jiminshoeandlikeidk

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

Gojo just casually touching readers tits when he’s horny during a movie, like gently rubbing circles on it and playing with her nipples to let her know he wants her to fuck him. So she ends up pushing him down on the couch and rides him till he cums with her twice tits still in his mouth🥰

𓂃୨ৎ mdni. nipple play, riding, creampie

the movie’s some dumb action flick, explosions flickering on the screen, but satoru’s barely watching. you’re curled up on the couch next to him, your head on his shoulder, his arm slung around you.

it’s cozy, until you feel his fingers start to wander, sliding under your loose tank top. his touch is warm, lazy, but there’s a spark in it that makes your breath catch.

he’s horny—you know the signs by now.

satoru’s hand cups your tit, thumb brushing slow circles over your nipple through your bra, teasing it to a hard peak. “satoru,” you murmur, glancing at him, but he’s got that smug little grin, eyes half-lidded, pretending to focus on the movie. “what?” he says, all innocent, but his fingers pinch your nipple lightly, making you squirm.

“you’re distracting,” you huff, but heat’s already pooling between your thighs. he chuckles, leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. “can’t help it, babe. these are too fucking perfect.” his other hand joins, both now under your shirt, pushing your bra up to free your tits.

he’s gentle but also mean, rolling your nipples between his fingers, tugging just enough to make you gasp. “feel good?” he asks, and you nod, biting your lip.

he’s hard—you can feel his cock straining against his sweatpants, pressing into your hip. his touches get bolder, one hand kneading your breast while his mouth dips to kiss your neck, whispering, “want you so bad.” it’s his way of begging, that needy edge in his voice, and it’s got you soaked, thighs clenching.

and he’s in heaven, your soft, heavy breasts in his palms, so perfect he can’t stop groaning, his cock throbbing just from touching you. every squeeze, every tug, makes him hungrier, his mouth watering to taste you.

“satoru, the movie—” you start, but he groans, cutting you off, and you’ve had enough. you shove him back, his head hitting the couch cushions, his blue eyes wide with surprise, then darkening.

“fuck, yes,” he breathes as you straddle him, yanking his sweatpants down. his cock springs free, thick and leaking, tip flushed, and you’re already aching to take him. you tug your shorts and panties off and line him up, his cock nudging your slick entrance, and sink down slow, gasping as he stretches you, filling you deep.

satoru’s eyes roll back, a low moan escaping as your tight, wet pussy grips him, so warm and perfect he’s losing his mind. every inch feels like fucking bliss, your walls squeezing him just right, like you were made for his cock. you start to ride him, hips rocking, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep, making you moan.

“shit, you’re so tight,” he gasps, hands flying back to your tits, squeezing as you start moving. he’s obsessed, the way your breasts bounce under your top, so full and soft, makes him thrust up harder, wanting to stay buried in you forever.

he leans in, pushes your top up over your tits and then his mouth is on them, sucking one nipple, then the other. “fuck, you’re so hot,” he mutters. he sucks hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, and it’s too much—you’re clenching around him, riding faster.

“satoru,” you whimper, tugging his white hair, and he growls, sucking harder, his whole body trembling from how good your tits feel in his mouth, how your pussy milks his cock.

his hips buck, meeting your thrusts, the couch creaking, wet sounds filling the room. you’re close, your clit grinding against him, and he’s right there with you, hands gripping your tits like he’ll die if he lets go.

“cum for me,” he pants, biting your nipple lightly, and that’s it—you’re cumming, hard, walls squeezing his cock as you cry out, shaking in his lap. he’s still sucking your tit, hands gripping your hips, guiding you through it. “fuck, that’s my girl.”

you keep riding, oversensitive but needy, wanting him to cum too. his mouth switches to your other breast, latching on, sucking like he’s starving, and it’s pushing you toward another edge.

“satoru, oh god,” you gasp, and he’s done—your pussy’s grip pulling him under, the way your tits fill his mouth making him cum, cock pulsing, spilling hot and thick inside you. he groans, loud, still sucking your nipple, thrusts slowing as he rides it out, every spurt feeling like he’s marking you, claiming you.

you’re not done, though—your hips keep moving, slower now, milking him, and he’s whimpering, oversensitive, but he doesn’t stop you. his mouth stays on your nipple, sucking softer, and the feeling’s got you cumming again, a smaller, shuddering wave, your pussy clenching tight around his softening cock.

you collapse against him, both of you panting, his arms wrapping around you. he pulls back, kissing your swollen nipples gently, then your lips, soft and sweet. “you’re so fucking hot,” he murmurs, grinning, still half-hard inside you. “movie’s shit anyway. round two in bed?”

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

masterlist ‧₊˚✩彡.

UPDATED AS OF 3/19/2021 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 @/𝘴𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘳!

𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴? 𝘪 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘦 ! 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰-𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦-𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘦𝘵𝘤.

EVENTS  ‧₊˚✩彡. 

☆ valentines day 2021 (abandoned)

GOJO SATORU  ‧₊˚✩彡.

☆ coffee with extra sugar.  - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 

☆ i love you. - 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

☆ lovebirds. - 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺 1 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰’𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭.

☆ babynames. - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯. s𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵.

