loyalguma

[loyalguma]

rumi stronger than me bc I would've sucked the skin off his dick if he looked at me like that

[loyalguma]

I KNOW JINU EATS PUSSY LIKE A MAN STARVEDDD LIKE HES HUNGRYYYYY HE MISSEDSS THISS HELL HE MISSED YOU LIKE HE CANT CONTROL HIMSELF. HE WANTS TO DROWNNNNN IN U HE DOESNT CARE!!! HE WANTS THE COOKIE AND HE WANTS IT BAD.

[loyalguma]

⋆˚࿔ IN LUST WE TRUST — geto suguru

you have invited suguru geto (ballswallower69@gmail.com) to join the event: ‘having sex hehe’ from 7:00 to 10:30 pm.

SUM. you’d never so much as gone out on a date before. kissing? not on your radar. but somehow you got the bright idea to go on a dating app—matching with suguru geto.

CONTAINS. 18+ content, MDNI. 6.3k words. x slightly awkward fem! reader. non canon complacent/au. cat dad geto. inexperienced reader. consent checks. dry humping. bit of boob play. oral (f + m receiving). unprotected p in v. missionary. pull out. cum eating. aftercare. stupid humor. use of pet names. scientology visit.

A/N: almost every manwhore i’ve met owns a cat so that’s where that came from LMAO. anyways this is like super self indulgent but enjoy <3

“you brought cookies.”

you held out the tupperware container filled to the brim with recently baked chocolate chips—the sweet, warm scent wafting through the plastic. "i did, yes. though i wasn't sure if you had any allergies, so don't feel any pressure to eat them or anything. i just thought it'd be rude to come over without bringing anything."

oh great. less than five minutes into this conversation and you were already rambling.

suguru took the container of baked goods from your hands with a wary look, bringing it up to his nose. "you're not a serial killer by any chance, are you?"

you blinked. "if i was, wouldn't it defeat the purpose of telling you now?" not very reassuring.

regardless, he gestured for you to come inside. you stepped inside the apartment and slid your shoes off at the door, taking in the sight of his living room.

the space was bathed in a dark red light accompanied by sonder’s one night only playing in the background and a couple candles flickering from the coffee table—the warm richness of sandalwood permeating through the air.

“you.. uh.. you really planned this out, huh?” why couldn’t you just have said it looked nice and moved on?

now it was just plain awkward.

well, awkward-er.

sure, you knew the concept of sex and how it was supposed to work, but what every hookup guide always forgot to cover was the before. even if you'd talked before this, the two of you were just strangers. what were you supposed to talk about with him?

how were you supposed to skip this part and go to where you were riding him like a pony?

suguru shrugged, padding over to the kitchen to leave the container of cookies on the counter. “did i do too much?”

“it’s just your apartment and all, but the lights seem a little.. excessive.” that was putting it as nicely as possible.

he took the criticism in stride, grabbing a remote from the counter and turning them off before flicking a lamp on, painting the room in a dim orange light. the room was immediately much more warm and welcoming than what’d you first walked into.

you stood at the door, taking a look at the little bits of decoration that you could now see more clearly. a couple figurines, expensive, if you had to guess, a couple books strewn around his coffee table, and a cat tree perched up near the window.

you remembered the small bag in your pocket. digging it out of your pocket, you held it up in between your fingers. “i saw your cat on that one thirst trap,” he didn’t bother protesting—it was a thirst trap, “so i got some treats on the way here. i hope you don’t mind.”

either you were a psychic or you just naturally had a knack for this sort of thing. “they’re her favorite, thanks. take a seat, we don’t bite.”

the previous girls that came over to his apartment usually just gave the cat a little coo or downright ignored her, but you seemed like you wanted to get to know her more than you did him.

suguru wasn't sure if he was amused or if his ego was slightly bruised. (hint: both.)

you took a seat on the black leather couch like you owned the place, patting your lap. “what’s your cat’s name?” you questioned, the cat peering up from her paw at the noise before going back to grooming herself.

“that’s sage.”

you lightly shook the bag of treats, trying to beckon the very uninterested cat with the promise of food and an unconvincing baby voice. your efforts were working. somewhat.

sage lazily trotted her way down from the top of the cat tree before making her way over to you, sitting at your feet. her eyes were calculating, analyzing if you were worth her time. you didn't dare move a muscle when she leaned in to sniff at your socked feet and legs.

just when you were convinced that you'd gotten a big fat F on her evaluation, sage seemed to decide that you were harmless enough. she hopped up on your lap and settled down like the self proclaimed royalty she was, nudging her head against your hand in demand for head pats. you complied.

your fingers ran through the soft black fur while the cat purred like a lawn mower underneath your touch.

"she normally doesn't like strangers," suguru noted, plopping down on the couch cushion next to you.

"do you use that line on everybody that steps foot in here?" well.... yes!

and it usually worked like a charm, thank you very much.

"wait, what, really?" the last girl he'd brought over to his apartment remarked, the very same girl that signed him up for lifelong scientology visits and the army two weeks later after he failed to respond within five minutes, staring at him like he'd hung up the moon and the stars.

"yeah." the cat in question, looked at him with as much disdain as her little body could muster. suguru made a mental promise to reward the cat with catnip and treats for helping him spit out the first bullshit that came to his mind. the girl seemed too happily convinced, going as far as calling herself sage’s step mom.

needless to say, the cat hadn't been all too happy about getting squeezed and cradled around like a baby by a woman she'd never seen before and never saw again after. her displeasure was obvious if the broken flower vases and scratches on his leather furniture were anything to go by.

he'd stopped using that line. or so he thought.

