maybe satoru isn’t anything like his profile at all.

one day, he finally asks you to come over. it’s not even in a weird, frat fuck, booty call way either; you get home from a pretty late exam, and you somehow get into texting satoru about how you’re pissed, you think you flunked, and you hadn’t eaten anything in hours.

before you can even think about setting foot in your building elevator, he’s sending you a picture of a shit ton of sushi (he remembered you saying you liked it?), luring you into his place like a mouse trap, and threatening to make you feel better with free food and bad movies.

it’s irritating how saying no didn’t even cross your mind for a second.

even if there was a 70% chance satoru only wanted to fuck, you kind of didn’t even mind that.

and you learn that satoru is 100%, most definitely not an asshole.

 he doesn’t even actually look that much like what you’d see on his profile – other than being absolutely delicious-looking, because of course that doesn’t change. 

he’s tall, but half of all the bicep and muscle he loves to show off on his story highlights is hidden behind a faded digimon hoodie. satoru’s got a pair of black, thick-framed glasses perched on top of his head, pushing his snow-white bangs back, leaving a few strands to rest over his forehead.

he even smiles sweet, out of the corners of his lips, all “let’s stay in my room” and “you got any movies you like? I have all of them!”, drawing you in without even knowing it.

 your heart is in your throat when he leads you to his bedroom, where he’s laid sushi and snacks out as if eating was the first thing on your mind.

you have two thoughts: first, that he’s nothing like the fuckboy he seems he is on his instagram, and second, coming over to his house, just him and you, may be the best idea you’ve ever had in your life.

so you think it takes way too long, because satoru’s way too nice.

in fact, it takes you shuffling close into his side on the bed and tugging at his hoodie string with your fingertip midway through detective pikachu for him to even notice you wanted something.

“hm?” satoru hums, his arm absentmindedly wrapping over your shoulders in a motion that makes your skin warm. “yeah? is it too cold, or–”

oh my god. you bite the inside of your cheek. “maybe you wanna keep me warm?”

“oh, for sure, i’ll go get another blanket–”

“gojo.”

and satoru dares move to get up. “i’ll be quick, don’t worry–”

“satoru.” and you’re tugging him back down, giving him half-lidded eyes, gazing beneath your eyelashes like he’s one more word away from being eaten alive. 

and finally, finally, you see his eyebrows raise like something’s clicking into place, and there’s a faint grin starting to tug at the corners of his lips. maybe he is kind of an asshole – but you barely get to berate him before he’s clicking his tongue and tugging you into his lap.

⭑.ᐟ

“fuck, beautiful–”

you don’t even realize just how little satoru matches his instagram profile until he’s the one beneath you, hands roaming your waist, trailing up to pinch desperately at your hardened nipples, all while you press your hands to his bare chest and ride his huge cock.

it’s hard to remember how you ended up here, his back against his own mattress, glasses hitting his own headboard, with your legs hooked over each side of his hips, watching the frat boy’s face contort in absolute pleasure.

all you know is that every sound that leaves his lips, every flutter of his lashes over those blue fucking eyes – heat pools between your legs. it doesn’t help that satoru’s so big, each drop back down on his dick making you see stars behind your eyelids.

“s–shit,” you gasp out wantonly, a loud squelch resounding between you as your pussy clenched around him. he’s just so deep, stretching out your needy cunt so perfectly with each roll of your hips. “so fuck– fucking big, satoru–”

he hisses. “baby, you’re – oh my god – you’re killing me here. c’mon, let me take care of you–”

it’s cute how easy it is to get him, of all people, to shut the fuck up.

all it takes is a shaky scoff from your parted lips, as you lift your hips all the way up, sliding your wet entrance over his tip for a second, just to relish in the way the white-haired man below you practically whines, aching for the warmth of your pussy around him. and then you drop down fully, letting out a broken little cry as his cock splits you open again, the stretch achingly delicious.

“haah–” satoru sounds so pathetic like this, fingertips clutching at the skin of your waist tight like he needed to bounce you on his dick until you were sobbing in his hold. “come on, please, just– just let me fuck you properly, pretty.”

“mmh,” you breathe out airily as you grind down onto his cock, eyes rolling back. “but ‘s so good.”

“could make it even b–better,” satoru groans. “shit. shit, do that again,”

you almost grin, albeit cockdrunk and absolutely dripping on him, at the little whimper that escapes his lips when your fingernails claw into his chest, timed perfectly with a greedy little roll of your hips, shifting him deeper into the warmth of your cunt.

you lean forward, tits pressing against his skin as you press your lips to his. and satoru takes this opportunity as his only avenue of control — his tongue breaches your mouth, a dazed little whine escaping your lips in response, shoving the muscle as far down your mouth as it would go. as if taunting you.

but he’s fucking gone, at the end of the day, and all it takes to have his mouth dropping open is for you to slam that ass back down like your life depended on it.