☆ let me spoil you. (nsfw) - 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘯. ☆ general headcanons. - 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 ☆ jealousy. (part one) - 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴. ☆ jealousy. (part two) - 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰. 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺. 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴. ☆ jealousy. (part three) - 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 “𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬”. ☆ jealousy. (extra) - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺. ☆ the start of winter break. (nsfw) - 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘢, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶. ☆ tearstains. -  𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺. 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵. ☆ clubs aren’t my thing. (part one) - 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘳, 𝘢 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. ☆ clubs aren’t my thing. (part two) (nsfw) -  𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘪𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥. ☆ intoxicated. (nsfw) - 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨-𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺-𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. ☆ ringpops. - 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶! ☆ crushing on dense reader hc - 𝘩𝘤𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰'𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ☆ fighting over reader hc - 𝘩𝘤𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. ☆ honey and sugar tea. - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰'𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 ☆ fireworks. - 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶. 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵. 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵…(?) 𝘪𝘥𝘬 𝘪𝘧 𝘪'𝘮 𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 ☆ breaking norms. - 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 @/𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘻 “𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦” 𝘩𝘤 ☆ insecurities scenarios. - 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘤 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 ☆ job benefits. (part one) - 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘴𝘴, 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶. 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯. ☆ job benefits. (part two) - 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯. ☆ job benefits. (part three) - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘭 𝘰𝘣𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 ☆ job benefits. (part four) - 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

OLD BAD WORKS ‧₊˚✩彡.

…𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦.

☆ kikufuku. (part one) - 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴.

☆ kikufuku. (part two) - 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦! 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘩.. 𝘪 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘻 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨

☆ colds. -  𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

ITADORI YUUJI ‧₊˚✩彡.

☆ teddybears and shitty cards. - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘶𝘶𝘫𝘪 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. ☆ crushing on dense reader hc - 𝘩𝘤𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘶𝘶𝘫𝘪'𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ☆ escape from reality. - 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘺𝘶𝘶𝘫𝘪'𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

NANAMI KENTO  ‧₊˚✩彡.

☆ fine dining and roses. - 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. ☆  insecurities scenarios. - 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘤 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO ‧₊˚✩彡.

☆ handpicked. - 𝘮𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘮𝘪 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘹𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘯𝘪𝘤, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

☆ crushing on dense reader hc - 𝘩𝘤𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘮𝘪'𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

RYOMEN SUKUNA ‧₊˚✩彡.

…𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

YUUTA OKKOTSU  ‧₊˚✩彡.

…𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

GETO SUGURU ‧₊˚✩彡.

☆  fighting over reader hc - 𝘩𝘤𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

Till Kingdom Come

cw: fluff, angst, royalty au, war, blood, violence, character death, grief/loss, whipped gojo, love at first sight, he fell first and harder, bros obssessed, politics blegh /j, power imbalance?, all characters are 18+, SFW

a/n: dropped a lil fic while I’m on break. also ignore any minor changes, I’m indecisive lol.. see you all soon! art credits to @/loquatini on tiktok <3

So this is what your life has come to?

Perched upon the throne, in a kingdom that had long lost hope in its monarchy, you remain as its sole heir. The royal family lineage had long been dead, with no prospect of future heirs due to your husband’s poor, sickly condition, which—bless his soul—sent him to an early grave.

You were a widowed queen, in a land that did not belong to you, but was still your home.

So, like the dutiful wife and queen you were, you took your place on the dusty throne, not once batting an eye at the objections of the King’s council nor the high court.

You became a beacon of hope to your kingdom, which, although small in size, was great in strength. You became what the kingdom needed in a time of despair and crisis, in a time of famine and fear. You carved your place into the very stone walls of the kingdom, and the nation rejoiced, welcoming your rule with open arms.

Your people loved you, and under your rule, Veralia thrived.

The nation stood strong and prosperous beneath your iron will until one day, the gates of your kingdom were breached. An emperor from beyond the oceans and seas, who dared to weasel his way into your high walls.

Emperor Gojo Satoru.

A man feared across kingdoms and lands, a man who dared to threaten your rule.

Though you had taken your place on the throne, soon you would take your place on the battlefield, charging through the hordes of horses and knights with your blade held up high, aiming straight at Gojo Satoru.

And Satoru, nonetheless, felt the true meaning of love at first sight in that very moment.

All it took was one look at you—hair disheveled, clothes bloodied and in tatters, chest rising with every breath—as you stood before him, blade pressed to his throat, eyes sharper than a knife, piercing straight into his soul.

Just one look in your eyes, and he was done for. The only thought left in his mind was, "God, I have to marry her."

Amidst the chaos of war, surrounded by clashing fleets and the sound of an ongoing battle, Gojo Satoru knelt before you, smiling like a madman with that charming, boyish grin.

Your hand trembled in his as he brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your delicate skin as he dared to speak those four forbidden words.

“Will you marry me?”

Your blade fell to the ground, a sound so loud, so final, that the battle itself seemed to halt. Soldiers from both kingdoms remained frozen, awaiting the command of their ruler as they bore witness to this spectacle.

"You want to marry me?" You scoffed, sneering at the audacity of this man, and yet, your heart couldn't help but race. Whether it was from the rush of battle or the shiver that ran down your spine from a mere kiss, you’d rather not say. “Then leave your throne.”

Your eyes blazed like a warm fire, stirring his insides with butterflies as you stared at him, unyielding and challenging.

"You must leave your throne then," you said in a tone so final, "recall your troops and betray your kingdom for me. Forsake everything you know, and live the rest of your life beside me, in my kingdom, under my rule."

And Gojo, being the lovesick idiot he was, merely grinned.

"So," he said, rising to his full height, towering over you with fingers tangled in yours, "when do I start packing?"

Then, softer, almost inaudible, he spoke. Words meant only for you, whispered amid the quietness of the battlefield.

“I'd rather kneel before your throne—to your every whim, to bow down at your very feet, and kiss the ground you walk on, Your Majesty—than sit alone on mine."