"...no."

you raised a brow, gaze full of suspicion as you stared at him. barely applying any pressure. and just like a rubber band, he ended up snapping within seconds, “…yes, fine, i have. but it’s the first time i’ve meant it.”

you weren't sure if he was full of shit. but the cat seemed to like you decently enough, starting her own biscuit factory on the fabric of your jeans with each ear rub. “how’d you end up getting her?”

suguru looked over to see you and his cat getting along decently well, finding himself a little lost in the scene when your question finally registered and you were staring at him.

“i found her locked up in a cage close to home. her owners called her a devil and all kinds of names, their own negligence, really,” he rolled his eyes, reaching out to pet her chin, “anyways, they were all too happy having someone to hand off the cat to.”

the two of you sat in a comfortable silence after a few questions from one another, getting to know each other a bit better apart from late night conversations. only the sounds of sage’s purring and the outside world filled the apartment.

that was until, "c'mere." suguru lazily spread his legs on the sofa, patting his lap.

“you do realize i’m not your cat right?” as if proving your point, sage got up from her spot on your lap over to his.

“fine, can you please come here?” he gave the cat one last scratch before setting her down on the floor, asking a little nicer. you got up from your spot, standing in between his legs before you lowered yourself onto his lap.

"hi," he murmured once you settled onto his lap, his hands instinctively moving down to your hips.

"hi." you braced your hands on his shoulders to keep your balance, suddenly feeling the reality of the situation crashing down on you. the pretty man underneath you wanted to have sex with you. you were going to have sex tonight.

sex and your first kiss, apparently. (you refused to count the time you'd gotten kissed as a dare in middle school.)

and as if he could read your mind, suguru took a hold of your chin and gently tilted your head up to face him, "can i kiss you?" you didn't miss the way his gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips every .5 seconds.

you met him halfway, pressing your lips against his own. trying to go with the flow as many people said (what flow? you weren't completely sure yourself).

"close your eyes, i can feel you staring at my soul.” he pulled away, whispering the words against your lips and leaving you chasing behind his.

you let your eyes flutter shut, leaning into the kiss slowly. even going as far as tilting your head a little so you wouldn’t— “ow!” — do exactly what you just did. bump your nose straight into his.

you opened them back up to see suguru was more amused than hurt, a stupid smile on his face as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “try closing them when you’re already leaned in, hm?”

rolling your eyes, you shifted a bit on his lap before giving it one last go. one of your hands came up to cradle his soft cheek, leaning in and shutting your eyes at the last second. he tasted like mint and something else you couldn’t decipher.

his lips molded against your own in a languid kiss, each touch an experiment to know your body better. suguru’s hands moved down your body, each one resting on your ass like he wanted, no needed, you all that much closer. the exchange grew heavier, sloppier, messier.

everything was heightened—you could feel every single little thing. from the slight hitch of his breath when you captured his lip in between your teeth to your own traitorous heart thumping underneath your rib cage.

his lips moved from your own to the corner, down to your jaw, until he finally reached your neck. then that’s where he went ham. sucking, licking, kissing on whatever inch of skin was at his disposal all while taking note which spots had you shivering and squeezing your thighs together.

latching onto the sensitive skin of your collarbone, suguru placed a kiss out of reverence before he started to suck. he was practically in bliss all without taking his clothes off. if he were a weaker man, he would’ve shot his load the minute you’d settled onto his lap and got a whiff of your sweet, sweet perfume.

his hands moved up from your ass up your back, probably going to take your shirt off before his phone got the bright idea to interrupt the moment: want a break from the ads?

suguru had never regretted not investing into spotify premium as much as he did in this moment.

is your girlfriend unsatisfied in the bedroom? your stamina not being what it once was? if these symptoms sound familiar, you might suffering from erectile dysfunction. ask your doctor about levitra—

that was enough to get him up to his feet, crossing over to the kitchen counter in three strides. suguru quickly got his phone from the counter before the ad could continue, deciding that the ambiance was ruined and shutting the music off.

"do these symptoms sound familiar to you?" you teased, resting your cheek on your palm as you watched the scene with mild amusement.

"you could come to my room and find out." not nearly as smooth as he usually was, but good job suguru!

"are you really getting me into your bed with an erectile dysfunction ad?"

suguru tilted his head, "is it working?"

and you really wished it wasn't, but it was. you were quick to get up on your feet, padding over to where he stood and reaching your hand out. "let's go find out then."

his bedroom was much like the living room—a minimalistic design with a couple pictures hung up on the walls. his friends, if you had to guess. he led you over to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

not nearly enough bed-pouncing as you were expecting.

suguru spoke up, his hands resting on his lap, "you're allowed to change your mind, don't feel pressured to do anything you don't want to do. i’m here to please you.”

“i want this,” you responded, moving up the bed to rest against the headboard. he followed, keeping a reasonable distance between you two, “i want to have sex with you, suguru. let’s just take it slow.”

closing the distance, you straddled yourself over his lap, each of your legs next to his own. you lowered yourself down and placed your hands on his shoulders under the guise you knew what you were doing. and then, you started to rock and gyrate your hips against his clothed leg.

you rubbed and grinded your hips harder, faster against his leg in an attempt to feel something other than the friction of his sweats rubbing against your shorts—unsure of what to do other than rut yourself against him like a dog. maybe he was liking this?

should you start moaning?

“o-oh fuck.” a, what you hoped was realistic, moan left your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders to really sell the point. suguru looked at you, wondering if he really looked that stupid.

you weren't sure what you were doing—that much was obvious. you were humping his leg, your rhythm too quick to be pleasurable for either one of you at this point.

