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lucilles-witchery · 23 days ago

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I'm so invested I think I'm going to die

PASSION PLAY - 3, paranoia

pairing bassist!suguru geto x vocalist!afab reader x lead guitarist!satoru gojo

synopsis suguru geto is addicted — to you, the fame, the lust, and expensive drugs. living in the shadow of a notorious on-and-off-again relationship that skyrocketed the career he made with you, things become complicated. burnt out and desperate for inspiration to hit, suguru leans on the closest friend he's ever had — the best guitarist in modern alternative music, and prays he can pick up your pieces

tags established relationship (suguru x reader), modern/band!au, western-set, drinking, age-gap (satosugu is early 30's, reader is early 20's), mentions of real artists/songs, mentions of infidelity, relationship jealousy/insecurity, nsfw

word count 9.2k

authors note i promise i keep trying to make these shorter, but every chapter covers so much base, and it'd feel wrong to cut it down the middle. for now enjoy these hour-long chapters, because i'm not too sure how long they'll last. taglist is still open, comment to be added <3 ily -- all feedback is treasured, this fic is so dear to me. so r u guys. (satosugu art by the goat @_3aem on x <3)

previous chapter — next chapter

It’s nothing new. Suguru wants to disappear.

He doesn’t know what it is – perhaps the insecurity he doesn’t believe he feels is eating a hole in his chest. Or, maybe it’s you, standing outside, pressed against the wet brick being talked up by Satoru. He’s not stupid; he can see you two through the front window, giggling on about shit he doesn’t think is funny.

He really should go out there and snatch you back inside, making up some excuse only he can. Lucky you – Suguru is terrified of confronting Satoru right now. So, he’ll let you guys talk. He’ll lean over the bar with his third drink in his hand as Nanami picks up around him, seemingly oblivious to your betrayal.

“A little drum on that piece?” Satoru whooshes softly through his teeth, slicing through cool air with a flat palm. Next to him, you laugh, biting down on your lip. “You got yourself a hit.”

“Well, I don’t care about hits.”

“Not radio hits, those are a one-way ticket to obscurity.” Satoru leans his hip against the brick, flashing the silver diamond in his left canine when he licks over his lips. “I mean – generational hits. Those songs we still listen to that are classics but never charted? Yeah, like that.”

You roll your lips under your teeth, eyes flicking down to your crossed feet to ward off that scary blue stare. Satoru’s towering you like he’s sizing you up, smiling mysteriously, dressed in all black – reeking of status. “We did some midi loops on it, but drums scare me.”

“You gotta hide them in the background.”

“Isn’t that all additional production is?”

Satoru raises his pearly eyebrows, succumbing to a nod after debating with pursed lips. “Well, that’s one way to put it.”

“I don’t usually produce…” You drop your tone, the back of your head pressed to the wall, legs kicked out in front of you. In the shitty, flickering lamplight on this sidewalk, you find yourself trying to bring anything up to keep him around. “I would love to be more into it, but all the sliders and numbers,” you shake your head. “It’s not for me – Suguru’s much better than I am.”

At the sound of his name, you can see that wonder in Satoru’s eyes fall by the wayside – if only for a second. Looking down on you, he blinks. “I wish I could understand how an angel like you can keep Suguru at bay.”

“Huh?”

Then, he eases back with an eyeroll, flashing that stupid little tooth gem like he knew how hot it makes you. “I like laughing – I like telling jokes. Lots of jokes. Don’t take me seriously.”

You giggle again, trying to hide your fluster by turning in his opposite direction. Chin tucked to your shoulder, you saw your bottom lip raw.

“You know, you’ve laughed after everything I’ve said so far, but it’s always been a stupid little giggle.” He teases, rocking into your side to catch your attention like you’re a middle school crush. “Don’t tell me the prettiest girl in rock music is shy.”

“The, what?”

Satoru doubles down, his playful expression zeroing in when you finally look up at him. “You heard me.”

He’s not being vague, so you won’t be, either. After all, he’s kept you out here in the cold way longer than the two minutes you promised Suguru, and it’s starting to settle. “You realize I’m dating Suguru, right?”

Satoru shrugs, pouting his bottom lip out like you just called him ugly. “Whatever you have going on with Suguru is none of my business.”

You giggle again, and it drives him crazy.

He works his lips around a smile, running long fingers through his fine, white hair. “You gonna marry him?”

Lucky for him, that’s a question you’ve been asking yourself for five years. You’ve always leaned towards a no. Your career hit its height less than a year ago, and now you’re running through it like a chicken with its head cut off. Marriage is the last thing on your mind; you can hardly keep Suguru from running scared when you tell him how devoted you are.

Right as you go to open your mouth and spill everything to this stranger, the front door to the venue creaks open – whisper-soft against the night traffic.

“Seems like you two are avoiding me.” Suguru’s voice, as thin as his patience, cuts through the air, and you swear you’ve never stood up straight so quickly.

Satoru doesn’t turn around – not yet. He can see the fright in your eyes, a fright that would only be there if Suguru had shown tendencies like this in the past. Satoru isn’t stupid. In fact, he thinks he knows Suguru better than you do.

Scrambling, trying to stifle the fire before it can spread, you speak up. “Sugu, no-

Eerily calm, like they’re polite strangers meeting at a late-night train stop, Suguru cuts you off with a solemn tone, completely pedaling over you. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Satoru?”

Turning around like their past is as clear as glass, Satoru smiles, and it’s real. “Hi, old friend! Thought you were the one doing the avoiding.”

Suguru takes a tentative step back, peeking downcast over his shoulder as the door finally falls shut. When he scoffs, his tied-up hair falls into his face. “I was, until I saw you two getting really close through the window.”

“Oh, it’s not like that – we’re just mutual fans.” Satoru finally lets that hold he has on the brick wall fall to the wayside as he steps closer to him, mentioning, “Do you get jealous often?”

Again, you laugh. Satoru just has a very laughable personality, but when you notice just how tense things really are, you swallow it down, hiding behind a nonchalant hum.

“We don’t have to make this personal,” Suguru whispers, tough hands turning to fists at his side. His skin bends and cracks around his rings, and it’s the one sign you always make sure to avoid. Now, with Satoru standing so tall next to you, there is no avoidance. “We left things on good terms.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize ‘good terms’ meant ditching Night Parade in the middle of tour without a word. Thought we were the best – isn’t that what you always said, you and I?”

“Something like that.” Suguru’s gaze is gone – stepping to the side to get a better look at you shivering behind Satoru’s shadow. If it wasn’t Satoru, he’d have killed the guy and you – not without doing himself in afterward. Still, he swallows down that hurt for a moment as he commands your attention. “Come on. Our car’s on the way.”

You glance up to your new friend, still sawing your teeth as you weigh your options. Realistically, you’ll call it a night and go home with Suguru, but you’re wondering how Satoru would spend his first night in the city. Surely, he couldn’t be going straight to sleep.

Standing up to head off with Suguru, you turn and give him a fleeting look, whispering, “Are you super jet-lagged?”

“I don’t get jet-lagged, kid.”

You giggle, accidentally bumping his shoulder as you two pass. His gaze is crazy – so illuminate and strict against the night. It’s almost addicting, being under it. “If you’re up to anything fun tonight, you should let us know.”

“Do you have full access to your social media?”

You nod, walking as slow as possible, lip caught between your teeth.

“I’ll follow you there, then. Don’t be a stranger.”

“You better not disappoint me, stranger.”

Suguru is silent the entire drive home.

You wish you had the nerve to stop and ask him what’s wrong, but you don’t want to know. You can smell the liquor on his breath, the sadness in his hunched shoulders, and wonder if you should tell the driver to just take you to your separate apartments.

The music stopped some ten minutes ago, giving the wispy car ride that eerie back of white-noise you so despise. It’s when the van rolls to a stop light, blinker ticking incessantly, do you hear it.

Sniffling – crying.

You whip your head to your left, where Suguru sits facing the window, and wonder if it could’ve been the wind. No – that hic in his breath was as clear as day. You sit up like your seat is on fire, but when you open your mouth to speak, nothing comes up. All you can do is sit and stare, waiting for this to pass.

The worst part is? It never does. Suguru cries all the way to the steps of your brownstone.

When the ignition shifts and the car rocks into place, he still doesn’t budge. Staring into his muffled reflection in the window, he feels like a shell of himself. You can’t see through the darkness.

“Suguru…” You try, unbuckling your seatbelt slowly, afraid of any harsh movements that could cut him.

His soft voice breaks – it kills you. “Just go in without me.”

“Do you want him to take you home?”

“Don’t need to be alone right now.”

“Okay.” You nod, leaning over before he can change his mind. In his state, you know he’s touchy. It’s too risky to just lean over and touch him like you want, so you pause. “C’mon, Sugu.”

Just before your soft, shaking hand touches him, he tenses, “Don’t–

You stop.

“Just don’t touch me right now, I’m sorry.” He wipes his face with his hands, careless of traffic on the street as he swings open his door. He can’t see through the tears, but wishes one of these speeding cars would mow him down. Then, he wouldn’t have to feel like this. It feels disgusting, like betrayal. A feeling totally foreign to him in this relationship.

You get out after him, and rubbing his eyes, he crosses behind the car, angry and sniffling. He ignores you – rushing past your body in the night with intent you rarely see on him. Of course, Suguru has a code and a key to your apartment, so he barrels in there without you, like it’s his.

Startled and confused, you push the car door shut, heart racing like eager hares in your chest. To you, that exchange you had with Satoru was nothing if not completely platonic and friendly. He cornered you after Yu and Shoko left, smiling like you owed him something. One thing led to another – he offered you a way home, you declined. Conversation sparked, and you were not going to push down the chance of chatting up the Satoru Gojo with fingers as steady and true as the breeze. It shocked you to find out just how much he treasured you, as well.

You admit, it went on too long, but Suguru started drinking as soon as the party wrapped up, and you were pissed. You needed space, and the two of you bumped into each other. Past or no past, he gave you attention when Suguru didn’t care to. Of course, you humored him. Of course, this spiraled into bullshit you couldn’t pick up – now you’re walking into a ticking time bomb, and it’s your fucking apartment.

The second you’re stepping into your space, you start unbuttoning your dress. Locking your collection of deadbolts, and flicking on the lights Suguru didn’t. You lean down to toe off your shoes. You don’t know where he is.

Stretching your arms above your head, you let out a pitchy yawn, rolling your shoulders, and sauntering on your tiptoes through your home. It just feels like heaven to be back – to collapse on your thousand-dollar couch and smell your lavender incense in the upholstery. Music awards and album plaques hang on your walls, glistening and freshly-dusted from your weekly cleaners. The record you left in your player still sits untouched from where you left it six months ago, covered by its crystal-clear dust cover. The familiarity makes you melt – this is all you wanted.

Still, in your daze of comfort, you don’t know where Suguru is or what he’s doing. You assumed he’s in your room, likely asleep. Maybe he’s waiting for you in the shower. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.

That third option is the most common. It’s what you settle with.

Dress unbuttoned, arm hanging off the edge, you let your couch melt into you – exhausted to the bone and too comfortable, you don’t fight it. Perhaps, you even drift off.

Only to wake up to slow footsteps. They round the back of the couch, slowing, before settling into nothingness. You feel him on your arm, flipping you to your back so he can crawl over you.

You mumble something, fingers twitching as you close your legs around his hard frame. His weight is all in his height, but it’s comfortable as it overtakes you. Half-asleep, you feel drunk.

“I cried all alone in your bed.”

“You said you wanted that.”

“I wanted you to come save me more.”

You turn your head, eyes finally open as you study his side profile. Suguru rests his head on your breast like he’s a boy, fingers twirling against your silky skin like he wanted to take it for himself. “I can’t read your mind.”

Suguru sighs, pinching and rolling your skin to distract himself. Ankles wrapped around his legs, you trail your feet slowly up the bulk of his thigh, fingers lost in his hair. “He’s not good for you.”

“You’re not good for me.” You sit up suddenly, head heavy as you stare down at him. His poor, red-rimmed puppy-eyes – they kill when he peeks his head up, frowning softly, “What are you even talking about? Satoru and I chatted about music for like… five minutes.”

“I have never seen Satoru with anyone who wasn’t a singer. He has a type.”

“Are you not lying on my chest right now?” You push, sitting up until you’re flush against the arm. Suguru slinks up with you, suddenly bare and open to your wide-eyed stare. “Am I not always with you on tour, or always at your apartment if you’re not here, at mine?”

“That’s not the point,” Suguru tries to play it off with a laugh, but you know you’re right.

“It’s exactly the point. You thinking I’m cheating on you only makes me want to cheat more.”

He shakes his head, resting his elbows forward on his knees. “Why would you even say that to me?”

“Because you’re annoying.” You purse your lips, standing up with an attitude laced all throughout your being. It pisses you off so much, because you can still smell the liquor on his breath – you can still hear his footsteps as he approached you just to ruin your ease. “Whatever history you guys have before me – I don’t care. Keep that to yourself; leave me out of everything. Do you hear me? I don’t care, I can just tell that’s a fucking nightmare waiting to happen.”

“Wow. Thanks for the support, baby.”

“You’re welcome. Go be insecure somewhere else that isn’t in my face.” You storm off, heart racing and hands shaking as your demeanor caves and shifts into something you hate. He probably didn’t deserve that – you probably didn’t mean it, but you don’t care. It’s too late to pedal back.

So, you leave him in the living room. Mind running faster than your heart. Knowing he’ll probably avoid you for the rest of the night, you bypass your room and jog up the stairs to your office – really a sad excuse for an in-home studio with walled guitars and one-of-a-kind pianos. When you moved in, Suguru helped you wallpaper these walls in a traditional floral pattern, knowing you’d spend most of your time in this space. You made it cozier than your room – investing in thick couches and chairs, sound foam, and dimmable lights.

It’s your own little sanctuary for music. Most of your songs started out here – most of the memories were good.

You push into the room, leaving the door cracked as you head straight for your old Taylor dreadnought. It hangs on the wall like a proud prize – glistening with years of use and care. It was the first instrument you took seriously when you were starting out. It’s your favorite, fittingly named Clover for its lucky gift of songs that made you thousands.

It’s at that chair in the corner – suede white, where you collapse with it in your lap, not even reaching for a notebook or pen as you strum a variation of a Dsus chord. You can hear it in your mind already, were feeling it when you were calling Suguru out of his name.

This hook has been at the front of your mind for ages – you just needed to fuel it. Moving up the fretboard to a barred variation of F, you find some semblance of a strumming pattern and let it in.

Words come to you like a dream.

“Don’t want this to end, but we’re almost there.

When your heart dips, I fall down with it

Your hand grips the deadliest part of my hips

So good that we don’t talk, talk about it”

You pause, taking a break and shifting your focus. Now that it feels serious enough, you stand up, handling Clover by the neck as you snatch your poetry book from the desk at the front of the room. A pen shrugs in your hand, you bring it to your teeth, gnawing off the cap.