After all, Gojo Satoru was a fool in love.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

all’s fair — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

YEARNER gojo, heavy making out. that’s it. my pants dissipated writing this.

the air reeks of blood.

a secret war tent, just outside the battlefield. the sounds of clashing swords and dying men fill the air, but inside, there is only the suffocating tension between the goddess of love and the god of war who should know better than to meet like this.

satoru storms into the tent, covered in blood and victory, a grin splitting his face. his white hair, streaked with crimson, clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. his armor is dented, the bronze darkened with soot and gore, but his movements are easy, languid—like none of it matters. the god of war lives for carnage, breathes in battle like it’s the very air keeping him alive. and tonight, he’s gorged himself on it.

“missed me?” he teases, voice rough from shouting commands, from laughing as he tore through men like parchment. his gaze finds you immediately, drinking in the way your posture stiffens, the way your fingers tighten around the stem of your untouched goblet.

you shouldn’t be here. not so close to the battlefield, not so close to him.

you exhale sharply through your nose, eyes flaring with barely contained fury. “you’re a fool,” you spit, tossing the goblet aside, letting the wine stain the furs beneath your feet. the taste of it had turned bitter on your tongue the moment he entered. “my warriors fall like flies because of you.”

he hums, stepping closer, unfazed by the scent of rose oil and wrath curling in the air between you. you’re angry. it sends a thrill down his spine.

“your warriors?” he muses, tilting his head, one blood-streaked hand coming to rest against his hip. “love, they’re not yours once they pick up a sword. the moment they choose war, they belong to me.”

your eyes flash dangerously. “you arrogant—”

“besides, you don’t care about them,” satoru murmurs, voice suddenly lower, quieter. the air crackles. “you care about me.”

“you only ever look at me like this.” he adds before you can even deny with another step. he was so close now, close enough that you could see the cut on his cheek, the golden ichor beading there, shimmering in the dim light.

“like what?” you asked, voice quieter now, betraying nothing.

“like you’re furious. like you want to kill me.” his fingers brushed against hers, featherlight, teasing. “like you ache for me.”

your breath catches.

his smirk deepens, something slow and knowing curling at the edges of his lips. his fingers flex against his hip, his other hand dangling loosely at his side, but you can see the tension in his stance, the way his muscles coil beneath the straps of his armor.

you move to slap him, but he catches your wrist, swift and effortless. it’s not a tight grip—he knows you could break free if you truly wanted. instead, he pulls you closer, forcing you into his space, making sure you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremor of barely restrained energy thrumming beneath it.

“let go.” your voice is steady, but he doesn’t miss the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingers.

“make me.” he dares, his thumb brushing lazily along the inside of your wrist, over skin that has been kissed by kings, worshipped by emperors.

for a long moment, neither of you move.

you should hate him. you do hate him. he ruins everything, turns every battlefield into his personal playground, drenches the earth in blood as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.

and yet.

your free hand lifts, nails grazing along the rough line of his jaw. he lets you.

“you’re reckless,” you whisper, gaze tracing the cut along his cheekbone, the smear of blood—his or someone else’s—you don’t know, don’t care.

his fingers slide up your arm, curling against your bare shoulder, tracing the delicate gold chains draped there, the silken folds of your dress shifting beneath his touch.

“and you’re a coward,” he murmurs back, breath warm against your lips. “you play your little games, make men burn for you, but the moment someone plays back?” his grip tightens, dragging you against his chest, metal clashing against silk. “you run.”

you exhale sharply, something wild and sharp flashing in your gaze.

he expects you to push him away, to twist from his grasp with one of your usual coy little smiles and words that cut sharper than any blade. but you don’t.

instead, you shift closer, lifting your chin, lips nearly brushing his. “you think i run?” your voice is soft, syrupy, dripping with something deadly. “when i’ve had you chasing me for centuries?”

his eyes darken, that ever-present smirk twitching at the edges.

“don’t flatter yourself, love.”

“oh?” your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him tense, to make him feel. weak. “so if i were to walk away now,” you muse, voice a purr, “you wouldn’t stop me?”

his grip around your wrist flexes.

you laugh. sharp. knowing.

“that’s what i thought.”

his patience snaps.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your triumphant smile with a kiss that tastes of war and lust and something dangerously close to devotion. the world collapses into heat, hunger, and the intoxicating scent of iron and rose oil. the stench of blood still clings to his skin, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the roses in the air, as if the battlefield had bled its violence into the very fabric of the room.

you expect violence—after all, this is the god of war, the very embodiment of destruction. but what you get instead is devastating precision, an artistry in chaos. his mouth moves with practiced arrogance, every kiss a calculated claim, a conquest, forcing you into submission with the same ruthless determination he wields on the battlefield. your lower lip is caught between his teeth, a sharp, agonizing sting that sends a thrill of heat through your body before melting into a slow, sinful drag of his tongue. you curse yourself for the way your knees tremble, betraying the effect he has on you, but you refuse to pull away.

you have kissed kings, emperors, gods. you have been worshipped in a thousand ways, a thousand times over.

but no one kissed like satoru.

no one kissed like a man who had spent his entire life craving battle but found himself craving her more.

his hands, still streaked with blood, still warm from the slaughter, slide down your waist with a predatory grace, the tips of his fingers leaving burning trails over your skin. you gasp as he grips the filmy fabric of your chiton, tearing it aside with a single, effortless pull. the sound of the silk ripping is obscene in the quiet of the tent, echoing between the tension that coils tighter in the air. but you don’t care. not when his palms sear against your bare skin, rough and possessive, tracing every curve he’s only ever dreamed of touching, claiming you like the spoils of war he’s always deserved.