“don’t be a — ah! — an asshole, satoru,” you murmur into his skin, devastating, manicured fingertips prying his hand off your waist. “be good.”

“f—fuck,” he sputters out amidst the wet plap! plap! plap! of your ass against his pelvis. “fuck, ‘re the asshole here, pretty—”

your teeth sink into his plush bottom lip, and the low, broken sound that escapes his mouth is almost enough to have you creaming around his dick right then and there. “you’re so — ngh — ungrateful. ‘m literally bouncing on your dick—”

“haah—” both of your words are messy, making it out through strings of saliva against each other’s lips, resounding across the space of satoru’s bedroom. “baby…”

“haven’t even said please.” you mumble, and the white-haired man keens at how easily you can pretend to be so innocent, voice soft and wrecked and sweet like you don’t even realize what you’re doing. “just say please for me, satoru.”

you swear you see something hot flash in those blue eyes.

he doesn’t say anything. 

“satoru,” and there’s no way he can say no to that voice. not like that. not when your voice is so candied, so sweet, so intentional in trying to get him to beg to fuck you. you press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, and he hisses like you’ve just bitten bruises into his shoulder. “play nice for me, okay?”

“shit, baby…”

“pleaaase. say it.”

he tries rolling his hips into you, chasing the sweet warmth of the pussy you’re denying to let him fuck. all for not much, considering you slam his hips back down and leave him whimpering beneath your touch. so adorable. so desperate, it was almost comical, considering how satoru looked, how he presented himself.

so much for the fuckboy with an allegedly long list of girls in his DMs.

because—

“please!” satoru whines out, arms flexing by your thighs, a large hand meeting your waist, fingertips gripping loosely. “fuck, please, please let me fuck you properly, you’re so tight, so good–”

he’s babbling. about your pussy. satoru’s punctuating each little plea with a pathetic gasp ripped from his throat.

the man behind the curated ig that featured countless hookups, countless parties, and he’s utterly pussydrunk as you ride him to insanity.

“yeah?” you whisper against his mouth.

“haah— yeah, fuck, yes. been thinking about it — shit! — ever since you texted me.” satoru gasps. 

you find it in yourself amidst the haziness to glance down at his face, the way his lips are slicked with your drool, the way his eyes are half-lidded behind white eyelashes, so utterly destroyed. the absolute picture of intoxication, all by the hand of your cunt lewdly squelching around his length.

he’s not what he seems at all.

because the white-haired man would have never looked like he begged this pretty beneath someone like you.

and you’re just as far gone, because you kiss him hard after the admission, legs shaking as you slam your hips up and down like you wanted his tip bruising hearts into your cervix. it doesn’t take much — you’re biting at those plush lips, letting his tongue saunter down your throat, and he’s whining, stuttering into your lips as his dick twitches inside of you, pumping you full of his cum.

“baby, h-hah — shit,” satoru breathes out. “so— it’s so—”

it’s filthy, between the gasps from his throat, warm liquid seeping out of your hole and coating your pussy lips, dripping down your asscheeks, staining his sheets. you’re not exactly any better, whimpering at the sticky feeling of his cum deep inside of you, your own wetness soaking his entire cock in a pretty sheen. 

satoru’s spent for a moment, and so are you — heavy breaths are exchanged between kiss-bitten lips, his hands gripping your waist tight like you’re his only lifeline. like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t bruise your skin.

the afterglow lasts about five seconds longer. because you realize just how fucked you are when you feel the frat boy grin against the corners of your lips, long fingers moving down, down to grasp your plush thighs.

“satoru,” you mumble, somewhere between a warning and a request.

“shh,” his voice is wrecked. “said please for you, baby. promised i’d get to fuck you properly.”

“satoru—”

he presses down on the bulge where his cock is buried deep inside you, earning a soft little moan from your mouth.

and that voice makes you shudder. “you be good for me now.”

⭑.ᐟ

frat!gojo's profile is a heavily curated one. 

he’s got it down to a science.

so no one realizes anything is out of place — even when he posts a carefully-shot picture of you, passed out on his bare chest, hair splayed out to obscure your face. it’s provocative enough for everyone to know exactly what he did, but barely enough for anyone to question its place in the life he showed off online.

barely enough for anyone except you, who sees that story, dressed in an oversized t-shirt, while satoru’s waking you up with gentle pecks over your face.

yeah. he’s not what anyone thinks.

@ ttakdoll, 2026

kind of just wanted this one out of my hair,, i'll do smth better soon!