When you collapse in your spot again, you scrawl those lyrics messily onto the brown-tinged paper. You hum them out again.

“Don’t want this to end…” You whisper into the room, leaning over the body of your guitar. “Don’t want you to end… Where do you end?”

That second verse comes to you like the wind – pulling focus.

“Wish I could exist so, so far away from here

Continents apart, like where you’re from

Sweetness and spite — you get me every time

I don't wanna fight. I, uh— I don’t wanna fight,”

You finish out the last loop of that chord progression you’d been reciting, eyebrows furrowed as the newness of this song burns you alive. It seems like every song you’re creating more recently has been about how bad things with you and Suguru could really get, but it’s okay because it’s authentic.

Suguru is all you think about. He rules your mind when music is too far behind. He holds you too close, then pushes you far enough away to make you yearn for him. It’s the perfect combination for the art you needed to make.

So, you don’t hold back.

More confidently, you sing out.

“Mm, where do you end?

Where do I begin?

Why can’t I find my head?

When you hold me — it’s so hard to get.”

You should’ve known – figured this alone time was too good to be true. You don’t flinch when the door pushes open, but you do pause, eyes flickering up at the intrusion.

“Is that what you want to say to me?” Suguru stands tall in the doorway, his halfway-buttoned-up shirt slumping off his narrow waist. His hair hangs from his left shoulder, tucked behind his pierced ear languidly. From looks alone, he looks like the innocent party, but to you, he just looks drunk.

You nod silently, leaning back over Clover to scratch down the words you just sang. It’s rare that lyrics hit so true for you so soon, but you were feeling something when you sat down. There’s nothing about the insecurity that you would change.

“Why didn’t you just say it?”

“The song wouldn’t be any good. Gotta be a little repressed.”

Suguru steps into the room, swinging the door intentionally. Though nobody else is home, he still feels like he has to close this moment off from the world. “Can I join you?”

You shrug. He breathes out a laugh, closing in on you. Not, without leaning over and kissing you on the forehead. He flops down on the matching suede couch next to you, crossing his knees as he nods you on. “Let me see what you’re playing.”

You blink at him, gaze downcast when you settle back with your guitar. The metal strings dig into your fingers – a familiar pain. Words lost on you, you play him the chord progression you’d been chewing on loosely, fingers working each string as separate chords. Suguru’s eyes watch you intently, hazing over as he gets lost in the mystic rhythm your fingers are producing. This feels good – the silence is good.

Three loops later, he’s sitting up, arms outstretched like he’s inviting himself into your song. This isn’t new for you two – existing in the same space as music as it twists and twirls into something that means so much. He’s fluent on guitar, making the transition from what you were playing to the more polished fingerpicking he’s leaning into is easy once Clover is in his arms.

You sit, mystified as ever – in love with him.

“Where do you end?” You hum, chewing nervously on your bottom lip as you click your pen on your open page. Next to you, Suguru’s entranced with your idea, head rocking to the rhythm, face moving in expression as your soft voice echoes his love. “Where do I begin?”

“Uh, huh.” He replies, lost somewhere in the groove of chords. It hits with an intensity only some of your songs hold. Those songs created out of the harshest of moments – shining like bright stars under production and layered vocals. “Tell me, baby.”

Then, something shifts. You hear his sweet voice and scoff. “I’m really sick of your bullshit insecurities like you’re not the brightest light in the room.”

“That is not a lyric.” Even as you two speak, his guitar remains steady, backing soft voices.

“No, but it’s the truth.” You look over at him, sliding up in your chair to sit knee to knee. His dark eyes are focused on you, pulling emotion right from the very source. “You get drunk and take everything personally, like I don’t need to make connections to maintain a successful career.”

“You don’t need to make connections with Satoru–

“Obviously, if Kento brought him around, he wants us to work together.”

“Nanami is biased, he likes him.”

“So do I!”

“You don’t even know him!” The easy guitar-playing stops. You two are barrelling into left-field again, all tense and drawn in the shoulders, ready to aim and shoot. “Whatever he told you out there was bullshit. He is not your savior – he’s not genuine, and he’s certainly not somebody I want you around. Absolutely, not. Stop pushing.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded, a little piece of your soul hungry and wanting to bite back. However, the sane part of your skull wills you to bend to his wishes. Suguru doesn’t usually ask for much relationship-wise – just that you’re willing to listen to him and take things slow. Captured in a relationship built on ease and trust, you two don’t need more. Now, he’s digging for more.

“Oh, so you forbid me from seeing Satoru Gojo? Are you my father?”

“You know what? Yeah. Yes, I am.” Suguru replies, voice as light and sweet as it always is – a lure hidden behind the syllables that get lost in the ghost of his accent. “Open your mouth and sing. Let this go.”

He starts back on the guitar. You know exactly what you want to say.

“Well, I’m not a doll on a shelf you get to put away when you get bored

And you’re not better than me. This new attitude is getting old

When you look at me like that, you think you’re reading my mind

What if all it’s telling you are pretty fucking lies?”

Suguru pauses, searching your eyes for any sign of satire or ease. There’s nothing there but darkness – it’s unlike you. “Wow. Unnecessary.”

“Listen. Keep pushing me away, you’ll be the first to cry.” You pivot, dipping into your speaking voice. “I’m serious. Keep fucking pushing me.”

“You think I’d sit here and let you take me for a fool?”

“The next time you shut down and don’t know what to do

I’m running – I’ll keep on runnin’, runnin’ away from you.”

Suguru stops, his fingers hovering over the frets as he sits in silence. Staring at you – unblinking, terrified by what he just heard, he shakes his head. “You want to leave me?”

“Again? Yeah.” You slump back into the plush, heart racing and voice numb from the onslaught. You just blacked out – screaming anything that came to mind to pull a reaction. Your heart is just as sore, cheeks twitching with the urge to frown. “I’m so stressed, I can’t handle it anymore.”

“All I asked was for you not to talk to Satoru, and you’re breaking up with me.”

“I’m not breaking up with yo-

“Again? Yeah.” He mocks in your tone of voice, rising to his feet to secure Clover back on its wall hook. It’s like he’s wiping his hands clean of the ‘song’ he just helped you write. “Take that shit and burn it. I’m not playing anything on that song. I’m not putting my name to it.”

“You know what, Suguru?” You twitch, eager for something to be sent hurling at his head. Holding yourself back just enough, you take your poetry book and chuck it at his feet, standing up as impact lands.

He eyes it, then eyes you, shaking his head. “What?”

Suddenly, you’re struck speechless – heart racing, fists drawn and bloody for him, neither of you close that space yet. Neither knows what to do.

Is this the end?

Something in his eyes – that twitch when he looks at you. His Adam’s apple bobs in silence, dark eyes skating over your body. He doesn’t speak, you reach up to wipe your lips.

“Say what you really mea-

He can’t finish – you’re too fast. It’s like he blinks and you’re in front of him, lips bruising as they slam into his words. You make him swallow them – big arms settling against your waist like they always have when you’re in this position. The malt liquor on his tongue stings and aches, but it’s addicting in the way only he can be. Hands reaching up to get lost in his hair, you pull him into this boiling kiss like you never wanted him to walk away.

It’s easy enough; you two get lost in it. Hands slip under clothes, quick and heady with adrenaline you know you’d be exerting trying to push him away. Now, you’re just applying it differently – moving around this situation like it’s an art form. If you open your eyes and see him, you might just die from spite, but the feeling of his boner rubbing rock-hard against your thigh was enough to keep that down. You hadn’t felt it in a while.

“Do it.” You gasp against his lips, sucking in air like you’d never feel it again. “Touch me.”

“Right here?” He asks, hands under your party dress, squeezing the base of your ass like it's his. Suguru’s belt digs and burns into your skin as your dress yanks up, and you two melt into each other – skin to skin. Your legs close over his knee, jutting your core against him, neck flailing back as his lips press right there. So caught up like this, that argument falls into sheer nothingness. The song sits heavy in the air, but it’s a good heaviness. It keeps you two going, lips working at soft skin – love licks and bite marks. There’s no way to hide it.

“Turn around.” He demands, pushing you away just enough to spin you around. His hands have your wrists locked at your side, his chest pressed to your back as he leads you to the chair. You can feel his breath – hot and shivering in your ear. For some reason, this headiness throws you into an overwhelming sense of ease. All he has to do is bend you over and take control.

“I should just rip this off.” He grumbles, pale face tinted red from the mix of lust and liquor. Dry from mouth-breathing, his lips stick to his words – fingers working at the gold clasp keeping your designer dress up.

“Don’t. Costs more than you think. I have to return it.”

“Vintage Vivienne Westwood – I know.” He coaxes, voice sweet and low as he pops each closure open. Your skin spills out like tempting lakes, giving him an eyeful of what he sees in his sweetest, restless dreams. “Fucking stunning. So pretty like an Angel, girl.”

You gasp, sawing your bottom lip between your teeth as his hands cross over your bare waist, scratching under your dress. His skin is so hot – so real. “Mm, I love you.”

He responds, pushing you down to a perfect ninety-degree angle over the suede you just wrote a song on. Your hands grip the arms, nimble fingers sinking into the flesh of the chair as Suguru works your dress over your hips. The only thing keeping him from every piece of you is a thin strip of delicate lace – as tempting a sight as any. Suguru nearly moans when you come into view.

Suguru could talk more – could tell you how fucking perfect you are in this dim light, but you already know. His body already knows, it's screaming before he can get the chance to speak. He’s not sure he’s been so turned on in ages.

Your body sends his dopamine levels into overdrive, unlike any drug he’s ingested. Your skin swallows him whole, filtering out all the bullshit and anger so there’s nothing but adoration left. He swallows down the urge to say I love you again and instead pulls the front of his pants down, chewing on a deep breath.

“So sexy.” He mentions once more, two fingers at his lips. He wets them over with his tongue, then drops it back down to his aching erection, teasing gentle fingers across the sensitive tip. Pre cum beads around his fingers, delicate like woven pearls. He spreads it over the skin – you hold your breath.

Then, the feeling washes over you again. Sweet, raw pleasure. Your underwear dips to the side, his cock drags heavy through your labia. You breathe out a shaking breath. “Put it in. Please… can you be tender?”

“Anything for you.” He replies, pushing through the barrier – mind reeling as he feels you open up around him again. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since he felt something this sacred. His mind goes haywire.

Nails in the upholstery, stomach in knots, you cry out a whine. “So… So good.”

“Let me give you the rest.” He replies, voice deep in his chest. He clears his throat, trying to shake the effect you have on him so he can talk you through it when you start to run from the intrusion.. “Just like always… All the way in…”

His voice drives you mad. You’re whining, head nodding pathetically as his cock works its way impossibly inside of you. It burns like fire in your loins, but this moment is too good to disturb. You bite your lip and look back at him, head low between your shoulders – lust taking over every single spare part of your soul.

Suguru bends over, body covering yours completely. Slotted like pieces of a puzzle, humping into you lazily, he whispers in your ear. “How could you think about other men when we’re so perfect for each other?”

“I don’t.” You whine, mind blocking every image of every man you’ve ever seen that wasn’t the one holding you down. Suguru has a scary way of telling you everything you need in the heat of the moment, then turning around and ignoring the fact that he said anything at all. Right now, pressed body-to-body is the closest you’ve ever felt to anyone. It feels like a soulmate connection. “I’m yours.”

Suguru hasn’t slept this long in what feels like years – really, just fourteen months. It’s been fourteen months of non-stop studio sessions leading up to rehearsals, then shifting to tours and residencies until this moment. He’s not even back in his bed, but he prefers things like this. Your bed is just so comfortable – you’re always pressed to him just like you are, now, chest-to-chest, syncing breaths.

He wakes up before you, blinking open his eyes to the sight of your fluttering ones. He smiles a bit, reaching to trace patterns over your soft cheeks. Under this duvet, you’re both as bare as the day you were born – sharing body heat.

The sun is high in the sky, and Suguru can’t find his phone. So, he sits up, breaking out of that ease with a rub of the eye. You shift next to him, burying your face in the pillow to ward off the disturbance. Staring down at you as you settle, he feels nothing but love – stomach fluttering, childlike crush-like love. He can’t help himself. Suguru leans in and kisses your cheek.

“First day off-tour. I won’t let you sleep all day.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” You reply, pressing the heels of your hand into your eyes. It’s not hard to wake up, but it’s hard being present for Suguru in this moment. There’s absolutely nothing of substance on your mind. “Fucking exhausted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not even your fault.” You sit up, groaning softly in your throat. Trying to come alive, you blink toward the window, then turn back to Suguru – one eye cracked.

He blinks at you, then takes both of his hands, squeezing your cheeks to pull you in for a kiss. “You.” He starts, kissing your lips. “Are so cute.”

“Stop, let me at least brush my teeth.” You mutter, shifting to your knees to match his early-afternoon fervor. “I smell disgusting. Like cum.”

“That’s not disgusting.” Lose hair everywhere, dark eyes lidded, Suguru wills you awake with a fire so blatant that only he could harness it as soon as he wakes up. He closes his eyes, leaning in to kiss you again. “You smell like me.” Those kisses fall by the wayside – trailing across your jaw and down your neck. You can’t help the slight moan that falls from your lips; Suguru drinks it up like liquor.

Under the covers, your knees shake, lips parting for the ceiling to see. “We should…” Between moans, you whisper into the stagnant air. “We should really finish that song.”

“We might have made up, but I still don’t want to play on that.”

“You can write on it.”

No hesitation. “No.”

“Please, I really like that one.”

Suguru repeats, “No.”

Then, you’re pulling away, top lip drawn like he just insulted you. “Come on, man.”

Suguru stares back, eyes all low and unsteady as he flicks his gaze between both of your pupils. “Change the lyrics and I’ll consider it. We’re not even on a time limit right now; there’s not a rush to record anything new.”

“I think the fans will really like it. Doesn’t have to be for a project, I just want some structure for that melody.” You’re begging, turning those soft moans to pitchy whines you know he’s weak to. “The hook isn’t even bad, it’s sweet.”

“You and I have different definitions of sweetness.”

You pull away, catching the corner of your bottom lip in a soft bite. In the afternoon light, your eyes glimmer a bit lighter. Suguru can’t even find it within himself to blink and will your beauty away. “Where do you end…” You whisper, noses brushing – his hair tickles your shoulders. “Where do I begin?”

Suguru swallows. It’s audible against the silence of your room. “When we’re so close like this, I understand why you feel the need to ask.”

Laughing softly, the moment breaks as your gaze flickers. “‘M gonna take a shower.”

“Okay.” Suguru scoots back, watching as you slide and step onto solid ground. Your soft, naked body shifts and reflects off every step you take – he finds himself unapologetically staring, the ghost of his essence wafting from your thighs. He stands up to join you.