"have you ever done this before?" were you really that obvious?

the question had your hips stilling their movement, your gaze falling down to his face. when you shook your head, suguru let out a small tut, holding your chin between his fingers, "that's okay, baby. we'll take it nice and slow, just follow me."

his hands splayed on your hips, slightly moving you up his lap before he started to guide your movements. and oh, now you felt it. his cock strained against the material of his sweats, each ridge rubbing against your warm heat.

well, at least now you knew the ad wasn't meant for him.

"oh yeah, that feels better huh?" he cooed in your ear, his cock twitching in his pants just by feeling how wet you were getting already.

you were dripping, slick stringing and sticking to your panties with each roll of your hips. he wasn’t much better—cock prodding against your entrance like it was begging to be released. “uh huh, better,” a breathy whisper left you, your back arching against his fingertips.

when he kissed you again, it wasn’t soft and gentle like he’d been at first. no, he’d tested the waters already.

now he was kissing you like he needed you, like he needed air to breathe. each breath grew labored like he couldn’t bare being apart. his tongue moved in a synchronized dance with yours, tasting and absorbing everything you had to give.

your lips moved with the same desperation, fingers gripping against the material of his shirt. trying to take it off before he seemed to catch onto your unspoken hint. he reluctantly pulled away before sliding his shirt off in one fluid motion, letting it fall onto the mattress beneath. and… wow. beautiful was an understatement when it came to him.

you let your fingers trail down his abdomen, the muscles tensing underneath your featherlight touch. tracing and poking whatever little beauty marks you found on your way down. he was just so.. pretty.

“you really think so?” his voice brought you out of your reverie, and oh shit, you’d said it out loud?

“like you don’t know it already,” you retorted, trying to downplay the situation.

suguru shrugged, watching your fingers intently as you traced and gently scratched down his pecs, “i like when you call me pretty.”

you rolled your eyes but gave in anyways, “you’re very pretty, suguru geto.” you felt his cock twitch underneath at the compliment. leading his fingers towards the hem of your own shirt, you guided him into taking off the flimsy article. he seemed all too eager to revere your body the same way you had his.

mumbled compliments of you’re so beautiful and so soft left his lips until he looked up at you, his hands gliding up and down your hips, "do you want me to keep going or do you wanna stop here?"

you grabbed his hands, bringing them up to your chest. “i want this, suguru. i want to go all the way with you, i promise.” his fingers tweaked and squeezed at your perked nipples, his lips ghosting above the left before he swirled his tongue around it. latching his mouth onto the sensitive flesh and sucking, working the other with his fingers.

strings of saliva connected his lips to your tits when he finally pulled away—deeming that he’d given them enough attention for now. suguru flipped the two of you over, hovering above you before slowly kissing his way down.

peck. your collarbone.

peck. your tits.

peck. your navel.

peck. the waistband of your shorts.

“you can take it off,” you assured him before he even had the chance to ask the question. suguru didn’t hesitate once he got the thumbs up, hooking his fingers onto your belt loops before sliding your shorts down your legs and shaking them off.

you could’ve sworn you caught a hint of drool once you were all exposed for him.

suguru kissed his way up your leg, each one leaving behind a slippery trail behind him. “so pretty,” he mumbled, sucking onto your calf before moving further up to your knee, “so perfect laid out for me.” each one sounded like a quiet admission to himself.

despite how desperate he seemed, suguru took his time when it came to finally undressing you. his teeth sunk into the lace of your underwear, your hips lifted when he moved down the offending material at the pace of molasses. trying to savor as much as he could.

he let them fall onto the pile of clothes next to you before admiring his meal. your cunt clenched around nothing when a slight breeze came in the room, your slick glistening against your folds, clit practically throbbing his name out in morse code.

but suguru prided himself on having some semblance of patience. thinly veiled patience, but patience nonetheless. he wedged himself in between your legs, his lips hovering dangerously close to your entrance before moving down to your inner thigh. repeating what he'd done earlier on your leg.

he pressed featherlight kiss after another onto the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, occasionally biting hard enough to leave behind a nice lil' memory for tomorrow. your legs instinctively spread, every sensation sending your body through a livewire and yet.. you were lost in thought.

you wondered how many people he'd had in this room, how long this would take, what'd you eat for breakfast tomorrow, and—"focus on me, pretty girl."

immediately broken out of your endless string of questions, you looked down to see suguru already peering up at you. "talk to me, what's going on in that head of yours?"

you shook your head, "just got lost in thought, i guess."

"then we'll just have to make it to where you can only focus on me, angel."

and then he dove in like he was a man starving.

his big hands gripped your legs and spread you apart like a feast, tongue flicking out to taste the slick dripping down your folds and thighs. "taste so good, thank you, thank you," he babbled, swiping his tongue up and down your folds before flicking it inside of your pussy.

your cunt gushed like an open sink against his mouth and chin, the man practically nose deep as he thrusted his tongue in and out of your sopping pussy. his jaw went slack, sucking and tracing your folds with the tip of his tongue before going back to eating you out.

soon, two of his fingers took place of his mouth. two long and thick fingers. your juices ran down to his knuckles while he spread you open, his fingers curling and hitting that one spot inside of you with ease. "fuck, it feels so good," you whined, bucking your hips up to meet his fingers.

"i knoww baby, just needed suguru to take care of you." he didn't let up, much too starved himself to even think about doing so. his lips latched onto your swollen, throbbing clit and sucked lightly onto the nerves. your grip on his hair tightened, a broken moan leaving from his lips.