“look at you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with victory, dripping with satisfaction. “all this time, i thought you’d taste like honey. but you’re just as bitter as i am.” the words are a challenge, but there’s no real bitterness behind them. it’s just the way he sees the world—always finding something to conquer, something to take.

you retaliate by sinking your nails into the nape of his neck, scoring red lines down the sweat-damp column of his throat. the sound he makes—low, filthy, a guttural groan meant for your ears alone—sends a wave of desire crashing through you. before you can process, he lifts you effortlessly, the edge of the war table digging into your thighs as he slots himself between them, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that speaks of battles fought and victories won.

the cold armor at his chest presses against your fevered skin, an icy contrast to the heat pulsing through you. his mouth is scorching, trailing from your lips to your jaw, and then lower, nipping at the frantic pulse in your throat. every movement is deliberate, a dance of dominance and passion, as if he’s marking every inch of you as his own.

“you—” your breath hitches, his teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he breathes, his words dark with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with want. the hunger in his eyes is raw, unfiltered, and it makes your heart race in your chest. “here you are. letting me ruin you.”

his hands slide higher, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other traces the dip of your waist, skimming the edge of your hip with a touch so light, so teasing, that it feels like torture. you arch into him, a silent plea, a challenge that lingers between you. and his grin—it’s all teeth, a hungry thing, twisted with desire and amusement.

“say it,” he dares, his thumb brushing the peak of your breast with a featherlight tease that makes your stomach coil tight, an ache that builds with every passing second. “tell me to stop.”

you should. you should push him away, demand he stop. but you won’t. you can’t.

instead, you drag him back by the hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s more war than surrender, more battle than love. he laughs into your mouth, the vibrations curling straight down your spine, a sound that promises chaos and recklessness, the very essence of him. then—

a trumpet blares outside, cutting through the tension like a knife.

the war calls.

for the first time in centuries, satoru, the almighty god of war hesitates.

his forehead presses against yours, breaths ragged, his fingers trembling where they grip your hips. the air between you is thick with everything unsaid, everything undone, as if the world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for what will come next. you can feel his heart beating against yours, fast and uneven, as if he too has been swept away by this relentless tide of desire.

then, with a smirk that promises retribution, he pulls away, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s reluctant to let go.

“next time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if he’s daring you to defy him. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger still burning in his eyes. “i won’t stop.”

and just like that, he’s gone, leaving you breathless, flushed, furious, and aching in the ruins of a war tent that smells like him—like blood, rose oil, and something far more dangerous.

outside, the battle rages on, but inside, you’ve already lost.

a/n : part 2 coming when i finally get myself to write smut. might fully write this into a one shot one day lol

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

fratboy bf! kuroo who throws you over his shoulder at any given time during a party for the sole purpose of flexing, letting everyone know that your his.

fratboy bf! kuroo who is always at your beck and call. he does not hesitate to leave mid-conversation with his frat friends the moment he hears that you're puking your guts out in a random bathroom. 

fratboy bf! kuroo who gets terribly clingy when drunk. doesn't matter if your in a middle of a conversation or not, he’ll walk over to you and snake an arm around your waist, hands rubbing your sides, head tucked in your neck whispering sweet nothings and kissing you. 

fratboy bf! kuroo who insists on matching outfits (or costumes) for every party, desperately trying to convince you that it will be cute. you always deny, but somehow you manage to end up in a bunny costume inspired by judy from zootopia. 

fratboy bf! kuroo who gets jealous when he sees a guy trying to hit on you. he usually doesn't, but the moment he catches a glimpse of your uncomfortable smile, he's right by your side throwing an arm around you saying “yeah? that's funny. but not as funny as the thought of you thinking you had the chance.” 

fratboy bf! kuroo who kisses you like he's trying to prove a point—sometimes it's lazy and teasing, brushing his lips against yours to make you chase after him, and other times it's deep and possessive, fingers curling underneath your chin to keep you right where he wants you.

fratboy bf! kuroo who will cup your cheek after a deep kiss, tilting his head likes he's studying you before smirking and mummering. “damn, i really hit the jackpot, huh?” 

fratboy bf! kuroo who will whisper the softest, most sincere things when he thinks your falling asleep, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against your back.

♡ got inspired by a tiktok that was said to bring back college/fratboy aus so :3

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

Turning around on your other side facing Satoru, you poke his muscular back with your index finger. Making his back arch a bit, as he turns his head around to look at you with a confused sleepy face.

“what was that for?” he rasps, sleep still lacing in his voice.

“can you lay on top of me..? like on my back..?” you whisper, your eyes peering up at his tired blue ones.

“…”

“…”

“…you want me to do what?” he asks sitting up more to get a better look at you. His face now outright confused.

“..I want you to lay on top of me!! like crush me with your body!” You whine, your hand now laced around his muscular bicep, gently shaking him from side to side.

Satoru sighs a small smirk on his lips. “fine, fine.. lay down on your stomach.” He says softly. You smile up at him before flipping onto your stomach, your face going into your soft pillow. laying in a pencil like position.

He turns over more lifting the covers up as he goes to his knees, before laying ontop of you. Laying his entire weight on your back, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

You sigh softly with content, feeling his entire weight on you. Turning your face slightly to the side having a lazily smile on your lips. “mm now i’m comfortable..” you mumble sleepily, all Satoru can do is chuckle lightly into the crook of your neck.

“why am I crushing you again?” He murmurs into your soft skin.

“becauseeee you’re like my personal heating pad for my period cramps,” you mumble out. As your eyes droop shut. Satoru sighs smiling, shaking his head lightly.

“weirdo..” he mumbles before drifting off back to sleep. with his body quite literally covering yours completely, your period cramps dissolving as his warmth and the pressure of his body soothing the pain entirely.

⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹ ⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹ ⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹ ⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹ ⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹ ⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Long Fics ˚୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

All of my Satoru Gojo fics over 20k

Time after Time- Finished- Wc: 103k- (Ao3) CEO Gojo x fem assistant reader, you're his lead assistant and you put in your two weeks notice, because your boss is a grade A ASS- so Gojo pulls out ALL the stops to keep you. Smutty/fun/sweet - my first Gojo fic

Take Me Home Tonight - Finished-Wc: 136k- law professor Gojo/x law student (A03) you hook up with a sexy white haired man, only to be in his class two months later!?!? How can you handle falling in love with your professor! Very witty/lots of banter, law setting-smutty and sweet

Fractured Desires - Finished- explicit- wc 95k (angsty/ toxic/smutfest) Ao3 You're Suguru Geto's girl, and he decides to 'share you'- which becomes a fkn MESS, when you find out that Satoru has wanted you all along, and Suguru isn't who you think he is. (Starts off as Sugu/reader- Extremely explicit-yandere asf)

Silent Serenades - Ongoing- wc 146k - You are promised to Marry the handsome Duke Gojo, you're the diamond after all. Only thing is, he HATES you. Now you're stuck in a loveless marriage that eats you from within. Angsty arranged marriage AU, 1800scruel Duke Gojo- AO3

Healing Hearts -Dr. Gojo/intern-ongoing- 55k You're an exhausted intern, living with your three friends, Maki, Toge and Yuuta, and you just so happen to be Dr. Gojo's intern. - or as you soon call him 'Dr. Hojo' he seems perfect, but he's hiding a dark secret. Hospital setting - light angst Ao3

Losing Control Now- Mafia AU, nororious mobster Satoru Gojo becomes obsessed with you., the pretty bartender- but he finds you have your own secrets, and plans to save you at all costs. Lots of smut, Satoru being obsessed, mafia themes -ongoing-22.5k Ao3

Took You Like a Shot - You and Satoru Gojo (fratboy/fuckboi Gojo) have been rivals for all of college, right up until the last day of school, where you end up under him and... pregnant somehow!? shit.-Newest WIP- WC- 19k - gonna be emotional and has a lot of humor/pregnant reader

Mini Series

Would you come with me? -You have been Satoru's best friend forever, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. Three parts, fluffy and hella smutty, friends to lovers- Finished- three parts 22k

୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Oneshots ˚୨୧

୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Drabbles/ Headcanons ˚୨୧

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

Small Matsukawa Issei drabble. I want to eat that man UP.

cw: big dick issei (what’s new), belly bulge

Issei has you bent over the edge of the bed, his big, warm hands running over your sides and your hips soothingly, lips kissing away at the curve of your back to help distract you from the stretch.

The thing is, he knows he’s big. Knows from the way the rest of the Seijoh 4 gasped and laughed and made jokes about his cock killing somebody when they gpt too drunk and did a dick measuring contest. Knows from the way most people only take half of him before they’re wildly tapping at his hips and pushing at his abs to make him pull out. Knows from the way your pretty, sparkling eyes widened when he slid his boxers down after making you orgasm on his skilled tongue for the nth time.

You whimper and grip at the dark sheets of his bed when the first half slides into you, fitting snugly. Issei does a soft shhh, his hand coming down on top of your fingers, thumb running over your knuckles.

“I knooow, baby.” he coos, admiring how your skin breaks out in goosebumps, how your perfect lips pop open, your eyes screwed shut, “It’s a lot to take, huh?”

“…A lot.” you parrot, already almost braindead to the world. You never knew someone could have such a huge dick. The thing betwen Issei’s legs was something only found in porn or a perticularly intimidating dildo that your friends would point out at a sex shop jokingly.

“Yeeah, sweetheart’s cunt is too small for my dick?” Issei continues to tease, trying to bite down his smirk when you whine after he pushes another inch in, “Can you say, ah, big streeetch?”

Your eyebrows pull together in confusion, lips opening and closing, trying to find your words. Issei’s eyes look down to where the two of you are connected, how your cunt is struggling to accomodate his dick, how your body trembles involuntarily.

“Bi-big stretch.” You manage to repeat as your voice breaks into an abrupt scream of his name as Issei slams home in one harsh thrust.

He doesn’t move, just stays there, calloused fingers slithering underneath your body, rubbing at your sensitive clit, making you whine.

“Like ripping off a bandaid, huh?” Issei jokes, his frree hand running down your hair in a gesture that’s supposes to be soothing.

“Fu-fucking asshole.” you murmur, blinking away the spots dancing across your vision.

Even if the pain is there, even if he’s not even moving, his cock is big enough to hit all the right spots. Life was definitely unfair sometimes.

“Yeah, yeah, hold on tight, baby.”

“Wha-“

Your words are knocked out of you as Issei pulls out until only the tip of his dick is left inside of you, admiring the way your clear juices are making his skin glitsen in the low light and slams back inside, his hips smacking against your ass, the noises of skin againsy skin ringing our throghout the bedroom.

Issei sets a steady pace, his toned body falling over yours, skin hot and flushed and sweaty. You can’t even find it within yourself to mind the weight, just moaning and whining and scrambling to hold onto something.

Issei’s fingers accidentely slip off of your clit, and he actually gasps. Before your drowsy mind can conjure up a question, or a complaint, he’s dropping to the floor, not even pulling out as you land on top of him, crying out when his cock goes even deeper at the new angle, the tip brushing against your cervix.

Your head tosses back against his shoulder, before he gets his breathing under control, grabbing your chin and making you look down.

“Look. Fucking look how deep I am.”

Right underneath your belly button, there’s an bulge protruding. Unmistakably him.