“Babe, I think your phone is ringing. Do you hear that?” You stop in the bathroom doorway, feeling his body hot at your back, staring down every one of your movements. In the distance, you can hear the faint vibration of something stemming from the bedroom – kicked behind the bed or stuffed under the sheets. If it were your phone, you’d hear the jingled ringtone, not this mystifying, almost-real buzz in the back of your head.

“Think I threw it somewhere when I came in last night.” He responds, running frantic, yet steady hands through his loose hair to tame it down enough to feel sane. His breath is ripe, body sticky and pent-up with the want he feels for you, right now.

“Probably Kento trying to add something to our schedule. I’ll run us a hot bath.”

“Okay, I will answer it. Then, I’ll come in there and marry you.”

You giggle, shrugging off his advances as you disappear behind the cracked bathroom door. In those few seconds of come-down, Suguru stands and stares at the door, willing and waiting for you to show your face again, or to give him the final word. Even if it’s just a meek ‘okay’, he’d bow at Heaven’s Door just to hear it. Anything to move him along.

The phone is under the bed, where he tossed it haphazardly before sleeping off his drunkenness last night. On his knees, he lowers himself just enough to slip his long arm under your bed, reaching blindly into the freshly-dusted expanse for something he couldn’t see nor hear. The call long since silenced, but Suguru knows he can’t ignore life in your arms forever. He feels the slender metal device brush his fingers and pulls it out, eager to grab it and run back to you.

From: Nanami Got something good for you. Give me a call back.

Suguru eyes the message, ponders whether he should respond, then shakes his head.

The line only rings once. Nanami was waiting for this conversation to fall into place. ‘You two have been trying to get into Electric Lady since the last album cycle… Guess who I woke up from an email to?’

“Probably the managing partner at Electric Lady.”

‘They had a record scheduled tonight that got cancelled last minute. It’s ten to ten, and expensive as Hell, but if you two can swing it-

“Ten… tonight?”

‘Until ten… in the morning.’ The cadence of Nanami’s fully awake, heavily caffeinated tone sparks unease from Suguru’s gut. Realistically, he’ll say yes – you have been begging for studio time down there for as long as he can remember. ‘I know tour just wrapped-

“What audio engineer is going to want to pull overnights? That’s ridiculous.”

‘You have been doing this longer than she’s been alive, you don’t need an audio engineer.’

Suguru quiets for a minute, listening to the sound of you cranking on water and humming unfamiliar melodies in the back of your throat. Standing at the bathroom door, watching your nude back, he cracks a smile. He just knows how happy you’ll be when he tells you the news.

Still on the line, Nanami grows impatient. ‘Yes or no? I have to send the deposit within the hour.’

Wary of the softness of his footsteps and soft voice, you turn to the door and smile back at his dark reflection. Suguru holds the phone a little tighter, then nods. “Fuck it. It’ll make her happy.”

Happy, you are – skipping down the stones of Greenwich as the sun dipped behind the downtown skyscrapers. Celebrating freedom from the constant back and forth of touring, Suguru took you to dinner on his dime – a luxe, hard-to-get hole in the wall that’s been serving uppity New Yorkers since the dawn of the new age.

He told you the news in the bath, kissed you holy, then ordered lunch and fell back asleep on your chest while his meal went cold. You spent those two hours while he was resting, locked into an old show you used to like before your life got too busy to manage. You forgot about your phone – haven’t seen it since the other night, and were okay with the ease. It gave you time to live in your mind instead of getting the rest you wouldn’t be able to get tonight.

For you, it’s worth it. You’ll live through countless sleepless nights, too many hard-planned days, and none for rest, just to feel like you feel right now. Just to have someone who understands you so close, reaching for you when you run out of reach.

You grew up memorizing the stories from this studio – the records that were polished to completion behind the walls you stop in front of. As legendary as it is, it sits unassuming on its block. The doors are locked. You’re met with such when you reach to pull at it.

“Hold on, they’re gonna think we’re fanatics.” Suguru finally catches up to you, back-length hair put back in a long braid you can proudly say you did. You love him like this the most – loose, dark clothes. Sweatpants and faded logos. His tattoos sparkle just like his silver jewelry. His eyes never leave yours. “We have to go through the back.”

“Secretive. I feel like Jimi Hendrix in another life.”

“Jimi would’ve walked through these front doors like he owned the place.” Suguru bends down to graze your lips. “Because he did.”

He stands up, grabbing for your hand as pedestrians walk by. Night has fully taken over by now, the bars and restaurants on this block are pulsing and writhing with life, and there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Suguru leads you past the building, and you stumble behind him like an eager puppy. Past the row of apartments and local restaurants, you two duck into the back alley. Yellow lights dip off of dripping fire escapes – sirens blare, voices echo. You’re just focused on the way the city air blows Suguru’s breeze back into you, marking your body with his sweet scent.

Suguru has a key hidden in the pocket of his sweatpants, jingling delicately when he fishes it out at the painted black back entrance. You two stand on the steps of a short, dull landing, looking behind you every few seconds for stray bodies that caught the whiff of stardom. This studio serves as a tourist destination long before it serves as the home for legendary records, it’s why you two, nobodies compared to the names this studio has hosted, duck behind the back to enter.

“You know what you wanna work on?”

“Where do you end, where do I begin?” You mutter out the working title, still pressed hand-in-hand with your muse. He moves so delicately, unlike you. Precise steps – long legs, mystical and lovely.

“Make it a love song and we have a deal,”

“Love songs don’t always have to be nice to still be love songs.” You two stop in the back hallway. Suguru looks at you over his shoulder. Then, he steps away, fingering the light switch in the back hallway.

“I think his name is… Mark? Guy who manages this place told me Studio B is already set up for strings, keys, and vocals. Not gonna record any live drums, I don’t think. We won’t need them.”

“Maybe we should.” You can’t help it. That tempting little ivory-haired menace snakes his way back into your mind like poison, echoing the words he told you last night. Now, you’re distracting yourself with plaques on the wall – albums that were recorded here you didn’t know. Anything to chase Satoru away. “I-if we can, I mean–

“You want to record drums? Little old, you? Baby, that set would dwarf you. We’ll get a session musician to do what you want on it… If we ever get that far.”

“Wow, I didn’t know they recorded Patti Smith here, fuck.”

“It’s heavy, isn’t it?” Suguru peers at the frosted glass live album cover with you, smiling when he looks over and sees your awe. “Like they’re staring down at us, calling us modern and messy. Can’t blame them, that’s what we are.”

You swallow back a laugh, absentmindedly reaching back for his hand once he pulls away. He stares silently at the art, shaking his head in disbelief. “One day, fifty years from now, they’ll stare at your records and think the same thing.”

“Our records.”

“Sure. Ours.”

Walking into Studio B, Suguru can’t keep his hands off of you. His long arms are slung over your shoulders, front pressed to your back as you lead the way. He’s writing his clinginess off as the fact that he’s tired, though he just slept a combined fifteen hours today. You should be the one leaning and yawning with your little nine hours, but you were too excited to be uncomfortable.

Every single dim-lit light is on in the studio. Vintage hanging microphones, guitars—acoustic and electric, a full upright baby grand, and so many different variations of basses litter the room. They knew who they were preparing for. Suguru’s eyes light up in an instant.

“Oh, shit.” Running forward into the room, suddenly full of energy, Suguru eyes the wall of basses, hands shaking as he reaches out to a blood red Yamaha. “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous.”

“Me or the bass?”

“Bass.” He replies, not even thinking twice about it. Behind him, trailing fingers over the piano, you laugh.

“Should’ve known.”

“You, too. Obviously.” He mutters, picking up the instrument from its spot and lowering it to his chest. When he turns away, eyes thick with mystique and arms flexed under the weight, you smile.

“Looks good on you.”

“I’ve been stewing over the bassline I heard under that chord progression you were playing yesterday – here, pick up a guitar.”

You spring into action, feet carrying you to the only acoustic guitar in this space. It’s a vintage Yamaha – the acoustic counterpart to all of the branded instruments that call this studio home. Fingers gently holding the neck, you wonder how many hands have happened upon this instrument. You wish it could talk – hoping it would tell you what songs came into fruition with just a bit of time, knowledge, and grit.

You don’t call yourself a guitarist, but holding it on a propped knee, fingers already working to drop the tuning, you feel like one.

Suguru sees you as one when he moves about the room, gathering cords and amps – winding them around his arm, keeping busy as your fingers get back in the groove you studied the night prior. The curtains are open. Every few seconds, a body will pass, pushing you out of that focus, only for Suguru to reel you back in with a gentle voice.

“What’s your tuning, love?”

“Drop C.”

“That’s new.”

You shrug, fingers moving back to that familiar suspended chord you were pining over. It sounds eerie – like you were yearning for something you can’t quite grasp. Pacing aimlessly through the space, you strum the chords, flickering between the four you mined and polished. On your second loop, you start singing to it.

“Don’t want this to end, but we’re almost there.

When your heart dips, I fall down with it

Your hand grips the deadliest part of my hips

So good that we don’t talk… we won’t talk about it”

To your surprise, Suguru sings over your hums, his sweet voice pitching deeper.

“Don’t want this to end, where can we go from here?

When your heart dips, I fall apart with it

Your hand grips the loveliest part of my hips

So good that we don’t talk about it.”

Carrying off his resonant hums, you start that second verse.

“Wish I could exist so, so far away from here

Continents apart, like where you’re from

Sweetness and spite — where are you, tonight?

I don't wanna fight. We don’t need to fight,”

“I like that one.”

“Bridge? Maybe…” You pace, fingers working at the strings like you always practiced.

“Mm, where do you end?

Where do I begin?

Why can’t I find my head?

When you hold me — it’s so hard to get.“

“Hook.” Suguru moves to the control panel, flipping some switches – beady, blue lights light up the board. His back is turned to you, now. Bass still strong at his side. “Keep going.”

“Well, I’m not a doll on a shelf you get to put away when you’re bored

You’ll never be better than me. This new attitude is getting old

When you look at me like that, you think you’re reading my mind

What if all it’s telling you are pretty fucking lies?”

Suguru pauses. You stop strumming.

“Really? You can’t change that?”

“I don’t want to dull the emotion.” You breathe, fingers hovering over your fret, locked in that chord shape so you wouldn’t forget where you left off. Turning back to the laptop he opens, Suguru shuts you out.

“Change it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Why make a song explicit if it doesn’t need to be?”

“So, you want me to change one fucking word? No, that’s stupid and unnecessary.”

He peeks back at you again, head hung between his shoulders, once he puts the bass down and focuses on the panel. Pro Tools sits open and empty under a new project in front of him, ready to be plugged and recorded. You just wish you could record this moment – this tension that only arises when you two are together in moments as raw and diaristic as this.

“I’m gonna hook you up in the booth – just to get a loop of what you’re playing so we can work on structure.”

You take that direction as him biting the bullet and letting you have your way. It makes a smile sneak across your lips. You approach him.

“You were playing something different on it last night that sounded better.”

“I want your take as the backbone. I’ll record some lead on it later when it’s not eleven at night.”

“Yes, sir.” You tease, taking your guitar into the sound booth. You two are fairly agreeable when it’s just the two of you taking the reins of your music head-on. You’re the emotion, Suguru is the brains, and the experience. He was engineering studio sessions when he wasn’t even an adult. This wasn’t new for him.

He watches you disappear behind the fogged glass, face stoic as you slide on a headset and pick up the guitar. You lower the mic to catch the strings and all of their nuances, only looking back up at him when you’re ready.

“Whenever you are.”

Suguru presses a button, flips a switch on his table, then nods.

You play, he watches.

Four minutes of the same thing, looping over and over like a dizzying carnival ride – you’re proud to have only fumbled over your strings once. Suguru doesn’t even notice. He watches your concentrated sex-face through the fog, nodding along to the metronome in your mind.

“Good enough. Come on.”

Stepping out of the sound booth, ripe with headphone hair and singing fingertips, you address him. “Sugu, what if we get someone to do a really sick lo-fi Lindsey Buckingham solo on it?”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” In the lowlight, hunched over his table, you think Suguru looks godly – it’s nothing new, it just catches you off guard. You wish he’d push that string of bangs out of his eyes and really look at you.

“I can do rhythm, you can layer, and someone else can do lead – I can hear it between that second verse and that space before the hook. Could you hear the structure I was trying to pin down?” You crowd him, sitting on the stool next to him, so he can rewind that tape and listen in. Your take blasts on these speakers when he hits the playback, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Still, you point out the different verses you were trying to nail down, saying it’s not the best, but definitely an idea. Suguru nods through it.

“I’m not doing a guitar solo. You wanna do it?”

He looks at you expectantly, totally serious save for the fact that you’ve only ever strummed and picked in your short career. Sure, you can learn… Or, you can just hire someone. “Are you kidding me?”

“We’ll figure that out later.” He turns back to his screen, scrubbing the track to the beginning to hear it through once more. This time, you two sit in silence, letting the sound wash through your veins until an idea comes to be. Halfway through, he stops it again. “I’m gonna lay down some layers. Electric or acoustic?”

“Electric. I’ll probably record on an electric, too.”

“I wonder if they have a…” Suguru sits up, scanning the space haphazardly. “A slide ring. I think that’d be so cool on this track.”

“I think I saw one with all the picks and strings over by the window.” You reply, kicking back in your seat, you pull out your phone. You always keep notifications off, choosing not to silence Suguru and Kento’s messages and calls. If you’re combing through your contacts, you can’t miss any messages. But what you always miss are your social media.

You’re not sure why you opened the app – perhaps to gaze at session musicians you felt could be a good fit. You used to spend so much time caught up in the endless scrolling, now you only post contract images and the occasional blurry story of rooftop dates or gifted dresses. It just always felt odd to place your life on a pedestal, so you hardly do.

In the corner of the dashboard, easily overlooked and tucked out of the way, you see the notification of two new direct messages. It’s someone you follow – has to be. You wouldn’t get notified if it wasn’t.

In the corner of the room, Suguru fusses around with the string accessories, humming and tossing rings down that don’t fit his thin fingers. He doesn’t even notice you, not that he’d want to see Satoru Gojo’s profile with millions of followers show its ugly face on your dimmed screen. The way you move is almost deceitful – peeking over your shoulder before opening the old messages.

From: gojosatoru hi stranger. hope you didn’t forget about me

From: gojosatoru went to an after of a friends show in uptown. thought of you and that boyfriend of yours. hit me back when you can

You glance at the small string of messages, biting over your lip as you work up the nerve to turn around and ask, “Hey, what about Satoru Gojo?”

Hearing that name – it’s haunting him, Suguru turns and glares at you. “Absolutely, not.”