"just like that," he hissed out, his hips rutting into the mattress underneath. you noticed a dark patch growing in the front of his sweats. "take what you want from me, y'know how to do it." your hips swiveled and thrusted against his eager mouth, spit and slick drenching his chin and dripping down to the mattress.

it was hard to think about anything other than him, you had to admit that much.

your legs shook with each thrust of his fingers, with each swipe of his tongue. just as you were about to press your legs together, suguru pried them apart once more with ease. "don't interrupt my meal, i'm not done eating." and how could he say that when he already sounded so drunk off you?

his tongue swirled against your clit, the tip drawing circles around the sensitive nub. "f-fuck, gonna cum, keep going," you whined out, nails digging into his scalp. the sound of your pussy gushing around his fingers was all you could hear, and yet, all you were focused on was chasing your own orgasm.

it was so close, you felt a knot building up in your lower tummy. "fu-fuck fuck fuck," broken babbles left your lips, your toes curling and legs shaking the more you felt that pressure increase. with one final thrust of his fingers, you came. the knot unraveled all at once, your release washing over you (and his fingers) like a tidal wave.

he'd never been such at bliss before.

each breath felt like it was splitting your lungs open, your chest heaving as suguru slowly pulled his dripping fingers out of you. he didn't mind staring you in the eye when he put his fingers in his mouth, sucking them off as if no drop could go to waste. "mm, wanna taste you forever." his eyes practically rolled back, his tongue swirling against the two digits.

once you finally regained your bearings, you sat up and asked, "do you want me to return the favor?"

suguru let out an indignant scoff like you'd just insulted his very existence. and in a way, you had. "i did that because i wanted to, because i needed to taste you," he retorted, shaking his head like he wasn't reevaluating his degree in munchology, "not because i was expecting anything out of you."

getting up from your spot on the bed, you padded over to where he was sitting and situated yourself right in between his legs. absentmindedly running your fingers up up up the thin material of his sweats, barely grazing your fingertips against the growing tent between his legs. before you pulled away altogether.

you looked up at him like you were sin incarnate, lashes fluttering against your cheek, "what if i really really want to suck you off?"

suguru swore his soul left his body for a minute. he'd gladly let you keep it if you wanted it at this rate.

“then by all means, go for it.”

that was all you needed to slide the flimsy material of his sweatpants onto the floor, his cock slapping up against his stomach once it was released. now it was your turn to nearly drool. you couldn't have imagined that a dick could be this pretty.

a nice tan color at the base with a hint of red at the tip, a curve settling to the right and precum dripping down his shaft just from having you in his mouth. it was fairly long and thick—as thick as your forearm, you could assume.

all the fanfiction you had saved in your bookmarks couldn't have prepared you for the sight of the twitching cock in front of you.

you stared at his dick like it was something out of an anatomy textbook, trying to figure out the best approach to go about this before ultimately deciding to throw it out the window and just try it out.

"a-ah fuck." suguru practically turned into putty the moment you took him in your mouth, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of your head. not pushing, never that; he'd never risk making you uncomfortable.

thick globs of spit dribbled down to your chin and down his shaft from the corners of your lips. "just like that, yeah, please." suguru wasn't afraid to be loud—letting you know what you were doing right. one of your hands wrapped around his cock, your fingers tightening around the base before you started to jerk your hand up and down.

you could hardly take him in fully—your cheeks hollowing out to make more space and it still wasn't nearly enough. "soo good, please don't stop," suguru’s voice drawled out when you tried taking more of his cock in your mouth.

you could feel tears pricking up at the edge of your waterline, blinking them back quickly. his cock was barely a couple inches in your mouth and the tip was already starting to hit your uvula, your saliva coating around the shaft to mix with the precum spurting out. once you were able to, you started bobbing your head up and down his length.

suguru’s fingers dug into the sheets beside him, his chest starting to feel like he’d run a marathon. your tongue, your mouth, just you, everything felt too stimulating, too good. the hand you’d been jerking him off with moved down to his heavy sack, your fingers rolling around his balls.

and just like that, suguru was a goner. he swore he saw the flickering of a white light above. you felt them tighten up underneath your fingertips, growing heavier and heavier with cum. you looked up to see him completely disheveled, mouth agape to let out shaky gasps and broken moans. and right before you swore you almost felt him cum, he pulled you off.

“did i do something wrong?” your question came out innocent, like you hadn’t nearly sucked the soul out of his body.

suguru let out a disbelieving laugh, pulling you up to your feet before feverishly leaning into kiss you. not seeming to care that he could taste himself on your tongue. “just need to cum inside you, can i do that, please? you still want this?”

he sounded completely and utterly ruined. but you nodded into the kiss, your fingers pressing into his shoulders. “i need you, sugu, need you so bad. please fuck me, please.”

he moved at the speed of light, setting you down onto the comfort of his mattress before he settled himself on top of you. his cock throbbed and twitched at the mere contact with your bare pussy, his fingers wrapping around the base as he swiped the tip through your folds. “you sure you want this?”

just one more time to confirm. you nodded.

“c’mon, use your words for me, pretty,” he whispered, rubbing the tip against your swollen lil’ clit. your throat bobbed as you swallowed back an embarrassing moan.

“i want this, suguru, i’m sure.”

"okay, take a deep breath in for me." you complied, filling your lungs with air before letting it out in a deep exhale. he slowly pushed his cock in, your walls tightening and clenching involuntarily against his shaft.

"there we go, that's it baby. takin' me so well." suguru's voice came out akin to a purr he didn't mention how he'd barely pushed an inch in. once he was certain it was okay, he pushed another and another in.

a choked gasp left your lips when he finally seemed to bottom out, feeling like your body had just been split in half. and maybe, just maybe it was, you wouldn’t necessarily doubt it.

suguru wiped away a couple tears that streamed down your cheeks, standing still while you got used to the intrusion. it was hard, he had to admit, when you felt so warm and wet around him. but anything for your comfort, he wouldn’t risk that.