“Holy fucking shit.” Issei pants, shaky hands grabbing on your hips, maneuvering you like a puppet on his cock, slamming all the way down, as if he can’t leave even an inch of his cock bare of the warm comfort of your pussy, “Holyyyy fucking shit, I’m never letting you go, baby.”

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

HOTLINE BL☆NG!

summ. wine nights and free will? a recipe for disaster— such as matching your ex on a corny dating app and having him in your bed within that same hour. . .

cw. eventual smut. 18+. fem!reader. alcohol/substance consumption. ex boyfriend!gojo. mild toxicity. breakup & makeup. girlhood ft jjk girlies. unreliable narrator sorta. sukuna slander. mild impact play. mild asphyxiation. oral (f). fíngering. backshōts. reader is a little questionable. self sabotaging my beloved. lowkey angsty. @/3aem on tumblr for art creds. most of these stories are real shit i’ve heard/experienced LOL. can you tell i’ve never used tinder a day in my life? 16.4k words. . oops.

rena’s note. @yung-notorious and her filthy mind. . .

“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah you do.”

god, you do.

you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that had you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.

it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.

girlhood.

“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”

“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”

“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”

as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”

“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”

“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.

the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.

if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.

“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”

“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”

“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”

you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”

“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”

shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”

“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.

“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”

the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.

“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”

“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.

“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”

“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”

“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”

“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.

utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”

yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”

and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.

“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”

“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”

technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”

you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”

your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.

he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.

(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)

the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.

it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.

you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.

he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.

the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.

the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.

and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.

it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.

“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”

you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”

“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”

not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.

they don’t need to know all that though.

“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”

“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”

shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”

“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”

“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”

“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”

“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”

she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.

“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.

“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”

you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.

“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”

“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”

“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”

“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”

“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.

you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.

it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!

there’s no fucking way.

this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.

it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.

you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.

there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.

utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”

your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.

rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”

his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.

“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”

“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”

shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”

“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.

“wait—”

utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.

it’s a match.

“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.

you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.

“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.

“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.

“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”

“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.

you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”

he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.

“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”

your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.

“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”

ping!

you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.

you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”

naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”

“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”

“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.

“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”

“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”

you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.

right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.

“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.

“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.

“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.

both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”

“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.

you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.

decisions, decisions, decisions.

“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.

you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?

“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).

you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”

“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”

“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.

“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”

“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”

“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”

“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.

@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?

your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.

“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”

“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”

“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”

you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.

“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.

you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.

@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.

@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?

@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women

you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me

is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?

this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho

you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice

neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.

@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?

@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day

you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.

@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?

so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn

so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.

as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”

shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”

the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.

as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.

no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.

you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.

after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.

his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,

“hey.”

he’s thick.

no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”

“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.

he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.

with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.

“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .

he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.

“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.

you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.

as if he still stood a chance or not.

“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”

the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?

“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”

“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”

fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?

god, you had questionable morals.

“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”

now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”

“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”

you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”

words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.

“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”

he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.

he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”

you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.

“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”

there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”

“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.

“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”

his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”

“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”

it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.

he hadn’t.

there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.

he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.

it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”

gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.

“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”

shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?

“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”

the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?

it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.

so, you kiss him.

his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.

and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”

“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”

he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.

your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.

“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”

maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.

sex was an easy way to do that.

“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.

he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.

it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.

“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.

bingo.

your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.

your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.

the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.

when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.

he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.

naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”

your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.

he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.

when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.

“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”

the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”

“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.

“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.

“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”

you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.

“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”

your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.

the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.

“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”

to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”

you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.

you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.

doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”

he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”

there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .

gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.

your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.

he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.

he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.

“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”

“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.

“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.

he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.

you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.

you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”

“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”

“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”

that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.

so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”

he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.

he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.

“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.

your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.

you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.

it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”

to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”

“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”

it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.

in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.

he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”

you couldn’t agree more.

it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.

a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.

though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.

there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.

“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.

and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.

“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”

“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”

you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.

“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”

“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”

you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”

and that’d been your final mistake.

because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”

he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.

at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.

“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”

god, you do.

and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.

“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”

and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”

you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.

when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.

he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.

there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.

you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.

with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”

“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.

you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”

“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”

gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”

you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”

he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?

when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”

you don’t.

he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.

well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.

tinder: 1, you: 0.

now can y’all stop calling me a deadbeat 🙎‍♂️

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒

day 15. threesome

Gojo Satoru x f!reader x Hatake Kakashi

s. after your father’s birthday party the guests leave, except for his two best friends who stay to help with the cleaning, or so you thought

cw. dubcon, threesome, anal, fingerfucking, squirting, overstim, DP, age gap, spitting, cum eating, bukkake, slapping, degradation, fisting, facefucking | wc: + 1k

Reblogs and interactions are appreciated | Kinktober m.list

Keep reading

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

satoru gojo

three scoops long fics

sunday morning starring fwb!Gojo

falling snow starring fake-boyfriend!Gojo

only ones who know starring villain!Gojo

coupled up (coming soon) starring friends-to-lovers!Gojo

two scoops mini-series

snapshots starring childhood friends-to-lovers!Gojo

pick your player! starring chronically online loser!Gojo

slim pickins starring toxic!Gojo

one scoop oneshots + drabbles

what's mine is yours starring bodyswapped!Gojo

get stuffed! starring teacher!Gojo

marriage material starring boyfriend!Gojo

1-800-GOJO starring neighbor!Gojo

dreams starring baby daddy ex-bf!Gojo

study session starring nerd!Gojo

lovefool (coming soon) starring jester!Gojo

dividers by @petalpxl <3

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET — SATORU GOJO

pairing — neighbour!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.

word count — 14 k

genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)

author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3

masterlist + support my writing

When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.