@dreamymoon-c @ddumgum @sheep-infog @jjmeii @hsungies @lucilles-witchery @hypomanic-oneirataxia @vinsushi @cherribxio @casssiesthings

#on the floor

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lucilles-witchery · 26 days ago

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Can someone please bully me into finishing this? I haven't written in months and I'm so lost ahahaha

(And yes This is inspired by a bakugou fiction but I can't find the og post to credit, so if u can pls send it to me <33)

#anime #gojo smut #gojo x reader #drafts #gojo satoru

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lucilles-witchery · 2 months ago

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Fuck I love nanami sm

you always wondered what it’d be like to see nanami completely drunk. not tipsy. not that polite one-glass blush he gets after a long dinner. not the loose-tie loosened-smile version of him.

you wanted to see him drunk.

so one slow, rainy saturday, curled up in your apartment with nothing to do and a few bottles of sake on the kitchen counter, you propose it. “let’s get drunk.”

nanami raises an eyebrow. “why?”

“because i want to see you wasted,” you grin, crawling into his lap like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “i wanna know if you cry. or sing. or if you finally admit you like those trashy dating shows i watch.”

he groans, but you feel the low rumble of it in his chest, the amusement under his breath. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re avoiding the question.”

he sighs like you’re the biggest burden in the world—but an hour later he’s sitting on the floor with you, sleeves rolled up, cheeks already pink from the second round of drinks, and muttering something about how he’s too old for this.

“i can still work tomorrow,” he slurs his words a little. “can still do long division. give me a pen. i’ll prove it.”

you laugh so hard you snort. “no one’s asking you to do math, kenny.”

“good,” he mutters, blinking slowly. “fuck math.”

two more drinks in and he’s properly drunk. soft, golden skin flushed all the way down his neck, glasses abandoned on the floor, and his head lolling onto your shoulder like it’s the only place in the world it belongs.

he’s clingier when he’s drunk—in a sweet, sleepy, murmuring-into-your-neck way. every few minutes he whispers something completely incoherent and kisses your jaw.

“you smell nice,” he mumbles. “smell like home.”

your heart does a little twist.

he nuzzles into your collarbone like a cat and sighs again. “you’re gonna marry me one day, right?”

you freeze.

you’re not sure he even realizes what he said. he just keeps rubbing lazy circles into your arm with his thumb, blinking slowly like he’s fighting sleep.

you finally whisper, “yeah. if you ask me.”

he lifts his head. squints at you. like he’s trying to focus through the alcohol.

then he grins.

and oh god, it’s such a boyish grin—uneven and almost smug, like he’s just won a bet you didn’t know you were making.

“good,” he whispers. “was gonna ask you tomorrow.”

your breath catches in your throat. “you were?”

he nods, then rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. “but now you said yes first. i’m lucky.” he murmurs.

he’s asleep before you can even process it.

passed out in your lap, still holding your hand.

and you just sit there in the dim glow of the tv, sake forgotten, stroking his hair with your heart about to burst.

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lucilles-witchery · 2 months ago

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Can't believe I read that FOR FREE

Tokyo Drift - C.K.

Synopsis. A bad boy? Check. Your parents hate him? Check. Considers you the cute lil’ good luck charm for his high-speed street races? Check. But you’ll be riding more than just Choso’s car…

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, racer!Choso, street racing AU, Choso with tattoos and piercings, talks of F1, small towns, gossip, slight good girl x bad boy, he’s so down bad, pússydrúnk Choso, oraI (fem rec.), he goes FÉRAL, spítting, fíngering, cúmming in his pants, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, making it fit, headIocks, manhandIing, Prince AIbert’s piercing, running from it, matíng presses, rough s, body worship, DÚMBlFICATION, creampíes, overstím, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 10.6k

A/N. I refuse to watch the F1 movie so this is the closest thing-

“Look at him-”

You sigh, “I know, he’s…”

“-bad news.”

“-hot.”

It was inevitable that you and your group of friends would look at each other with odd expressions at the clash. You always did whenever it came to him.

Choso Kamo - the star of your cozy lil’ town’s latest gossip.

You’d heard (well, it was impossible not to hear) that he’d just recently moved from the big city for an exchange program at your local university. Why anyone would willingly travel to some ramshackle town to be gawked at, you couldn’t understand.

“I’m just saying—” You’re grumbling, gaze flicking across the green campus to where Choso was seated underneath a lone tree, face bent into a book.

Your stare lingers on the twinkle of his ear piercings in the sun, “-he doesn’t seem that bad.” The dark, dark line tattoos crawling down the side of his neck. “Who knows? He seems almost…nice-”

Just then, he’s turning his head - precisely to meet your eyes.

Oh.

You can feel your breath hitch- and something at the pit of your stomach twists in a sudden lurch before you’re turning away in an instant. The glint of his deep eyes too stark, the intensity in them too burning.

“She’s right.” Shoko’s the first to pipe up from your right, tapping her manicured nails on the top of your campus bench. “I won’t deny that everyone’s being a lil’ hard on the guy just because he has a few tattoos and piercings.”

“And he’s a city big-shot with an annoyingly loud car.”

Utahime shudders, seated right in front of you so she has to turn at the feeling of Choso’s stare - who immediately looks away. “Well- fine. But it’s also the way he looks at…”

Your little group leans closer as she trails off, seemingly lost in thought.

Before nodding to herself in affirmation and narrowing her chocolate eyes- “-at you.” Unabashedly, she’s jabbing her index your way, as you sputter in protest, “No no, I’m serious! It’s like he- he wants to eat you or something, my dear.”

Shoko smirks, “Kinky.”

“Shoko.” You’re groaning, flipping back through your textbook to distract yourself, if anything. “Don’t let my parents hear you, Uta. They’ve warned me every single day since he’s stepped foot here to steer clear of him.”

Which wasn’t quite effective when you shared half your classes with the very man that haunted every nook and cranny of your town - and the minds of the people living in it.

And especially not when you couldn’t help but notice him during said lectures; tall, quiet, always seated at the very last row with his head in some car magazine, fingers twiddling with the chunky metal rings on his long fingers.

Not that you’re looking at him that closely, that is.

You find your thighs involuntarily pressing together as you’re hastily darting your eyes to Choso once more, taking in the subtle curve of his pierced lips. The slooow flutter of his long, chestnut bangs in the breeze- “Y’know they told me just this morning to never so much as let him look at me? Apparently some neighbor of a neighbor of a neighbor saw him driving late at night and assumed he was involved in everything shady possible.”

“Understandable.”

“Still dealing with the ol’ folks, huh?” Shoko grins as you wince, a reminder of the parents that absolutely refused to let you hold your own in one of the university dorms.

Not quite out-of-the-ordinary for such a small community, but you still did feel a twinge of envy whenever Shoko and Utahime happened to mention something about them being roommates.

“You should just move in with us, y’know- fuck whatever the lease lady says, we have more than enough room.”

“Ah, one day.” Clearing your throat, you’re standing up- “Anyways, I should really get going before I miss my lab time.”

“Aw, Yaga keeping you late for another project?” Your friend muses as Utahime grabs onto your skirt with a protesting whine, trying to tug you back down onto your seat with all her might. And it’s a small chaos that erupts in a few surrounding giggles, a stray eyeroll or two - and for a certain dark-haired man to spy up from his motor book.

Heady eyes locked on the scene, his gaze seeping right through your body. Choso tilts his head with a glimmer of interest that leaves your mouth dry no matter how many times you swallow.

Oh, he looked just devilish.

You struggle to keep your voice even, “Yeah. Lab project.” And before you make your escape, you’re stealing one last glimpse at him- “No need to wait up, I’ll find my own way home.”

You were definitely, absolutely not finding your own way home.

And it was all your fault of staying way too late behind class hours, glued to one of your most important finals projects.

“Dammit. Dammit.” You’re whispering to yourself as you check the time flashing on your phone - just a little past 10PM, you’d already missed the last local bus.

The university was so empty that you could hear your own heartbeat thumping in your eardrums, in rapid unison with your footsteps. Leading up to the campus parking lot, a quick check showed you only a few stragglers that you didn’t know.

With a sigh, you make sure to stand underneath where a streetlight was overspilling its glow, weighing your options in the dim atmosphere.

You could call Utahime for a ride - or maybe your parents? But as much as you loved them, the multiple earfuls you’d get on ‘responsible time management’ was enough to have you closing out of your Phone app.

Maybe you could (affectionately) blackmail Shoko into borrowing Utahime’s car? No, the one time you two decided that was a good idea, the other girl had given you both a lashing that had you bowing at her feet for weeks.

Swearing underneath your breath, you’re opening up the Uber app and making appalled note of the prices. Ah, perhaps you were just meant to sleep here tonight. “I’d rather beg for a ride from Yaga-”

And then you hear it.

You’re sure that anyone within a five-mile radius hears it, in fact- that low, infamous vrrrr— that made the ground beneath you quake ever-so-slightly. It was the very noise that roared past your quaint neighborhood streets at night, the very noise that your parents made sure to complain about every morning after.

And there was only one man who would drive such a behemoth.

Choso’s midnight black Ford Mustang glistens as he’s lazily pulling up to the flickering streetlight, taking up nearly the entire pavement. Too fast, too be lost, too slow to be heading for anywhere but you were - you can only gape as his tinted windows pull down almost silently.

Almost smugly.

The first thing you’re spying is the glimpse of a pale, beefy forearm gripping onto a leather-clad steering wheel. Tattooed and toned.

And then it’s him - Choso Kamo, in all his glory.

“Need a ride?”

You’re blinking, voice never quite reaching your throat- “Wh-what?”

The first sound of your pretty, pretty tone and his hand tightens on the wheel - as if he’d just been zapped by volts of electricity.

He chuckles softly like he’d expected this, stray arm coming to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. And you don’t know whether you’d simply been standing out in the cold long enough to muddle your mind, but you swear that Choso’s ears tint a bright red. “I uh- I wouldn’t mind dropping you off home…or wherever it is you need to go?”

Expectantly, he’s searching his molten eyes up for an answer. But the longer Choso stares, the longer your silence stretches - and the darker the tips of his ears flush.

“If- that is, if you don’t have another ride coming for you of course.” He’s peering his irises around, as if expecting one of your friends to pop out from the bushes any second now. Words running a mile a minute. “Sorry for assuming, I just saw you here alone and- oh, p-promise it wasn’t anything creepy I just notice y- fuck, I messed this up.”

And his shy smile withers, replaced by the anxious twiddle of his silver snakebites. Hand reaching for the gear shift now- “I should just-”

“No, wait!”

You’re calling out before you can stop yourself, and it’s like Choso’s body listens to your words before his brain does. Because he’s halting in his tracks with a comical yelp, enough so that you have to stifle a smile.

“I uh…I don’t have a ride, actually.” You’re telling him, with a deep breath.

And it’s only with a final glance ‘round your surroundings that you’re confirming Yaga really wasn’t here and you really couldn’t bother him instead.

Looking down at Choso and oh- he’s staring up at you with stars in his eyes. Curved grin urging you to speak- “If it’s ah- not too much trouble, I would really appreciate a ride back home.”

“Yes- yes, of course.”

And as if he’d not just been two seconds away from speeding down the pathway in embarrassment, he instantly lunges out from the driver’s seat. Speeding to the other side of the car and holding the passenger’s wiiide open for you.

You’re slightly taken aback by the manners, by the innocent smile that suggested he’d never even thought of anything less. “Oh!” Making sure you’re safely buckled before gently shutting the door, “Thank you?”

“Any time.”

You can’t lie to yourself and say that you’d never imagined what the interior of Choso Kamo’s notoriously intimidating car might look like. Feel like.

You just never imagined it to be as close to heaven as you could get - all luxurious woven seats and a touchscreen polished enough to mirror your awed face.

You’re running your hand down the side of the car as you give directions to your home, your family would never even let you get close to a ‘deathtrap’ like this. And as Choso starts driving, you can’t help but breathe in that slightly bittersweet lavender scent of him, clinging onto the interior.

“This…this is-” You’re grappling for the words as he’s shooting a kind smile your way, “So all those car magazines aren’t just for fun, huh?”

Choso’s lips twitch, “You noticed. Yeah- a 2025 Ford Mustang Dark Horse.” Tapping the wheel reverently, “My pride and joy.”

“I can tell.” As he looks at you curiously, “My family, we ah- we can hear you driving down the street sometimes, it’s incredible.”

Snickering, “Bet the neighborhood hates me then. With good reason, this thing goes from 0 to 60 in four seconds. 500 horsepower-”

Then there’s a look he shares your way - something the complete opposite of the nervous, stuttering boy he’d been earlier. Perhaps closer to all the whispers that shrouded him instead- “-without modifications, that is.”

And you didn’t doubt that he’d made many.

“So how fast can you really go?” You’re asking with a quirked brow, slightly leaned over the console to take in all the numerous meters on his side of the seat.

The heat of your proximity makes Choso bite back a gasp- “Trying to find out?”

There’s something in his words - his tone.

“What if I am?”

“I-I’d advise you against it.” He’s answering easily, the thickness of his thumb toying with the gear shift in dizzying circles. “Don’t you know what everyone in this town says about me?”

“They say a lot of things-”

“The loudest being that you should stay away.” Long, dark locks fall over his features as he nods, pulling to a stop at a barren red light. Darkness inking beyond his headlights, as if the only living beings on Earth right now were you, him–

“You know, I don’t care what they say if I don’t truly know you.”

“Let’s- let’s just drive slow, get you home safe and you can forget about m-”

VRRRR—!

And the assholes that had pulled up to the side of Choso’s car.

Gesturing him to lower his window, the boisterous voices from the neighboring vehicle hit you instantly. “Oi- nice car!” And before Choso can seemingly thank them, they’re revving up the engine of their own. “Would hate to embarrass ya in front of your girl, though.”

“She’s not my-”

“Why doesn’t she come with us?” One of their troupe of men lean out of the window, “We can show her a real fast car.”

You grimace, taking a glance at the still-red light. “Ew.”

“Oi-”

Your savior turns up the engine of his Mustang, cutting off the other man cleanly - and just a peek his way shows you his darkened eyes. Eyes hooded, face bathed in red from the traffic stop. Tone hard enough that you’re wondering whether this was the same man from just a few minutes ago. “Those are fighting words.”

Orange now.

A sleazy cackle rings out, “That so?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m asking your gir-”

Green.

You’re instantly sunken deeply into the cushion of your seat as Choso speeds off- tailed closely by the Mercedes of your unwelcome guest. So fast that your surroundings are a blur, so hard that you can barely even move your mouth-

“A- a race?” You’re managing out.

“And we’re gonna win.”

Speeding; and you have a slight feeling that Choso was barely even trying as he’s looking over at the rearview mirror to watch the flashing headlights of his opponents.

Muttering underneath his breath, he shifts his gear with a clack to burst in speed- “Fucking imbeciles.” And if you thought his car was loud before, then you weren’t ready for him to smash the Sports Mode on his touchscreen and make the engine keen deafeningly.

“Hold on tight, my girl.”

Clack!

“Shit, a fucking Mercedes, huh?”

Clack!

Another gear shift, and you’re seeing the trees of the landscape mix into one great splash of mere green. Choso flicks his eyes over in the side mirror only once- before the entire car swerves to the right to block off the Mercedes. “Fucking imbeciles.”