“you can move, suguru,” you spoke up, one of your hands reaching out to take hold of his. his fingers grasped your own, placing your hand on top of your head before he slowly pulled out and thrusted back in one swift motion. your pussy drenched his shaft each time he pushed back in, each thrust smoother and faster.

suguru leaned down to kiss you, hair falling like a waterfall and covering his face completely before he ever got the chance to get close. you bit down on your lip, trying to keep yourself from laughing in his (hair covered) face before reaching out and moving his hair out the way.

so goes the super suave geto suguru.

a small giggle left your lips at the gesture, slowly starting to feel more and more comfortable being around him. (well how much more comfortable could you really get after having him inside you?) suguru let out a small huff, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance before handing over a hair tie.

you managed to make the world’s messiest ponytail in twenty seconds. go you!

“i’m glad my embarrassment’s amusing, but you okay?” he asked quietly, treating you as if you were a delicate piece of glass. long fingers trailed up your sides like he was admiring a piece of art, not at all like the strangers that you were supposed to be.

“i’m fine,” you assured, wiggling your hips and trying to thrust back into him, “you can go faster, though, please?”

suguru didn’t hesitate to follow that command, hips snapping into you almost immediately. your cunt sucked him in with each thrust, squelching with how much you’d drenched his shaft. his heavy balls smacked against your ass TWACK TWACK TWACK!

your legs wrapped around his waist like you were physically trying to intertwine your body as close as you could to him. “ah ah fuck, sugu, faster, faster!” your moans sounded like the best kind of melody to his ears, and well, who was he really to deny?

suguru hoisted a leg up on the bed for a better angle, hitting that spot inside of you with each quick thrust. your walls clenched around him like a vice, like you wanted to keep him trapped while you gushed and soaked around him.

“pussy’s so good, i’m never letting you go,” he babbled, his other hand gripping your hip to move you up and down his shaft as he pleased.

his middle finger rubbed desperate little circles against your clit, your eyes rolling back from just how good you felt. the hair tie was long since forgotten, hair falling onto his face as he leaned forward to capture your lips in what could only be described as a tangle of tongue and teeth.

everything about him screamed desperate and unhinged—and you weren’t any different.

“make me cum, make me cum, please,” you moaned out against his lips, your chest heaving and your breaths coming out in short pants. suguru nodded like it was his only mission in life, pushing his cock in and out sloppier and messier than he was at first. practically gliding with how wet you were.

your orgasm built up more intense this time, your nails digging into the sheets below as the coil in your tummy began tightening. “please please please,” for what were you begging for? you didn’t know. a scream that would probably wake up his neighbors left your lips as you came, dripping and soaking his shaft in your wake.

“so messy, my messy girl, that’s ittt.” he was a broken pussy-drunk babbling mess. suguru continued to rut into you, chasing his own orgasm while working you through your own. his hips moved desperately, balls twacking against you with each sloppy sloppy thrust until he finally choked out,

“w-where do you hic want it?”

you didn’t give it much thought, “my face, sugu. wanna taste you, come for me, need you.” that was all it took for the last bit to snap, barely managing to pull out in time before he was spurting out drops of cum onto your face and your open mouth.

you swallowed every last drop that landed on your tongue, your features contorting into a slight grimace once the taste settled on your taste buds. and just like you'd come out of a damn porno and his wet dreams, you stuck your tongue out.

"fuck, you're gonna kill me." a breathless laugh left his lips. he made sure to push his hair back this time around before he leaned into kiss you again, his tongue prodding into your mouth.

one time fucking awkward and slightly offputting girl pussy and he was ready to get your finger measurements to buy the most expensive ring he could find at the jewelers. maybe he'd start with just a date once he came back to his senses.

suguru plopped down on the mattress next to you, rubbing a drop off cum off your cheek with the pad of his thumb before bringing it up to his own lips. "was that okay? you need anything—water, a bath, your dignity?"

you let out an amused scoff, turning your head to face him. admiring his features in the post sex glow. you had to admit—to yourself mostly—he looked good worn out and panting. "my dignity's still intact, thank you. but some water and a rag would be nice."

he cracked open the water bottle and left it on the nightstand next to you before disappearing into the bathroom. you could briefly hear the sound of water running before he emerged once more, a wet rag in hand.

each swipe of the rag in between your legs was a gentle one, treating you with the utmost care in the world. “you don’t have to leave right away, if you don’t want to. i can make some mean scrambled eggs.”

“how inviting,” you teased, taking a sip of the water as you mulled it over. how bad would it be to stay the night if he’d already been inside of you? “but sure, i’ll stay. if only for the scrambled eggs.”

you weren’t sure how long the two of you spent up talking about nothing and everything in between, from what you did for school to how you got into baking. it was.. refreshing, in a sense.

you could picture yourself doing this kind of routine with him almost too easily. the last thing you remember before succumbing to sleep was his arms wrapped around your stomach.

holding you like he never quite wanted to let go.

loud knocking woke up suguru at ass o'clock in the morning, long before the sun even started to peek its head from the horizon. a groan left his lips as he forced himself to untangle his limbs from your own and get up.

you didn't seem to notice his absence, in fact, you almost seemed to enjoy it. a little too much, if you asked him. you laid in the middle of the bed, sprawling your arms and legs out like a starfish.

the knocking on the door grew more insistent—determined to get an answer one way or another.

"hi, good morning. i'm from the church of scientology." this time they'd sent a middle aged man to stand at his door and spit out the same spiel he'd heard for the past five months in a row, greeting him with a smile that suguru deemed unnatural this early in the morning.

a smile that quickly seemed to fade once the man took notice of the blossoming hickey on his neck, the scratches that ran down his abdomen.

the man grasped his copy of dianetics like he was clutching his pearls.

suguru would have to eat you out later just for this reaction.

the man cleared his throat, eyes averting down to the book in his hands, before he cracked it open to the first page he could find. suguru wondered how long it'd take the man to figure out the book was upside down.