What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.

Your new neighbor lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were. 

It was frustrating, to say the least. 

You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial. 

You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.

Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.

"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides." 

You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.

“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.

“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbor’s name.” 

That had set the tone for everything that followed. 

He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.

He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.

You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighborhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.

But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Sunday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.

You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.

“Having fun down there?”

You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbor would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.

“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”

“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”

“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”

You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"

You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.

"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"

"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.

Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.

"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."

"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.

"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"

"I will set your house on fire."

He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”

A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting? 

No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way. 

Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.

“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.” 

You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.

"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”

You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.

"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.

"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"

You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.

Why was he only mentioning this now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.

Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there. 

But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.

"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.

On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.

“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loud enough.”

“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”

Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”

“Would you believe me if I said everything?”

But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.

It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.

“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”

He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.” 

You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light. 

The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.

“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”

“Satoru—”

“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”

“You don’t have to—”

“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”

You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”

He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.” 

And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all. 

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal. 

The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.

It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.

“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”

You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”

“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”

Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."

"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."

You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.

So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.

"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."

Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"

“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."

"We?"

"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”

"Is that what this is?"

"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”

You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”

You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.

“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”

“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”

He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”

“You have quite the ideas.”

“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”

“To celebrate what?”

He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”

You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.

The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.

“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.

“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."

His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together. 

And it felt… good.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.

It was chaotic, let's just say that. 

But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years. 

The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.

You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.

"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."

"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.

"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."

"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.

"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"

You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."

His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"

"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."

Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.

"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"

"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.

"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.

Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.

“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."

Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.

"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."

"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."

"You don't think people know how to love now?"

"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."

Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile. 

“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."

You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.

And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.

"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”

He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"

The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.

"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."

"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."

You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”

"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."

You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.

The house. 

It was finished. 

Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty. 

Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you. 

"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.

He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.

“You needed the rest. And I had the time.” 

"Satoru, this would have taken days—"

“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."

You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.

It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful. 

That's all. 

The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.

"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."

He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”

"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"

“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”

"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer. 

He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."

Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.

"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.

"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."

You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.

But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back. 

Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—

"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.

"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination. 

He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.

At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"

You smiled. "No promises."

He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"

He turned.

"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.

His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”

You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.

Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. 

Not that you were staring, of course.

His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”

"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"

"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."

You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.

"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.

You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.

"This is—"

"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.

"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."

He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."

You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.

"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.

“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”

“Should I be afraid?" 

"I take it back. No cake for you."

"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”

"What about it?"

"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."

"Don't sound so shocked." 

You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.

"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"

Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

They looked intimate. 

Happy. 

Like an actual couple.

Your stomach dropped.

"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"

"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."

"Now? But we haven't even finished—"

"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."

"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"

"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."

"Other plans? What are you—"

"Bye!" 

You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.

"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.

He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?

Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned. 

And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life. 

Easy.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.

And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).

Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy. 

"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"

"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."

Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.

If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.

You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.

This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.

Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.

But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.

Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.

You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.

It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.

The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.

You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.

The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.

"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.

"Don't say it.”

"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"

"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"

"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine.” 

You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.

"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."

"It's nothing—"

"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"

The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.

"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.

"Kitchen has better light.”  He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.

For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.

"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."

You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.

He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.

"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.

"It's a new system I'm trying out."

"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately. 

He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.

"Too cold?"

“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”

He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”

“I have renovations to finish.”

“The renovations can wait.”

“Says the man with the perfect house.”

He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"

A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was. 

You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."

“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.

"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"

"What girlfriend?"

“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”

To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh.  "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"

"Your... sister?"

"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."

"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?

"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.

"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.

"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"

"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."

"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.

"You're insufferable."

"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"

Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"

You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.

"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."

With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.

The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.

You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.

The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs. 

It felt…natural in a way.

Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.

One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.

"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"

Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.

"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"

"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.

"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."

You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."

"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”

You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."

“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."

“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”

“As my lady commands.” 

He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.

Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.

“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—” 

Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.

"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.

You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.

You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours. 

"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."

It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.

"What time?" you asked.

"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"

"You just want me for my baking."

"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"

You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.

 He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.

The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.

When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.

As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.

"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."

Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.

"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."

"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.

He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."

The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.

"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."

"I can't take your gloves."

"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."

You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him. 

As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.

"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.

"I haven't skated since I was a kid."

"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."

Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.

"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.

"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."

Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.

"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."

You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends. 

After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.

"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.

"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."

He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."

The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?

Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date. 

Like something couples did.

Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?

"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Just trying not to fall."

"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.

Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighborly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?

"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.

"Um, I don't think—"

"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.

He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.

"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."

"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."

He laughed. "Not everything." 

You didn’t believe him for a second.

Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.

You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?

"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.

You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.

"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."

Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.

"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."

"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."

As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.

Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.

By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.

The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?

He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.

"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.

"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."

You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.

"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."

You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."

"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."

"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"

You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."

"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”

"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."

He blinked. "What I don't do?"

You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."

"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.

"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?” 

You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.

"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"

Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.

You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.

"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".

You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"

"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."

"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"

"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"

This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.

"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."

"Noted." 

Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.

"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.

"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"

Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.

"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."

And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—

"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."

"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."

"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.

"Bedroom?"

"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."

He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.

And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.

The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.

"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.

"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."

"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"

"At seven in the morning?"

"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.

Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.

"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.

"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"

"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"

"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."

You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."

"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."

Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.

"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."

"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."

You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.

"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"

"A dangerous pastime for you."

"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."

"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.

"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.

"And the—"

"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."

"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."

Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"

“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"

"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.

"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."

You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"

"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."

"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."

"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"

You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.

"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."

"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."