“Ch-Choso.” You’re gasping out, holding onto your seatbelt for dear life. Fuck- you think you’re seeing the line on his speedometer jerk upright as he steps harder on the gas pedal.

“Yeees–?”

Your finger trembles - whether from fear or adrenaline, you have no idea - when you’re reaching it somewhere past the windshield. Eyes nearly bulging out of your skull once you take in the familiar road, “There’s a bend coming around. Hard.”

“Perfect.”

Clack!

You’re hitting the large dip in the road before you know it- thrown in so hard against the left side of the Ford Mustang that you claw onto Choso’s arm. Reached right over the console to grab onto his flexed biceps, “Heh.” He looks down at you through lowered lashes for a second, “Told you to hold on tight.”

Gaping speechlessly, you dig your nails against his pale skin and watch as he bites down on his lower lip.

Fingers tilting down the rearview mirror, “And now, for those bastards.”

Bracing yourself, you manage to garner up enough strength in your body to raise your front off of him - only mildly mortified about being thrown around like a ragdoll by his driving. Taking a quick glance behind, “Oh, they slowed down for the bend.”

“Mhm, told you we’d win.” Choso grins, easily flicking off the Sports Mode for an easier regular one. You’re cruising smoothly down the velvety road, Mercedes long out of sight and out of mind. “You’re like my good luck charm- that means I better get you home safe n’ sound now..”

And that’s exactly what he does.

No more races, no more assholes on supercars - you’re turning into the suburban street of your tidy neighborhood without another hitch.

Well, if you don’t count the rumbling engine that was sure to disturb all the neighbors, that is.

But strangely enough, you can’t seem to bring yourself to care as much as you should. Not even when he’s slowing down by the familiar driveway to your house, not even as you watch the lights inside flick on at the noise.

Dwindling into a low purr by the time that Choso stops- “A-about before- I am so sorry about that, I don’t know why I let them get to me and-” He’s running a hand down his pretty features, “-and I promised myself I’d be good for you but-”

“Are you kidding me?” You breathe.

“I’m sorry.”

“That was-” He winces, waiting for your outburst. “-amazing?”

Choso’s fawny eyes widen, “What?”

“That was the most alive I’ve felt in ages.” You’re starting, “I mean- sure, I wanted to throw up a little but I promise once the nausea stopped it was really fun. And did you see the look on their faces- pffft, those assholes deserved it. Fucking- Mercedes.” Against all judgment, you’re gripping onto his broad shoulders just to shake with emphasis. “I didn’t even know you could drive like that- have you ever considered real racing? Fuck, I wonder if you could go even faster with this beauty.”

Now it was his turn to be awestruck. Soundless. And suddenly you’re understanding just how self-conscious he must’ve been back at the campus.

“Hello?”

“…”

“I mean…oh, what am I even saying.” You couldn’t grab your bag fast enough, hastily opening the door. “Thank you for the ride!”

You make three steps to your front porch - exactly three for Choso to snap out of his little reverie and chase right after you.

Long legs striding up, one of his matching exactly two or more of yours- a large hand catching your wrist, soft breath striking your face once he pulls you back. “Wait.”

Pants desperate, voice pleading.

You’re staring up at him so close that you could count each of his glinting metal piercings - those two sensual snakebites on his lower lip, one on his left eyebrow, several dangling upon both ears. And you swear you see one wink out from the tip of his pink tongue as he’s opening and closing his mouth.

“Do you-”

“I hope-”

You both speak at the same time, huffing out in slight amusement. You gesture for him to go, and he insists, “Ladies first.”

“Fine.” You’re letting him have his way, and the defeat is not nearly as bitter as how sweet it was watching Choso beam down at you from his height. “I just ah- hoped I didn’t weird you out or anyth-”

“Never.”

He says it so seriously that you almost find yourself taking a step back- almost, because he still had his warm fingers curled softly around your wrist. As if he’d noticed your flighty demeanor, Choso drags you a few steps back with him, leaning against the side of his supercar. “Actually- would you like to go to a…thing-”

“A thing?”

“A place-”

“A shady place?”

“Yes-” Seeing the look in your gaze, “-but no! It’s just a race- a big one.” And fuck- he was finding it difficult to hold the line of your sight, ears scorching redder and redder every second you bored up at him. “And I want you there- if you would like to come, as my…” Choso winces, like he was despising each word spilling from his mouth. “-good luck…charm.”

You grin, “Is that a date?”

He squeaks- “If- if you want it to be.”

“Hmm.” Pretending to think for a second, you’re only deciding to let Choso off the hook after you watch as he genuinely, physically sweats a trickle of perspiration down his temple waiting for your answer. “It’ll be a date-” He gasps. “-if - and only if - you win first place.”

The grin you’re gifted with is devastating - and Choso Kamo doesn’t stutter a single syllable as he quirks a brow. As he leans in. As he bends down just enough that his deep, drawling words tickle your ear, “Oh, you’re gonna watch me win, baby.”

Oh.

And you’re still thinking of them even as you manage to waddle your feet back up to your house after exchanging numbers. Predictably, being met with a lecture from your parents and yet not registering a single word.

That is, not until-

“-and wasn’t it that boy?”

Snapping up at their disapproving tone, “Who? That was Choso, he gave me a ride when there was no one else on-”

“You should stay away, you know what they say.” Wagging a finger reproachfully, “How many times have we told you to stay away from brutes like that? And you just had to go and get fondled by the exact same one the entire town’s been talking about- and don’t lie to me, we saw you through the window.”

“Then you’d have seen that we were doing nothing.” You’re gripping onto your bag hard enough to tear, heart thumping with anger where it was once excitement.

“That was not ‘nothing’, girl. I thought we raised you better than that.”

“But-”

“All the loud cars and the tattoos. Mark my word he’ll end up-”

Mumbling, “He was actually really sweet…”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ll ruin your life.”

“I barely have one.”

With a long-weary sigh, you block out the rest of the screeching to head for your bedroom - the same ol’ innocent bedroom you’d had since you were a child. Throwing yourself over your bed, you scroll through the listings of studios in your university area, as you often did.

Except this time, you dare to bookmark one. Just one.

It was hard not to know when Choso Kamo stared.

Because Choso never stared, he never tore his eyes away from the glossy pages of his motorsports magazine, even during lectures. And you always did wonder how he managed to top the scores of each exam despite that.

Except for now.

Right now, you’re feeling the burning sensation of two dark peripherals on the back of your head - immediately making you swivel your own gaze behind you.

Lo and behold, there he was - pen tapping on the side of his plush, rosy lips, brows furrowed as if you were the toughest of calculations he just couldn’t figure out. But the moment your pupils meet his, Choso only grins.

Mouthing, ‘Tonight.’

Your veins bubble when you notice more than one pair of eyes from the lecture hall on the two of you, and the implication of something happening ‘tonight’ wasn’t lost on your little audience.

But you nod anyway, a reminder of what the two of you had been texting back n’ forth for days now. ‘Tonight.’

“What’s happening tonight and why are you eye-fucking Choso Kamo?” Shoko’s whisper infiltrates your little bubble - and many other nearby bubbles, if the way that a few students titter was anything to go by.

“Shoko.” You elbow her side.

“No no, I want to know too.” Utahime pipes up, “Have you learned nothing from the two-bit bad boys in those shitty Netflix movies we watch?”

“He’s not just a two-bit bad boy, he also has a car.” Shoko’s adding on, “And I heard my neighbor’s friend’s aunt’s cousin say that he’s an F1 hopeful-”

The other gasps, “Is it the athlete’s salary tempting you, my dear? Y’know, I’m old money-”

Groaning, “It’s not like that.”

Shoko’s glancing between the two of you - Choso back at his books now that there wasn’t anything more worthy of his attention. You were looking away, after all. She balances a pen on her upper lip in thought, “When did that even happen, though?”

After a few seconds of trying to hide in your hands wasn’t working - in fact, it only made Professor Gakuganji throw more and more increasingly disgruntled glares your way - you sigh. “Well…you two remember last week when I stayed late at the labs? And I said someone was kind enough to give me a lift?” At two matching nods, “It was…”

“Him.”

“Him.” Utahime shakes you by your shoulders, “He didn’t do anything weird, did he, my dear? Oh, do I need to kill-”

“Not at all—” You wave them off, deciding to tell them about the impromptu race later today - preferably at an open space where it would be more acceptable for Utahime to scream bloody murder. “He was actually sweet and…”

Utahime and Shoko gawk at you with wide eyes, and the shorter-haired of the two speaks. “…and?”

“And a bit…cute.”

The pen clatters to down, down, down to the floor.

Already interrupting the class enough, you decide to simply rip the bandage off in one go- “And we may or may not have planned a date for tonight.”

It turns out that you’d very unfortunately overestimated Utahime’s ability to control her scream in a closed educational environment.

It was electric.

You felt electric.

Choso leans over his seat to indulge in your personal space, and you’re sure you’d be melting if it wasn’t for the way that both your eyes were locked on one noisy opponent - that Mercedes.

Engine revving right beside the Ford Mustang, sour faces peeking through the window with a thirst for revenge - who’d have thought that your lil’ enemy from the street competition would wind up being your opponents in an actual street race?

Honestly, tonight you’d let Choso drive you deep into a dingy corner of the town you didn’t even know existed in all your years living here.

You doubted that anyone knew of this secretive scene.

Filled to the brim with as many supercars as your lonely roads could hold- hell, Choso had told you that some participants drove from multiple cities away solely for these races. They were lining every inch of tarmac like glitzy streetlights made to overpower, the type to have given half your town an aneurysm just to think about.

“It’s why I ended up here for my exchange program, y’know?” He was whispering in your ear, voice low in a way it was just for you. “The racing, the cars, the practice. I wanted it all before I went big.”

Dark eyes flickering briefly to you, “Didn’t think I’d find something else worth winning, too.”

Your breath hitched, you didn’t know what else to say to that. And Choso didn’t elaborate- instead informing you on the make and model of the cars that would be going up against him this time.

And the roaring cheers grow deafening by the time a woman in a glittering outfit waltzes over to the middle of the track, a handkerchief held carefully in hand. Her cheery voice chimes out. “Alriiight, I want a nice, clean race around town- not. You know the drill- all racers on go by the time the cloth drops. Ready—?”

Teasing the little fabric around, you can pick out a few stray shouts surrounding the car- “Choso? That’s Choso Kamo? No way he seriously brought his gal- the man doesn’t even know how to smile-”

“They say it’s his last official race before he goes pro- better show off then, eh?”

“Move move I can’t see- Oh my god it’s really him, shit, he has a girl, too. You think they’ll win?”

As you’re nervously toying with your fingers, you jolt at the sudden feeling of ice-cold rings sliding around your throat. One hand of Choso’s on the wheel, the other putting slight pressure on your neck to make you gasp. “Don’t you worry, baby. We’re gonna win this.”

“Set—!”

“Because of the date?” You watch from the corner of your eye as she’s waving the handkerchief ‘round like a chequered flag, raising it up, up, up—

“Because I have my lucky charm with me.”

“Go–!”

“Oh sh-shit.” A shrill whimper tears out from your throat the very second that Choso’s slimy tongue hits your inner thighs.

He’s just so long - so dexterous that the pinkish tip of him curls inwardly along your sodden panties. Lavishing the swollen folds of your pussy with a few kittenish licks, you feel yourself buck in need at the slight graze of his tongue piercing. “Fuuuck, Choso, you’re not even gonna take my p-panties off?”

“Haaa—” His scalding hot breath gusts out in a sticky pant, and you can only watch as his lips purse to spit straight down your slippery slit.

A fat glob of saliva that he’s smearing with the front end of his thumb, snickering. “No.”

And then Choso’s pursuing the quivering lips of your pussy like he’s a man starved - ravenous. Fuck, you didn’t even know how you got here.

It was a given that he would win that street race, coming in first among all the cars with an almost ridiculous lead. But it was only when Choso had kept driving - not even stopping to collect his cash prize - that you’d started to question what he had in mind…

And there you were- sprawled out across the back of his Ford Mustang and smearing the expensive seats with your sheeny slick.

He’d driven you to the edge of some romantic viewpoint, a place to watch the twinkling stars above - but right now, Choso was drinking in a much better view.

“Oh-” The edge of his sharp jawline strikes your cunt, “Oh.” And no matter how close he was, he wanted more - he needed to see your pretty pussy all up close n’ personal.

Using the knobbly edge of his thumb to pull your folds apart with a sluuuurp, Choso’s mouth just waters seeing you drip ‘round your stringy panties. “Congratulations to me.” He’s drawling, syllables shaky. “She’s better than any grand prize, my baby.”

“You’re just so filthy—” You’re whining, hips rutting off of the cushioned seats while he’s making out with your pussy through your panties.

Slap after slap of his mouth plastering to every inch of your hot core.

It’s as if he was just trying to make you even messier, with each side of those rosy pink lips drooling against your pussy. “Mmm, tell me something I don’t already know, baby.”

Slickly rovering his tongue up n’ down the line of your slit- you feel Choso hone his wet muscle until he’s aligned precisely towards your sloppy hole. Pushin’ against the barrier of your underwear like he’s attempting to thrust his way in, “Stop teasing me, Choso–”

“Teasing? Who’s teasing?”

Another push of his tongue against the cloth of your drenched panties and you shriek, just barely feeling the pressure of his mouth drag against where you really needed him the most. “Then eat me out properly-”

Mockingly confused, your pupils sprint all the way to the back of your throat as you’re feeling him murmur straight into your cunt. “M’not teasing, I just can’t see-”

“S-see?”

Looking down so fast that your chin knocks against your chest, in the dim street lighting you can make out the long mess of Choso’s hair. The way his unruly bangs were gluing to his forehead, half-obscuring his darkened gaze.

“Mmm, m’just doing what I can—” He playfully hums, so close that he was practically nose-deep n’ yet still refusing to make out with your pussy past your panties. “Oh, if only I had my pretty girl to pull my- oh, fuck.”

Choso doesn’t get to finish his damn sentence before you’re giving him exactly what he asked for.

“Is this enough?”

Your trembly hands plunged into his clammy scalp, tugging on his silky hair- enough for you to admire his pretty, flushed face. All twisted into a mean smirk, “O-oh, now I can see.” There’s something unsteady in his words, as if he was on the very verge of shattering. “Now just tell me where you want m-mmpf-”

Then you’re shoving his face between your legs and Choso moans.

Mouth slacked all the way ajar- lengthy tongue coming out to simply flick aside your ruined panties. “F-fuck.” Choso’s wastin’ absolutely no time prodding at your clenched hole and squeeze-squeeze-squeezing inside. “Lemme see her. Lemme taste her- my pretty baby.”

Rutting the front of his hips into the backseat, he clings two large hands upon each side of your hips to haul your pussy deeper against his mouth.