"i'm here because you signed up to receive visits every weekend. for just the small price of ¥73,300, you could learn all about the church and how to reach enlightenment—" the more that the man rambled, the more that suguru was more inclined to start his own cult than join this one.

but regardless, he let the man finish his spiel before he tapped his chin in faux thought. “to join a cult or not to join a cult, decisions decisions…”

the man raised a finger to protest, pushing up the thick rim of his glasses up his nose, "well actually, we're not a cult, we're a religious group focu-"

the man was left rambling to the front door about the difference between a 'religious group' and a 'cult.'

but he relented, suguru had to give him that at least. the man remained at the doorstep, bringing his fist up to the door but never making contact. probably regretting coming over in the first place.

"who was at the door?" you were barely awake yourself, rubbing at your eyes as the bright morning light peered in through the windows.

suguru pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a small groan, "would you believe me if i said scientology?"

"who'd you piss off?" you questioned, standing by the kitchen with your arms folded.

this time, another groan. though he sounded more whiny than anything, “why does everyone always assume i did something?”

"am i wrong though?" you countered.

no, not at all. and suguru knew he wasn’t getting out of this conversation that easily. "come on, i'll tell you over scrambled eggs and those cookies you baked yesterday."

[loyalguma]

when till was younger and ivan stole his pencil, he'd naturally get annoyed because, who wouldn't like having someone steal your shit is one thing, but then also giving it back like you found it is just incomprehensible

but now that he's older, what's in focus in this memory isn't the pencil but ivan's face with bruises from his smile training

because till finally realizes ivan was in pain then, too and his annoying him was just his way of seeking comfort

...it's too late now, but if till had realized, he definitely would have comforted him... just give them a bit more time... pls......

[loyalguma]

strawberry cream

synopsis: your remote internship at gojo enterprises is going rather well, or you think so, anyway. you sort of relish in how incapable your wildly successful boss is with technology, and at every turn you’re there, prompt and available on slack: his sweet IT intern who pushes her hours to help.

it's all very professional…right?

pairing: ceo!satoru gojo x intern fem!reader

tags: modern au, keeping secrets, SMUT!!, thigh riding, unprotected piv, oral (m!receiving), face fucking (who said that?), sorta rough sex but not really, dirty talk, an overall foulmouthed satoru gojo, creampie, semi-public sex, inappropriate workplace conduct...and one extra tag that i won't say cause it'll ruin the surprise ;)

wc: 11k

a/n: um...so actually what happened was...um...uhhhh

18+! mdni <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satoru Gojo 5:27pm Still not working.

the message blinks at you from your computer screen. 

you really do enjoy your job. you like both of them, actually.

your internship with gojo enterprises came up sort of serendipitously, happening upon a listing for a paid remote IT intern right as you found a truly beautiful apartment on the outskirts of shibuya. you needed more income to cover the rent, and it wasn’t like your other workplace required that you use your degree.

and you’ve found there is something delightful about putting your college years into practice, particularly because it seemed for so long like you never would. rummaging through the backend of one of the most affluent corporations in the country thrills you a little bit, as silly at it sounds. curled up in your duvet and splayed about in silk pajamas, you pry open the metaphorical breakers of an economic giant and fiddle with the wires.

you suppose, as different as this line of work is from your other job on the face of things, it appeals to the same sort of animal in your belly that drew you to nightlife. you like feeling in control, enjoy the subversion of being so pretty and young and self assured.

you are delighted, too, by how often satoru gojo needs your help.

he has lost his email password at least three times in the last two months, accidentally deleted his own profile from the internal website, and filed his income tax forms in the shared google drive. 

each time you have been there, fingers flying over your keyboard in your slack dms as you sort through his technological missteps. it’s only made more entertaining by how intelligent he clearly is—you are under no illusion—it seems simply his single blind spot rests securely over your area of expertise.

he is…not what you expected. he seems to respect you far more than you had anticipated a CEO to respect his remote intern. he knows that, as it relates to IT, you know better. there is no denial of his mistakes, no shame, only a brief request sent your way with a hint of playful self-deprecation. you like him. 

this most recent problem has spanned almost all afternoon. he’s been locked out of his internal account, it seems. you bite back a smile as you respond to him.

You 5:27pm Hmm. I’ve scanned backend three times now, and everything seems to be working. What’s the error message exactly?

Satoru Gojo 5:28pm Says I don’t have permissions.

now you really are smiling, responding immediately.

You 5:28pm Oh, well I can fix that here, but that’s something another admin could have done, too. Probably not a system error. It says here the other admin is Suguru Geto. Would he have changed permissions for some reason?

he drafts a few responses to that before going silent. suguru geto has never needed your help and is thus wholly enigmatic to you, though you know he is satoru’s CFO; you also know—certainly not because you poked around in their personal slack messages—that they are close childhood friends. it wouldn’t be the first time one had attempted a practical joke on the other, the workplace often caught in the middle, though you commend geto for his foresight to humiliate gojo in the only way gojo couldn’t fix himself.

after a few minutes you see him typing again.

Satoru Gojo 5:34pm Yeah ok it was him. He just did it to mess with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you! :/

your laugh rings through your apartment.

You 5:34pm No worries!

and this should be the end of it, really. but the part of you that you reckon satoru gojo shares—a joy in flagrant pettiness—compels you to keep your computer open. your digital landscape is quiet for a few moments, your dms empty. you stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

ping!

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm On second thought, can I get your help with one more thing?