He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."

"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."

"My hands, huh?"

"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."

"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”

"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."

Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.

"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."

"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."

You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."

"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"

You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.

"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."

His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"

"Especially then."

Outside, spring painted the neighborhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.

anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna

@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion

@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

this is so sylus coded

and i wont elaborate

nsfw link but its not twt so be prepared

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

The Colonel Breaks the Rules (And You)

caleb x f! reader smut

Stealing the Colonel's secrets is never a good idea and you must be ready to face the consequences.

a/n: based on some parts of Caleb's myth!!

cw: dubcon, interrogation/inspection, nipple play, misuse of baton, fingering, spanking, verbal degradation, p in v, rough sex, slight breeding kink, yandere caleb

fic here on ao3!!

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

Msbreewc

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

nightwing x gojo 🦇

ac: kayaxxo

[jiminshoeandlikeidk]

part 1

cheater!gojo buying a bigger bed so he can have you and his new wife on both sides of him. he knows now that he loves you both, so it’s his duty and right as your husband to take care of both of you. some nights he’s all over you, holding you close, while other nights he’s spooning his new wife, cuddling her and leaving you to fend for yourself.

cheater!gojo fucking his second wife while you pretend to sleep, silently crying. you hear him tell her that he loves her as he kisses her and holds her hand. they make love with you on the bed, ignoring you. gojo does his best to divide his attention between the both of you. he knows you hate it, but it can’t be helped.

cheater!gojo fucking you the following night in the same manner. you argue that she’ll notice and that you weren’t into having sex while sharing the bed with her, but gojo insists, assuring you that she was sound asleep. not wanting to cause a scene, you let gojo have you. he makes love to you like he always did— treating you gently, caressing your face, and whispering sweet nothings into your ears. he tells you that he loves you and you resist the urge to cry, holding back tears. if he loved you, how could he sleep with another woman?

cheater!gojo spending all of his time focused on his new baby girl with his second wife to notice you growing distant. he fawns over his daughter as you try to decide what you are going to do— you love gojo, but this isn’t the life you imagined you’d have with him. you had no intention of sharing him with some whore he took up while you were in your sick bed. it had taken you months to fully regain your strength, but now you felt like your old self again. you bide your time, taking care of your sons, and trying your best to put up a front with gojo so he wouldn’t suspect anything while you tried to come up with a plan.

cheater!gojo throwing his daughter a party for her first birthday with you in the background. he’s talking to everyone, showing his daughter off, with his second wife holding onto his arm as you bitterly sip your drink. when gojo’s old friend nanami approaches you, you let him. he regards you for a moment, taking in your standoff appearance and the fact that gojo was away parading another woman, before deciding to tell you that your husband has no idea how to love a woman. of course you scoff, didn’t you know that better than anyone else? still, you let nanami talk; it’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at you pitifully, like this was a normal thing you were supposed to accept, because it wasn’t. so when nanami’s approaches become less friendly and more forward, you did what exactly what your husband did— you allowed it. in fact, you welcomed it. he flirted and you flirted back, gojo be damned. what was the old saying anyways? that the cure to getting over someone was to find someone you loved even more?

cheater!gojo taking his second wife to bed, realizing that he hadn’t seen you in a while. then, he thinks you’re probably off tucking your sons into bed. he doesn’t mind your absence when his young wife asks him for another baby— it’s good that you’re not here to see him make love to her and breed her. he knows you’d cry at the sight of him moaning her name and coming inside her, begging god to bless them with another child. at least this way you won’t have to witness it, wherever you are. what gojo doesn’t know is that you were currently in another man’s bed. you were whimpering under nanami, moaning his name as he fucked you carefully, treating you with all the respect you deserved. he makes you feel things you hadn’t felt since before you had fallen sick all those years ago.

cheater!gojo inviting nanami for a drink to celebrate his second wife’s new pregnancy, having a toast to her good health. drunk, nanami asks about you. gojo simply tells him that he already has two kids with you so it’s only fair that he has two kids with her too. nanami doesn’t say anything else but gojo can tell he’s judging him, disapproving of his life choices. what do you want me to say? gojo asks him. when nanami responds, it’s not what he expects. let me have her, then.

cheater!gojo having never felt so disrespected in his life, reacts as soon as he registers the words, throwing the first punch. the fight goes back and forth, and gojo finally understands why nanami is so bothered; he loves you. clearly, the two of you had something, behind gojo’s back. he calls you a slut and other less kind names while nanami tries to defend your honor. gojo knows he’s being a hypocrite but so what? you were his wife! weren’t you?

cheater!gojo going home, knowing that while the physical fight may have been a tie, one not more hurt than the other, somehow he knows he’s lost. looking back, he knows he lost you a long time ago, when he first slept with her, but he only did what he had to do back then. now, well, loving someone wasn’t a crime. he couldn’t help loving her just as much as you couldn’t help loving nanami.

cheater!gojo struggling in his marriage with his second wife when things get hard and they’re arguing almost everyday. it’s worse when he sees you walking across the street with nanami, clearly pregnant. you’re laughing and nanami’s smiling, his hand guiding you on the small of your back. gojo bitterly turns away, hating how happy you were. how could you be so happy when he was the one who hurt you? if you were still married to gojo, he knows you two wouldn’t have ever fought like he did with his wife now. angrily, gojo wishes he never slept with her. he loves her, but she would never replace you, she could never be you. he resents her for taking you from him, for pushing you straight into nanami’s arms.

cheater!gojo smiling and pretending everything is fine when you and nanami notice him. he congratulates you on your pregnancy and you thank him genuinely. you no longer hold any grudge against him and gojo thinks that’s the worst punishment you could have given him.