Primal tongue slobbering everywhere, he’s gluing his textured tastebuds to the roof of your entrance and watches as you squirm oh-so-cutely. Pushing n’ pushing until he feels the first pressure of resistance from your cunt, “Ngh- Choso, dunno if it’ll- fit-”

“But you’re a goood girl- aren’t ya, baby?” Reeling back with a dewy plop! to prod his tongue into each of your nooks. “So aren’t ya gonna take my tongue like hah- a good girl?”

Your hand claws to clamp your mouth shut as you feel him stick his mouth against your entrance and start to bully inside once more. “I- I don’t-”

“Ah ah, none of that.” Only to have one set of his slender fingers tug down your shaky hand, hearing your pretty whines like his favorite song.

Fuck, Choso can only let you buck wildly once he’s rubbin’ his tongue piercing along your clit. “You’re gonna be loud-” His tongue was just unfairly flexible, twisting around until the metallic orb near the middle hits down your nub with a splat! “Yeah- exactly like that, pretty baby.” He could barely even speak through each pressurized push, “Gonna let this, mmm, entiiiire fuckin’ town hear. And then-”

And then he’s throwing your boneless limbs over his broad shoulders, ankles locking on instinct ‘round the back of Choso’s neck.

It’s the change in angle that has you gasping, holding onto the cushions surrounding you for dear life when that only makes his mouth roam deeper- “-th-then you’re gonna fucking take all of my- ngh- tongue.”

Muffled, each syllable leaves your pussy all raw n’ sensitive.

Splashing out oodles of syrupy sweet sap each time the tip of Choso’s taste buds scrape the inside of your cunt. Stretchin’ out your poor hole to the maximum until you’re mewling at the sting.

Constricting widely, he’s shovelling your walls apart until you’re memorizing the exact feeling of his tongue. Pump after pump.

He wasn’t just hungry - it’s like he hadn’t eaten for eons with the way that Choso was grinding and grinding his face between your face. Each gyration of his tongue rendering you speechless, licking all over your sweetest spots until not an inch was left undiscovered by him.

You feel the glossy points of his snakebites stick against the base of your outer pussy and gasp.

“And then my cock next.”

“Oh- oh my god- ngh-” You babble away- was it possible to bottom out on a tongue? Because the curvy tip of his tongue was reaching all the way near your g-spot and you couldn’t help but sob.

Hands trekking down on instant to-

SMACK!

Your fingers twitch where Choso had swatted your hand away, crushing it within one of his. “But Choso-”

“And who said you could play with my prize?” He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowed in a way that looked almost dangerous. Plump lips twitching with a sleazy grin, “S’my pussy, baby.”

Before you know it, he’s guiding your guilty hand down to meet his maw. Slick-sheened fingertips finding their way just between his lips- oh, he was greedy for your sweet, sweet juices. He wasn’t about to let you have a single drop.

Sucklin’ on them like his favorite flavored lolly, Choso stares right into your eyes once he replaces what you wanted with his own fingers.

A drive-roughened index smearing open the edges of your pussy, “D’you know that?”

You’re shuttering your eyes in need, “Oh my god your fingers-”

Pressing just inside your hole, “Do you know that?” You can only let out a few more mindless wails in response, and he’s slipping a second finger against the roof of your core. “Need you to answer me if you want-”

“Yes- yes.” You claw against his strong wrist so hard that you’re leaving marks. Doing anything - everything to get him to go deeper, to sloppily fill you up from the inside with his fingertips. “Oh…mmm, please, Choso.”

“And don’t you forget it.” You’re being treated like a lil’ plaything - one thumb flicking your clit, two more scouring inside your glossy walls. “I’m taking my prize tonight.”

There’s a lecherous, resounding plop! as he manages to fully sink in the two prolonged fingers all the way till his knuckles hit the slope of your pussy. The curvaceous edge of Choso’s index easily mazing past to locate your throbbing g-spot, “Oh fuck- so deep- ngh, so…”

Only letting off once your own fingerpads are licked all clean of your slick, he hastily pushes his face back into your treacly cunt. “That’s it, thaaaat’s it. Fuck up into m-me- into my face.”

And he had you have you on his flushed face - Choso needed you on his face.

Right then and right now, it’s like he’s fighting against himself for a mere piece of your pussy. Like the sweetest dessert in the world, he laps up every slimy ounce of leaky slick- wide tongue draaagging in circles ‘round and ‘round your sensitive hole.

One that was being absolutely pummelled by his fingers, he’s filling up every slick orifice with the curve of his digits. Hooking them so they thrash right against your g-spot-

“This is how ya do it.” You swear you watch as the mountains of Choso’s knuckles turn red with the slamming impact of his pumps, “Look at her- mm, just look. Now this is a winning celebration, huh?”

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck-” Your pupils are speeding in stupid circles within the whites of your eyes, hands twitching on his brown locks. The metal of his snakebites snag against the sensitive part of your folds and your legs shake, “It just feels too good- hck!”

Dragging down his handsome face harder against your pussy- and the manhandling force makes him rut. Crushing the rock-hard outline of his bulge against the carseat, “Too good, huh?”

And then the unthinkable happens - Choso dares to pull his long, hammering fingers out of your pussy.

Instantly latching his pearly white canines onto your clit to bite so you can’t get out a single complaint- he’s forcing you to be patient as he reaches for something in the back pocket of his trousers. “Don’t you move now.” As you’re starting to push away from his shoulders at the sheer fucking stimulation making you see stars. “Don’t you fucking move.”

He’s serious about not letting you escape- one hand reaching behind his sweaty head. He grips both your ankles in one hand and locks them together, pinning them firmly together, dragging you to him.

“Excuse me for this, baby, I can’t take my hah- reward otherwise.”

In a split-second, his fingers are back to bullying between your puffy pussylips- but they weren’t the only thing pryin’ apart your bubblegum walls.

Oh.

With a gasp, you’re lurching your dazed head up as much as possible - watching in real time when Choso’s now-ringed fingers disappear between your folds.

Chunky, cold metal rings scraping your innards carnally, you feel him press a particularly textured one against the area of your nerves and see white- “Oh- oh my god, mmm—” Reaching for the very back of your core, he’s scissoring your cunt open to reach for your g-spot with a dull thud!

Pushing into each softened spot.

Your throat’s clogging with saliva again and again as he’s thrusting in n’ out, in n’ out, in and- “I don’t think I’ll last.”

Fuck, that makes him push his raging erection against the cushion and groan.

“Then cum on my face.” Choso states simply, pressing a sweet lil’ kiss on your clit. Your quivering entrance splatters out a few speckles of glittery slick that latch onto his chin, “Cum on my mouth.”

Sticking his long tongue out, you can see the dot of his piercing glimmer in the dim lighting. Rovering down to swirl on your clit, he’s driving you wild with precise, prodding rolls right over your overstimulated nub.

It was a dual stimulation - and you should’ve guessed from all the expert driving, but he was damn near taking you to heaven with all the multi-tasking.

Clawing at your every gooey spot, the splotchy stains of your sap cling onto his lips like a gleaming medal. Every swirl of his greedy tongue on your clit making your back arch so cutely into his touch.

The flesh of Choso’s bottom lip teasingly juts out to tickle his snakebites along your slope, “Cum alllll over my tongue, baby.”

At this point you don’t know what to ogle - the vicious lashings of his mouth, or the way he just looked so pretty doing it.

Stray strands of his bangs falling over his forehead, ears burnt rouge, biceps flexing as he fights off the thrashing of your legs to keep you in one place.

“Oh- oh, fuck-”

“Yeah-” Your eardrums flood with the rickety sound of friction on his decadent carseat, and only then do you realize that Choso was humping it. Fucking you with his mouth the way he wished he could with his swollen cock right now. “Yeah yeah yeah- exactly.”

Honey-brown eyes locked right into the target of your own as he bucks n’ bucks his face deeper into your sloppy pussy. Wrist aching, mouth panting, but he couldn’t fucking stop.

You’re feeling him directly smash in a repeated one-two against your g-spot and choke- “I-I think m’gonna…” Trailing off, each n’ every word slurs together into one long call-out of his name. Thighs twitching as if you were electrocuted, “Oh, mmm- m’cumming, Cho-”

The only thing you can manage through your wobbly lips before throwing your head back and cumming.

Rushing into your orgasm so hard that it makes your ears pop! “I…I can’t believe I- fuck!” Your lashes flutter at the way he kept his probin’ fingers jackhammering through your high, blinking back tears. “Y-you’re only making it even ngh- better.”

Plap! Plap! Plap! The rugged joints of his knuckles nearly rub raw at the impact against your pussy’s slope, scouring against your poor battered g-spot.

Your hands were on his ready head, holding on to grind on those pretty features in sloppy drags. Zaps of your pleasure bursting at the feeling of his piercings on your flesh, “You really are filthy.”

And Choso was more than happy to have his mouth be used, have the tip of his nose be ridden.

“That’s it-” Eyes twinkling watching your cute lil’ hole spray him with flecks of slick, each peak of your high making you clamp down.

He’s slithering his tongue just vertically down your treacly cunt to try n’ bully it greedily inside. Swabbing with the metal of his tongue piercing, and you think you see white. Head throwing back at the sheerly raw stretchhh—

Yearning to feel the way your goopy innards squeezed ‘round his muscle once more, “Tha’s it- oh, baby, clench like that and m’gonna cu- fuck.”

Too late.

Too late; Choso was already feeling your snug, dripping insides melt around his tastebuds and he was already creaming his pants. A dark, dark stain forming where his leaky orifice kept wadding out seed- the man takes a glance down and tuts.

“S’all your fucking fault, y’know?”

“M-mine?” And by now your wave of euphoria was nothing but a few tingles here and there- so Choso’s lifting himself out from between your trembly legs. Albeit with a sloppy last French kiss on your sopping pussy. Two.

Three.

Four- fuck, you had to be the one to wrench Choso away by the base of his perspired bangs. Leaving a few jet-black stains of his eyeliner smeared between your legs.

Forcing him to stop pussydrunkenly chasing the taste of your cunt, “Yes, fucking look at me.” He sounds gone. “M’addicted and it’s all y-your fault, baby.”

And he was dripping wet from his twitchy girth, so much so that his trousers stick to the upper half of his thighs like a second skin. Choso’s peeling his ruined pants and boxers off and oh-

“Fuck.” You’re gasping, in a daze. Eyes never leaving the hot, pinkish length that he’d just freed, “You’re so…”

Big.

Huge.

Staggering.

Damn near nine or ten inches, and so pretty, too.

The cutest lil’ shade of pink on his globular tip, glistening with cum n’ covered with a few sparse veins that led to his happy trail. More than rock-hard, it looked painful. And was that- oh, fuck.

He had a fucking Prince Albert’s piercing - right there, dotted on the line of his sensitive slit. Choso slaps down his heavy cock between your legs and watches as you squirm at the feeling of him slipping n’ sliding between your folds.

From your distance leaned against the end of the backseat, you’re measuring him up. Eyeing the girth of him, fuck, he was fat enough that your legs squeeze-

“Now now-” Hastily, he unsticks your clammy thighs and flips you over onto your front. Leaning his weight down on your back to keep your restless body pinned, “-none of that.” Tonality breathy, octaves higher. “None of that none of that- oh, you’re not getting off easy tonight, pretty baby.”

Somewhere along the line of you ogling his impressive length, Choso had taken off his rugged band t-shirt. And fuck- you didn’t know which view was better.

Because he was naturally ripped - all lean abs and pecs that jiggled once he’s leaning down. Your mouth waters when you take in the piercings going through his rosy nipples, the draconic tattoos going down his neck.

You’re craning your head, now on all fours. “I-I could’ve guessed.” Sheepishly, as he’s aligning his thick, throbbing cockhead against your entrance.

Choso pulls back on your tattered panties with a snap! “We’re gonna give this entire town something to hah- talk about.”

And that’s exactly what he does.

Because the moment you feel his reddish crown bulge between your folds- you almost bawl. The utter primal stretch so much that he’s clawing onto your hips to keep you still.

“Come on.” Choso spits into your open mouth, one of his free hands pressing up on your tummy - hard - just to feel that sensation of his large outline spearing through your walls. “Come on come on-”

“Fuck- fuck, Choso, you’re in s-so deep-”

“Here’s the finish line.” You hear him titter from above you, index paintin’ an invisible line somewhere about halfway down your stomach. Right where his target of your womb was.

And before you can get out a single word, he rears his hips closer and makes you see stars. Closer. Deeper. The curvy weight of his tip bullies between your first ring of muscle, so thick that you can barely even clench. “First, m’here-”

You gasp, “Wh-what-”

“The- the starting line-” He’s hissing out, deliciously rutting a meager inch back n’ forth just to make you feel the way your entrance was gaped to the max. “Now I’m…”

With a hand pressed down to feel your cute tummy bulge, Choso’s fat cock slips further down your walls. Easing in after such a raw, primal squeeelch-

“-here.”

“Oh- my god- I can’t believe-” You whimper, nails clawing at the faux leather for all he was putting you through. Just a few more solid inches, a few more visceral bucks of his hips and you’re babbling stupidly. “Are you ngh- are you there yet? Are you even halfway?”

“Mmm, not quite.” Choso twists out a grin.

Free hand snaking between your legs to lap up a few ounces of your sappy slick, mixing with his cum from before. It’s such a filthy concoction, and it’s exactly what’s being used to draw a line right over your tummy.

“M’here and then-” Another rut, another line - higher upwards this time. The fat, aching length of his cock was slickly mazing between your walls and making your head spin. Tapping that lil’ spot with his pointer, “…h-here.”

Until you could feel every pulse, every vein.

Choso Kamo didn’t even have to try to fill your poor channel up, his vein-decorated shaft poking into every tiny crevice and cranny. Until you felt like you were being molded to his very size.

“And- and then-” Even he wasn’t immune to the completely carnal feeling- your cunt was just too hot, too soft. He’s pokin’ his pointed tip into one of your tender spots and throwing his head back at the way it makes your glossy walls tighten. “-finally-” Rutting. Half-thrusts. “-here.”

Hitting your cervix dead-on, right with his pierced part.

“H-heh…the grand prize.”

Shit, all this effort putting up a cool front and that very first thrust shatters Choso.

It makes him gasp, it makes him stutter- groaning out your name in a gravelly tone like a mantra.

“Fuck- the…grand- oh.” He’s babbling away his own joke, planting yet another thorough slam all the way to the back of your pussy. Hard enough that the vehicle quakes.

Strawberry-pink tip swelling up just a bit more at the impact. Sheathed until those curly dark hairs at his base, and Choso chuckles like he’d just stumbled across an epiphany. “Your cervix- I hit it- got s-second place, too.”

Second place…?

You blearily blink your eyes, saliva flooding at the pure stretch. “Are you-”

Pap–!

“And third-” In a sultry split-second, you’re being pulled back by one of Choso’s beefy biceps - in a fucking headlock. His pierced lips kissing the side of your face, “Got third, too, baby- are you p-proud of me?”