You 5:37pm Of course

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm You’re too sweet for your own good. Your shift ended 7 minutes ago.

you enjoy this, too. rare moments when his personality bares itself in the way he writes to you: the sort of harmless flirtation that you doubt he even notices as he types it.

you’ve known enough womanizers to know he’s harmless. still, you bask in fleeting moments of his digital attention.

You 5:38pm What can I help you with?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm Can you make his launch button this link?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm DON’T OPEN IT

you open it immediately.

oh.

oh.

your bottom lip gets caught under your teeth. of course you knew vaguely what gojo looks like, you had sufficiently googled the company when you first came upon the job listing.

and there are pictures of him everywhere, pretty face splashed under headlines like BILLIONAIRE CEO TURNED PLAYBOY?—that article made you laugh, some ten thousand words about a blurry photo taken outside a nightclub, a white head of hair in motion walking out—but still, in all of them he is pressed perfectly into well-tailored suits, hair brushed through and facial expressed tempered, even trained. he looks so professional, so proper, so terribly handsome, but not quite your type. or, really, a stage before your interest.

you like when men like that are disheveled, hair mussed and skin tacky with sweat.

though this photo he’s attached isn’t all that far off.

something stirs, shakes awake between your legs looking at it. you grin with something devious and awful before responding.

You 5:40pm I have to open it if you want me to use it.

Satoru Gojo 5:41pm Is that true?

no.

You 5:42pm Yes?

Satoru Gojo 5:43pm Did you already look?

You 5:43pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 5:44pm You’re fired

You 5:45pm No I’m not.

Satoru Gojo 5:45pm No, you’re not.

with a giddy little grin you do as he asks. it is entirely unprofessional, you know, but you are surely exempt from blame when doing the bidding of the CEO, right?

you link suguru’s login button to the photo, laughing to yourself lightly.

You 5:50pm I did it. 

You 5:51pm I have to admit I’m sort of surprised you’d ask me to do something so childish on your behalf.

Satoru Gojo 5:51pm He started it

You 5:52pm Aren’t you a CEO?

Satoru Gojo 5:52pm Aren’t you my intern?

You 5:53pm My shift ended 23 minutes ago.

Satoru Gojo 5:54pm So then you’ve committed this “childish act” for me out of the kindness of your heart?

You 5:55pm No, actually. I get paid double for overtime.

Satoru Gojo logged off 5:55pm

your heartbeat rings lightly in your ears, you feel like you might have rattled him a little and that delights you to no end.

you wonder what he imagines you look like. surely he could have searched your name, though any photos of your face wouldn’t be attached there. 

there are, of course, ample photos of your face across the internet, most of them behind a paywall, though some of the tamer ones are available for free. but all of them are under a different name.

you had chosen tsukiko, meaning moon child, as your stage name initially as something of a joke. she isn’t an alter ego so much as an exaggerated caricaturization of your femininity, one who feeds on starlight and slinks about in the dark. you delegate the hungrier parts of yourself, the parts that ache and need for things, to her.

your manager at club cabal had spotted you first at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, pin striped pencil skirt down to your knees and shiny black pumps in each hand. you had been looking for months for a full time job, but the market was so saturated by then with IT workers that there seemed to be no space for you. you remember leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the stoplight pole, surely infected with some fifty diseases but you weren’t in a place to mind, when an enormous and glamorously dressed woman approached you. 

you remember so clearly what she said to you, the words cutting through your delirium and sinking sense of defeat: you look absolutely riveting in business clothes.

you barely had the wherewithal to lift your head but nonetheless you had, assessing all six feet of her, draped in fine furs and silk gloves. the whole getup would have looked like a costume on anyone else but she wore it all with such purpose that it looked like the most natural outfit in the world. 

you still cringe thinking about the tactless way you’d simply replied: “huh?”

she had laughed at you, but there was no humiliation in it, she almost seemed endeared to you, amused and halfway pleased by the bleary look on your face. she had handed you an ivory business card, embossed and shiny with her name and her place of work.

長澤長子 (nagasawa hisako)

CLUB CABAL MANAGER

“come to see me if you’d like to make some real money,” she offered, not waiting for your reply before strutting back down the block, coat fluttering in the evening wind like a cloak.

when your savings dipped into the single digits a week later you paid her a visit.

working at the most exclusive hostess bar in tokyo fits you stunningly well. your clients are disallowed from propositioning you, serving you alcohol, offering you drugs, and, most importantly, touching you. you spend your weekday evenings in clothes that could pass as business formal if they were longer—tiny miniskirts and button-ups that urged the plush of your tits to spill out—and entertain the most wealthy business people of the tokyo metropolitan area.

all of them just want someone to talk to, you have come to learn. it helps, naturally, that you arrive to them dripping in sex appeal, but most of your returning clients seem to remember first and foremost the way you speak to them. 

after two years collecting a rather well-to-do roster of exclusive clientele, hisako began operating you out of a private room. 

and there are real, tangible things you have learned from catering to top performers in all fields. you might have majored in math and CS but you know now, too, about the global economy, about agriculture, about the intricacies of factory-owning. 

and you flare bright, a star in spinning orbit, in that subtle performance under the moody lighting of the club. every hand gesture, every curl of your lips, it all means something, and the fine precision has come to excite you. you are untouchable there, a coveted thing, paid to see.

speaking of which, you think, it’s about time to get ready.

you have very few reservations tonight, though you don’t mind much now that you have your own space. you extend your legs across the couch, stilettos hanging off each foot as you tap them to the humming bass of the music. your room sits right off the main hallway, just big enough for a plush, navy couch and a coffee table, wiped shiny between clients. lanterns hang golden and coy at each corner, illuminating your face just enough to provoke your visitors to lean in closer.

you can hear the distinct click of hisako’s heels as they approach your door, and you turn your head on the armrest with a smile to greet her.