Your hands fist in his silken hair- “Yes- Yes yes yes- ngh, it just feels too good, Cho.”

There’s a sudden slurp, and suddenly the two of you are snapping your heads back down to watch how your stimulated pussy grows even wetter. Spraying out syrupy slick with each of his furious pumps, every slam leaves his meaty thighs stuck to the backs of yours like adhesive.

A roughened thumb slithers down to spread your pussylips. “O-oh.” Just so that he can watch his achingly hard cock disappear from your winking hole. Studded piercing dipping in and out in and out in and out- “We’re gonna break this damn car, baby— Just like this hah- pretty pussy is breaking me.”

Headlock tightening, backseats creaking. “Ch-Cho, are you-” Another smash against the spongy layer of your cervix and he swears.

You’re peering into the tinted window of his Mustang and seeing the full effect of your sweet, candied pussy on him.

Head hunched, back muscles tense.

It’s like he was breaking - bit by bit with every swab of his cocktip against your deepest innards. The rounded globe of his orifice probes into the door to your womb and you find yourself drooling. “Choso, are you even ngh- okay?”

Choso’s long lashes bat, eyeliner smudging ‘round sexily, “No. Fuck.” Sizzling tastebuds lolling out to lick the salted tears streaming down your face. “Fuck- fuck, how could I ever be okay?”

You’re feeling his abs plaster against your spine, usin’ the weight to angle his roaming length even deeper. “A pussy as sweet as you- ohhhh.” Grunts departing into your ear following each rut after rut- “M’n-never going to be okay.”

Choso’s puffy veins drag against your g-spot and you whine. “H-harder.”

“Harder?” Something that sounds like a pussydrunk giggle escapes him, eyes wide. Feral. “Can you even handle harder, my girl?”

Huffing, the first thing you’re thinking to respond with is a sloppy nod. Your neck is barely even capable of keeping your heavy head upright by now, “Faster, too.”

Oh.

You were fucked.

Because when you said ‘fast’, you didn’t think that he would act this rapidly. Taking barely a second - no, a nanosecond - to plunge his angrily hard dick out n’ flip your limp body over.

From the filthiest doggy position to having your legs ‘round his slender waist, his cock ebbing deep inside once more. The new angle easily lets his weepy girth map your walls, mazin’ inside like a searchlight.

Reaching your aching g-spot easily- “Hold on tight, my girl.”

And then he’s fucking your dizzy brain thoughtless.

Until the firm, steady frame of his supercar was shaking from side-to-side.

Plump, raging cock stuffin’ right between your folds to poke against the top of your cervix. Again and again. Thump after thump.

His piercing is so cold that it makes you shiver. And Choso takes extra care to make sure that his winding veins find a way to precisely scrape your most treasured spots.

One hand holding onto the right side of your face, gently brushing against the top of your cheekbone. “It feels so hah- good, oh.” The other toying with your pretty lil’ clit, “So good it’s driving me- fuck, crazy.”

Drawing out the cutest hearts with his thumb on your nub, Choso was just so gone that you swear his pupils were starting to turn heart-shaped, too.

Especially once he catches two of your hands snaking down the sweaty line of his chest- stopping right where the curve of his pecs were. Without a second thought, you’re fingering the sensitive area of his nipple piercings.

Choso arches, he shivers. “Heh, you’re fucking dangerous, baby.” Drilling cock overspilling your insides with a few sticky wads of precum as you tug on one of them.

You whine when he’s withdrawing the loving hand from your cheek to swab the cavern of your mouth. “That’s what they said about- ngh- you.”

“Mmm—” He lolls his head pussydrunkenly, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You’re sure that Choso’s leaving a few bites and smears of eyeliner for you to worry about later. Each word punctured with a thrash of his rotund tip, “Well, they don’t know me yet.”

“A-and I do?”

“Well…” And that makes the sinful man grin.

It makes him unload the hand from your ajar maw - removing it with a few stringy ribbons of spit. And it’s exactly that moisture that Choso’s using to write out your damn name on his left pec, right above his heart.

“You-” Your voice clogs up in your throat- because he wasn’t done. Far from it.

Because soon enough, the ringed fingerpads simply teasin’ your clit start to repeat in a pattern. A swoopy few movements that you’re realizing is his name.

C-H-O-S-O-K-A-M-O

Yours on his heart, his on your cunt.

Spelled out expertly on the buttony top of your clit, you’re seeing stars after each quick movement. The sharp turns n’ swoops of his name being branded onto you was almost too much to handle.

Which was exactly what he was looking for- and the tips of Choso’s plush lips twitch at the sight of you slowly edging towards your high. “Yeahhh, you fuckin’ do. Know me better than hah- anyone else here, my pretty baby.”

Throat breaking out in a sob, “I-I’m so close-” Pulling on his hair, thrashing up your hips. “Not gonna hngh- last too long, Cho—”

“Oh, yeah? Say my name like that- say my name.”

But you can’t say anything, really - because in a singular, fluid motion, Choso has your legs perched on his flexing shoulders. Your capped knees pressing down until they hit your tits- the realization smites you and you gasp.

“A-a mating press?”

“Whaaaat–?” Drawling out through a drunken hiccup, he gifts you three strikes with his Prince Albert’s on your g-spot. Thud-thud-thud. “Wanna see your gorgeous fuckin’ ngh- face when you’re cumming on my cock.”

This angle was perfect for glissading a line of pre straight across your g-spot, unstopping until he’s hitting the back of your cervix with a rattling thud. Speeding his sloppy tempo up until the smacks of skin-on-skin were downright deafening.

Ears ringing with the sappy squelches reeled out of you after every second of his rough cadence. With the way the car was shifting- “You’re just so- so filthy.”

“Mmm, only for you, baby.” Comes out the ragged response, something near the tailend of his sentence cracking. And so is his restraint. His sanity. “A-Always for you, baby.”

He’s driving into you as if he was crazed; toned pelvis of his stinging red, temple trickling with sweat, the fat circumference of his crownhead was leaving absolutely no spot unturned. Thumb nearly a blur on your clit, it makes you arch to have him rewriting his name over n’ over n’ over.

Choso’s simply ruining you from the inside out, and you can feel your body twitching already in response.

Pants hoarse- gone. He finishes off yet another signature twist of your clit - C-H-O-S-O. “Anything for you, baby.”

And then you don’t know who’s first - it’s simply crashing into both of you at once.

A long, blissful wave of euphoria that leaves your vision all white n’ delirious. You’re just so full- being stuffed to the very brim of your dripping wet pussy with his cum. Creamy white ropes that glue to the start of your womb n’ end up being stirred about by his length.

The only thing you can even think to do is wrap your arms ‘round Choso’s neck and give him a lingering kiss.

Mind spinning, stomach twisting - it’s probably the hardest orgasm of your life.

Feeling him moan into your mouth through each clench of your high, “Better than I’ve ever fucking- ngh, imagined.”

Oh, it was just too cute to have him confessing like this as he’s fucking you through his high.

Pushing each knot of sinful cum even deeper- “You’re better than a ngh- dream.” It makes him sensitively whimper to feel you clamping down at his words. Webs of ivory syrup sploshing through your channel like a second skin. “You might just be- oh, my dream, my girl.”

There’s just so much of it.

So much that’s spilling out. Coating his bulky base in a slathered ring of white, neither you nor him can even think to care about the stained material of the seats.

Only plowing probe after probe of his blushin’ tip to probe into your favorite spots, Choso leaves your toes curling at the pleasure of having him draaaaag out your high with his veiny cock.

And it takes you a few seconds to register his whiny words- “You- you really mean that?”

“Y-yeah…” He’s breathing out, in awe. Flinching when your fingers start to caress the crimson tips of Choso’s ears, “Meant every fucking word.”

“And I do, too.” At his slightly puzzled expression, you’re chuckling. “Remember the first time we met? I told you I don’t care about hck! anything this lil’ town says.” It’s almost too intimate having you brush away his bangs from his gawking eyes, but you couldn’t think of anything more fitting. “N’ I still don’t give a single fuck what they have to say-”

“O-oh.”

Choso ends up cumming again - simply from hearing those words fall from your beautiful mouth.

Except, this time, it’s dry. Just a single pearly bead of sap bein’ withered out, he juts the throbbing crown of his cock up against the roof of your cunt.

Knees planting deeper upon either side of your hips to give you a thorough slide of his exhausted, pierced cock. He’s cumming out near sparks by the time he spits out- “Your- your parents are gonna kill me.”

“My parents are gonna kill me.”

“N-next time-”

You knew he’d just bared his feelings out for you, but you can’t help but feel your heart flutter at the mention of a ‘next time.’ “-m’fucking you in your bedroom, my girl-” The raspy tone of Choso’s breath makes you shiver, up close n’ personal. “-while your parents are home.”

“Did you hear- they say that Choso Kamo races F1 and he’s-”

“Forget the racing! Did you hear he’d apparently taken her out- yeah, her, after that race last night and…well, I hear there were numerous noise complaints at that cliffside viewpoint.”

“Oh, my aunt’s her neighbor and she said the house was in chaos the entire night after she came back. Couldn’t even walk apparently.”

“He was that good?”

“Good enough that she packed her bags and moved into a place of her own, apparently.”

“Aaaaand Verstappen holds the lead but Kamo’s close behind—” You never did get tired of the revving thunder of the cars, the booming voice of the Formula 1 commentator fighting to be heard above them.

You’re leaning against the wall of the VIP box with Utahime and Shoko - meant only for family and friends, stomach churning as it always did whenever it came to the last lap of Choso’s races.

“Oh- oh! You can see Kamo weaving behind, ohhh it’s a tight one, ladies, gentlemen, and every folk in-between.”

It was honestly still surreal to be here, of all places, after everything.

After how many told you that he’d break your heart, and here he was holding it with him through each lap like he’d fall apart without it.

As the distance closes - all power, pressure, and speed - you’re yelling his name at the top of your lungs despite the fact that he won’t hear. “Come on— Cho–!” Waving about the flag with his number and color as all his tens of thousands of fans did. “Not too long for the finish line–!”

The announcer bellows, “Ah, you’ve got Kamo’s girlfriend, one of our most beloved F1 WAGs, yelling as the finish line draws nearer- so close! So close! Will he make it?” As that chequered flag raises, his familiar car speeds. “Push now, boy!”

His engine roars - and so does the crowd, split-seconds later.

“And in the final corner, it’s Choso Kamo who seizes the chequered flag—! He wins the Italian Grand Prix! What a drive! What. A. Drive.”

Choso doesn’t give a single shit about the few victory laps, he doesn’t even wait for a final discussion with his pit team.

Zooming right past the finish line and further along the main straight. Right where it was most visible to you from your seat, he’s immediately punching on the gas pedal and swerving the absolute monster of his racecar.

Right then and there on the tracks.

Right into the shape of a…heart?

You’re giggling behind your hands as the commentator cackles– “A celebration for his eighth win this season, Kamo shows off his title- and his love!”

Surrounding you, you can hear the crows coo and cheer, you can already taste the fizzy champagne being popped. And in nearly no time, your boyfriend has pulled his car up to the parc fermé - running right through the outline of a heart he’d drawn in celebration.

Running right up the stands to you-

But not into your arms.

No, not at all.

Instead, Choso Kamo drops to one knee right before you.

The audience loses it- and you hear the booming loudspeakers squeak. “Wait- wait’s what’s happening in the VIP box?! Choso Kamo- it can’t be-”

And Utahime, without a single word, digs inside her purse and throws a small, velvety ring box over within the blink of an eye. One that Choso catches with ease. And oh, he just looked so pretty.

The same boy you met all those years ago - lengthy hair mussed up from his helmet, rosy lips quivering, face flushed.

“Is everyone in the pits watching? Is everyone at home watching? This is absolutely sensational! Choso Kamo has just seized the moment to propose to his long-time girlfriend, an incredible celebration of love we’re seeing here on the tracks today.”

So in love.

Choso whispers, “It would be a dream…if you would marry me, my girl?”

Tear-filled, you can only nod.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and every folk in-between — we have a winner—!”

A/N. The things I would do for him cannot even be spoken into existence.

Plagiarism not authorized.

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lucilles-witchery · 2 months ago

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Levi comes up beside you, hand sliding over your waist to rest on your hip and hold you close.

"I don't know how to approach this so I'm going to break it down." there’s a hint of apprehension in his voice.

"Uhh, okay?" you're confused and look up at him to give him a look.

"You know I respect you right? and that I know you're not an object?" he waits for your answer.

A huffed laugh leaves you, "Yes? why, where are you going with this?'

"So thats been established. I don't see you as an object to possess or own?” another pause for your acknowledgment. " I just want to make that clear because I don't want to say anything that's gonna make you think that I own you or-

"Levi, what are you talking about?'

"There's a guy over there," he nods his chin in the direction of said man. "Who has been staring at you all night and I really don't like it and I wanted to talk to you about it but I didn't want you thinking I was being possessive. I just don't like the way he is looking at you, like he wants to own you or something but you belong to - wait never-mind, I just don't like it."

"Levi?"

"Yes, love?"

"Do you belong to me?"

He pauses for a moment to really think about how to answer you. "Yes, I think I belong to you."

"And do you think I belong to you?'

"Well, I like to, I hope you do."

"Then I do."

"But you know its not in a toxic way, I'm not being controlling.”

"Yes, baby I know, but for all intents and purposes, you belong to me and I belong to you.”

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lucilles-witchery · 2 months ago

Text

Riding boyfriend!Satoru’s cock with a gun pressed to his head <3 continuation of this smau because @theuniversesnepobaby gives me brain worms

Your hand trembles as you clutch the grip of the handgun in your palm. The rhythmic sounds of flesh slapping together fills the space between you two, creating a sensual symphony when paired with the soft whimpers and breathy moans Satoru keeps making.

“Mmm~ fuhh…” His pretty cerulean eyes are completely glassed over. You finally fucked your cocky boyfriend stupid, and all it took was pointing a loaded weapon to his temple.

Truthfully, you’re on the cusp of fucking yourself stupid too. It’s all your dumb slutty boyfriend’s fault. His cock is so perfectly big and curved juuustt right to nudge against your g-spot with every desperate roll of your hips.

Your hand slips momentarily, causing the gun to slide down his face against his cheek. The chubby flesh indents against the cool metal, and he has the audacity to whine. “Harder.. please, miss… Harder!”

With a false annoyed growl, you fix the gun and press it harder against his head, right between his eyes. “Shut up,” you demand, forcing your voice to sound stern even while you’re fighting against slutting yourself out on his cock.

“Yes, miss.. mmph! You j-just… gods, how do you feel so good?” he’s blabbering, completely at a loss when it comes to the slick gummy walls of your cunt. His dick twitches and jumps as he crosses his eyes, imagining what would happen if you pulled the trigger.

His infinity is at war with itself. The warmth from your cunt is too good to block out, but his cursed energy also recognizes the gun as a threat. He’s on the edge of fear and ecstasy. It was pure fucking bliss.

You let out a gasp as his hips jut forward, knocking against your cervix clumsily. “St-stop moving…” you’re losing your resolve.

“I’m sorry, miss…” he pants, hands reaching up to grab your hips. “I’m mmm soo sorry.. so fucking sorry—“ his voice slurs as his oversized hands seize control over your body. he’s so easily able to throw you up and down along his cock, making you take every sinful inch.

“So. Fucking. Sorry.” He slams you down, punctuating each word with a ruthless slam inside you. Your cervix feels like a punching bag, but you continue to bounce. It’s a real wonder who’s fucking who now.

“Sato-ru~” You choke out, using your other hand to brace against his shoulder for support. The gun bobs with every brutal thrust. Your hips meet his in a slippery escapade. Both of you are chasing new heights.

“Make me sorry— Oh! Fuck, make me beg to fill up this pretty pussy. I-I need… shiiit. I need to cum. Please, miss.”

You can feel every ridge and vein of his needy cock hilting itself over and over inside you, bullying and molding you in his image. His bulbous tip is leaking copious amounts of pre inside you, only adding to how slippery and warm it is.

You’re so close. Thighs are twitching, toes are clenching, your walls are constricting. “Beg,” you pant, looking into his pitiful gaze. “Beg me to let you have the priv… privilege of putting your cum inside me.”

Your finger slowly caresses the trigger, and a switch flips in Satoru. “Please, fuck me— Puh…Please, I need to cum inside you, miss. Shit! I’ll be good! I’ll b-be a good boy. I swear.”

His eyes are teary as if he might cry if you don’t let him paint your insides white. His cock is sweltering, balls drawn up almost painfully tight.

You bounce harder and grind your hips forward, your clit rubbing against his pelvic bone, and you finally find your high. “Gods—cum.. Satoru.” You barely manage to get out in the heat of the moment.

But he was already cumming, shooting rope after rope inside you, letting out the most pathetic whines as his eyes were lazily crossed, staring at the gun against him.

“Sooo good, miss… ‘m so sorry,” he mumbles, cradling his muscled arms around your body to help you come down.

You carefully pull the gun away and set it on the ground next to you two. Your body slumps against his as you attempt to catch your breath. Your eyes are still seeing stars as Satoru speaks up once more.

“I am sorry, but… I don’t think I learned my lesson yet. You think we can go again?” he asks, giving you a wild grin with a happy glimmer in his eyes. Your boyfriend is a certified freak.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

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lucilles-witchery · 2 months ago

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sleep over!!

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lucilles-witchery · 2 months ago

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Summary: After coming back from the bar, drunkenly in love with longing for your touch. Losing that uptight tie and stoic attitude, he could finally have you all to himself.

Pairings: Drunk Nanami Kento x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: Fluffy, SMUT, intoxicated Nanami, your university crush Nanami aged like fine wine, marking, sex, anal sex, man-handling, pussy drunk Nanami, mutual pining, a yearnful man, pathetically desperate man, bitchy Gojo, slight Haibara x Shoko, annoyed Geto

..................................................................................................................

He stood stunned, staring at the closed lift doors, mechanical whirring taking Geto back down to the other two.

Now, he wondered.

Nanami's not dumb; he knew you had a crush on him in university. He believes it's because of the glow-up he had.

According to your kind words, 'Going from blond emo twink to a smokin' hottie.'

He remembers all those fond times, when accidentally grazed fingers, held eye contact for a little too long, hugged each other so tightly that it would be on the borderline of being friends.

Slowly walking back to his hotel room, deep in thought, pacing this long lavish hall on his own he began to think.

Remembering all those times he asked his girl friends what a lady would like, how much skinship is apropriet for flirting. He'd even bought books and watched videos to understand and craft himself into someone who could please you better.

Hell, he even went down this reddit rabbit-hole not long ago.

Nanami shudders at the reoccuring thought of sitting infront of his monitor, disregarding work and loosing his mind over many people's experiences of terrible, pure criminal men.

That's when he vowed to NEVER be so low. To become the ideal that women-you specifically, and only you-want.

Reaching to his shared room door, he hesitates with the handle. Hand hovering above it.

You, on the other hand had been going through his camera roll and have been taking pictures of some absolutely gold pictures of him. Must've been his guilty pleasure, taking pics of his own abs, messy hair dangling before his eyes, frames hanging dangerously low on his nose as the morning sun light frames his face perfectly, illuminating his blond hair.

Wanting to touch him, caress his chiseled chin, drag your fingers down between his muscular chest, leaving trails of kisses on his neck as your fingers descend down, down, down till the hem of his pants.

Watch him unravel by your fingers.

Heavy breathing as he pounds up into you. One veiny hand gripping your thighs while the other's on your neck.

Giggling and kicking your feet as you roll around on his side of the bed. Just then, a knock on the door woke you up from your daydreams.

Sitting up, you place his camera in it's respectful place, taking a quick selfie, before walking over to open the door.

And truly, you didn't know what to expect. Shoko? With a cigarette and a bottle for the two of you, like y'all planned? Or Haibara with another round?

Nothing could have prepared you for that lethal man who stood before you.

Hair ruffled up, his typical slick back was softer now, a few strands hung before his thinned olive eyes that shamelessly hid an unrelenting want within.

Took everything in him not to fuck it up st the door. Every fibre of his being was itching, begging to touch you.

Be with you.

Be on you,

or even in you...

Unsure if he's even there, you adress him rather unsurely. "Nanami..?" His eyes locked onto yours, hesitantly reaching towards you.

He just wanted to hug you.

Wants your embrace so bad.

So bad, he's never been this pathetic.

"Hm?" You tilt your head, stepping a bit backwards to let him in. Yet you feel two strong, steady arms pull you close. Face planting right inbetween his tiddies. Breathing in his scent, then tasting the faintest smidge of alcohol. Giggling to yourself, you glance up at his rather relaxed, youthful face. Reaching up to fix his glasses, while his hands rest comfortably on your waist. "Nanam-"

"Kento." He whispered, halting your movements.

"Huh? Want me to call you Kento?"

He nods. "You call me by my last name so much," a hand snakes up and softly caresses your cheek. "makes me think you'd wan' it behind your own."

Feeling the heat creep up on your cheeks, you look away from him, perhaps to save yourself the embarassment. Feeling his longful gaze on you, your eyes return to his.

Clearing your throat, you reutter your scentence, finding your words with difficutly.

"Anyways, come in." You pull away, hand in hand, leading him into the room. After walking past the little red couch that comfortably fits two people having tea together in bathrobes before breakfast.

He abruptly sat down, pulling you into his lap. Face to face, he just holds you closer to his chest. Breathing battered, heavy, right in your ear. You begin to giggle at his unusually unraveled behaviour. "Had too much alchohol?"

He shook his head a little, mumbling a weak "No." Shifting in his lap you feel something buldging under you, right against your pussy.

Your breath hitched, feeling his cock hard and excited for you, sighing before thinking of doing something diabolical.

Moving your hips in circles, back and forth, riding his soft moans and futile attempts of stopping you. His huge, veiny hands grippingg g6 your sides, at first to stop you, then slowly to guide your movements and pace.

The next squence of actions have you in a blurred chokehold. Grinding your clothed pussy on his hard-on, Kento's hands travelled up and down your body, caressing every curve, squishing your tummy, agonizingly slowly hands ascend till your breasts.

A symphony of moans filled the room, as chill air cascades in through the open windows. Lifting his head for you to see his hungered eyes. Promptly, an arm goes under your butt, while the other supports your back as he picks you up and gently walks over to the bed, laying you down.

He pets your thigh to signal your eyes onto him. Watching his eyes trail down to your core, then flash back up at you. Then it clicks!

He's asking for permission.

You nod.

To which he lets out a laugh that's more of a sigh. "No, darling," Tone of a venomous velvet snake that'll intoxicate you with it's love. Then it shifts to the sexiest baritone voice.

"Say it."

"Y-Yes...please"

Your little, pathetic, plea was all it took for him to pull your trousers down in one swift motion and go on his knees. He pulled you closer to the edge, your knees over his shoulders as Nanami nudges his nose against your soaking core, eliciting the softest moans from your precious, parted lips.

Hiding your face with those adorable little hands were futile. Nanami smiled against your cunt, licking a mean stripe across, prodding his tongye into where it doesn't belong. Just to tease you.

"Nanami-Ah!" His large, firm hands spread your thighs apart and the next you felt was a sharp sting on your poor pussy.

"Forgot so soon, princess?" His loving voice, dripping with malice teased. He gazed up to make eye contact with you. His deeply pleasant voice mixing with your humilitating moans. "What's my name again, darling?" Drawling out that last word, as if to purposefully fuck your mind.

Still recovering from his hit, you whimper a pathetic "Ke-Kento."

Returning to his favourite spot, between your legs, he mumbled a "Yes?" against your lips, licking and sucking at the nub through your underwear.

"Ken-mmph!-Kento! Please, please take it off."

Nuzzling his nose further in, you felt his voice vibrate against your lower lips. "Take what off, dear?"

"My," Stealing a sharp breath of air at his scandelous behaviour down there, you sit up a bit, running a hand through his hair then meanly tugging at the roots, forcing his greedy face to look you in the eyes. Having Nanami look so pathetic and puddled because of you was a dream come true. This man is a whole ass dream come true. In a breathy voice you murmur. "my underwear and your shirt."

He smiled, love-drunkenly. Backing off, standing up. His sculpted body towered over you as he slowly-so fucking agonizingly slowly-you wanted to get up and tear it off of him. But you didn't.

Why?

Because his eyes glared over your body, roughly taking his tie off, he placed it between his teeth, roughly climbing over to you. Straddling your pathetic body, with his muscular thighs as he ties your hands together with that tacky, yet iconic, leopard print tie. His bare chest hung right above you, giving you an ample 4K resolution view of this sexy man's tiddies.

Soon, he crawled back down, back to bring between heaven and reality.

That would be the last thing you remember. Nanami had you fucked out of your god damn mind. First he made you cum on his tonge as he ate you out like some starved, depraved man. Ravishing your poor cunt till you saw stars twinkling above your head, doing your best to supress all the whimpering and moaning.

To no avail.

Then, he flipped you over, giving your ass a good spank before he teased his way in. Dick so hard it felt penatrating, as he gently pressed his way in. Letting you accomadate his size for a few mintues. While he reached down, feeling his heaving bare chest on your back, to pat your head and ruffle your hair.

You lifted your self onto your forearms, since his tie didn't let for much freedom. Then it all became a messy blurr, he shoved your head into the pillow, whisper-moaning sweet nothings into your ears as he rocked your body. Knocking the air our of your lungs, eyes rolling back as drool spilled from the corners of your mouth. Spluttering onto his dick pushed him over the edge. Made him cum hard all over you back, pull out game is still strong.

He chuckled at your fucked out face, laying down next to you as you whine and whimper at the loss of contact. He whispered with a seductive tone laced with venom, kissing your forehead, pulling you close. "Ready for round three, darling?"

MEANWHILE the other four were huddled up in Gojo and Haibara's room down the hallway, which was furthest from yours.

He had booked twin beds instead of a queen sized bed. Groaning as he watched the others team up on him by stacking all their plus cards together.

They were all cramped onto one bed, Shoko next to Gojo and across from them were Haibara and Geto.

Geto spoke up, admist the laughing. "Good thing you booked our rooms far from theirs."

Gojo whined, throwing his head back onto a pillow. Then he sat back up.

Shoko added. "Yeah," she chuckled, watching Gojo's face drop at the amount of plus fours. "aaand~ we booked them a couples room."

Haibara lit up, watching the pale haired male's misery unfold. As, he turned to Shoko and Geto. "Right! It was so hard to keep a straight face this morning! Y'know when they were asking and shit."

Gojo groaned, glaring at the three down as he reluctantly started picking up 20 cards from the deck. Sulking, he spat. "Yeah, and guess what?" he side-eyes the rest of them. "I was blamed for it." Going from one single UNO to holding 21 cards, while the others all possessed a minimum of three!

He wanted to give up. Then, still sulking, he remarked, rolling his eyes. "They're probably fucking like bunnies or something."

Taglist: @nanamin-chan @lucilles-witchery @yoonseokerist @alverdekote @floquis

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lucilles-witchery · 3 months ago

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PETAL? IM ON THE FLOOR

★ gym days with biker!sukuna :p › more for this dynamic here !

"wait, wait," you say, tugging on the crisp black fabric of his compression shirt, which is a sharp contrast to your own soft, pink one. "i want a pre-workout pic."

he responds with a low grunt. you don't have to ask him twice, especially when you're already pulling that signature glossy pout. besides, he won't admit it, but he secretly likes being posted on your social media.

he knows you're his, but now everyone who follows you knows it too. it just gives him a sense of satisfaction, a sweet, private satisfaction that he'd never confess to.

for the most part, you just follow him around, admiring how good your boyfriend looks as he practically bench-presses the weight of a car. or something close to it, anyway. he doesn't mind your presence, not one bit.

you look incredibly gorgeous swinging your legs as you sit idly on the machine. the fabric you're wearing hugs your curves in an addicting way, tight against your supple form. you're not entirely focused on him, though, as you swipe through your photo gallery, deciding which capture of you two is the cuter one.

your long, studded acrylics tap against your screen as you hum, "i wish you had, like, an account, so i could tag you and stuff."

sukuna doesn't mention that he does have an account, but it's strictly for sending death threats to perverts in your comment section. yeah, he leaves that bit out.

he's nowhere near tired, but he can't wait to go home and decompress with you, to feel your nails rake softly against his back. you probably couldn't hurt him if you tried, but you're incredibly gentle with sukuna, holding him softly, loving him softly.

"ooh, 'kuna, can i spot for you?"

he certainly doesn't need a spot, but he's a man of ego. and to impress you, he'll do anything. a small smile touches his lips. "sure, petal."

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lucilles-witchery · 4 months ago

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FUCK WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING JJK WRITERS PLEASE IM IN AWE

LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk

author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.

Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”

There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.

The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”

“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”

“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.

And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.

The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”

You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”

Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.

He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.

It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.

Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.

He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.

He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.

Then you look up.

He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”

He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”

He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.

You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.

You glance up. He’s there.

Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.

You blink. He panics.

“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”

You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”

“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”

There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”

“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”

You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”

You pause, then finally tell him.

He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”

You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”

He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”

“You choked on air.”

He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.

Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”

You blink. “That’s random.”

“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”

You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.

You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.

But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.

And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.

You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.

It doesn’t.

Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.

The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”

She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”

He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.

And you are. You so are.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?

You look away instantly.

You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.

So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.

He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—

“So…”

You turn.

Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.

“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”

You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”

There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.

He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.

You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”

He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated.

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking 😇

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had.

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch.

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Satoru Gojo... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed.

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

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