“hi baby,” she coos. you sit up and cross one leg over the other, lest she have a client in tow.

“good evening,” you reply with a smile. she leans on the threshold with a conspiratorial grin.

“i have a new client for you. a real big hitter. can you handle him?”

you tilt your head. “are you really asking me that?”

she laughs, full-bodied. “i guess not,” she muses, turning back to send him in. you pull a chilled bottle of sake from a small fridge at one end of the couch and place a glass next to it on the coffee table.

there are about 30 seconds as a client approaches your door when you learn some of the most vital things about them. the weight of their shoes, the sound their clothes make as they walk, whether they make conversation with the other hostesses passing by, all of it is catalogued as you listen. 

the so-called big hitter makes his way towards your door with purpose, though he is in no rush. his footsteps fall deliberately, a hair’s breadth away from heavy but not quite, just fast enough to sound intentional, just slow enough to keep from missing your door. 

the face they make when they enter matters, too. how they assess you, where they look, you cater your posture to their tastes. an interested man is an honest man, you have found, and you learn the most when they want you. 

the door swings open.

fuck.

fuck.

he is so tall he takes up almost the entire doorway, weight leaned on one hip like he’s waiting to be invited in, though surely confident enough to know you will. his suit is bespoke, you can tell from the way it sits just so on his shoulders, and he’s loosened his tie a centimeter or two. he’s one of the most attractive young men you’ve ever seen in your life, which would typically excite you. you love beautiful clients. 

but blinking at you from a few feet away is satoru gojo.

your boss.

satoru gojo.

is at your door.

for one of the first times in your entire career, you have no idea the sort of look pulled across your face. what the fuck are you supposed to do?

you know you have at most one more second before the silence shifts from anticipatory into awkward, and you consume it in full to think. okay. gojo has no clue what you look like, of this much you are almost certain. further, the name on your door is not one he would recognize. by all accounts the person who sits before him has absolutely no relation to his remote IT intern, despite the fact that you’re in fact the same woman. you take stock of his face; if you have any sense left, you think he shows no sign of recognition on your face.

okay. you swallow. refusing him would be a first for you, and by hisako’s description he’s an important client to please. you almost laugh at yourself for that thought; of course he’s an important client to please, he’s something like the wealthiest man in the country. 

what is there to do other than act as though he’s any other customer?

you smile, small and wry, and gesture him inside. gojo nods his head in hello, closing the door behind him and settling gracefully on the other end of the couch. his legs are long and spread so far his knee almost touches yours, almost, and he reclines back into the upholstery like he owns the room. you suppose he could, if he had any interest. he holds a broad hand out to you, smiling sharp and wolfish. he likes you.

“it’s nice to meet you. you can call me satoru.”

if you can push beyond the strangeness of meeting your boss like this, you acknowledge the unique position you have been unceremoniously pushed into. namely, that unlike any other first-time client, you know a great deal about him.

you smile warmly but don’t move your hand to shake his. “it’s my pleasure.”

he wiggles his fingers slightly. “you don’t shake hands?”

“you know the rules, satoru,” you admonish lightly.

he chuckles and lowers his hand. “i guess i was hoping otherwise.”

you move to pour him a glass of sake and feel his eyes trace you as you bend. his irises flit over the swell of your breasts, the arch of your back, though he stays reposed back into the cushions, watching you like a predator. you coach a smile that doesn’t reveal what is becoming clearer to you with each moment: it’s almost fun to have this secret. 

or it would be, if your internship wasn’t on the line.

it may still be, actually.

you cross your other leg over, let the tip of your stiletto hang close to his shin. the muscle of his thigh twitches but he remains still.

“so what brings you here tonight?”

gojo keeps his eyes on you over his glass as he takes a slow pull. he smacks his lips lightly, shrugging. “i wanted company.”

“do you struggle to find good company?” you tease.

he tilts his head back and forth, thinking, before admitting, “yeah, i guess i do.”

“i find that sort of hard to believe.”

the corner of gojo’s mouth tilts up. “and why’s that?”

you roll your eyes lightly. “you’ll have to work a little harder if you want me to stroke your ego that overtly.”

“i’ll work as hard as it takes,” he fires back, only half joking.

your laugh is breathy and real. he communicates himself rather well over slack, you think. all the cheekiness, all the bite, you have felt moments of it in your communications online. though seeing it all from his mouth is a different beast you are, if you can admit it, becoming increasingly elated to face. how fucking hot he looks while talking is not something easily captured online.

“so what do you do for work, satoru?”

you hope that question is convincing. he didn’t tell you his last name on purpose, you think. 

“i run a business.” his eyes are narrowed almost imperceptibly, and it unnerves you, so you bend at the waist again to refill the sip he took from his glass. the tension in his face goes limp watching the curve of your ass.

“what sort of business?”

“oh, it’s all so boring,” he dismisses, sounding almost disappointed that you’d ask.

you scoff and chuckle all at once. “most of my clients come to talk about their work.”

he extends an arm across the back of the couch, fingers a few inches from your neck but still not touching. you let him.

“i think that’d be a waste.”

“why’s that?”

“i could pay a lot less money for someone who doesn’t look like you to listen to stories about my work.”

you breathe in sharply. he’s fun. “you could pay a lot less money for someone you could touch, too,” you add.

his eyes flit a moment to his hand, so close to your skin, surely sensing the warmth of you, but still making no move to actually feel. it seems almost like he gets off on the not-touching, like that inch of space between you thrills him. he flexes all five fingers.

“i find that pretty boring, too,” he murmurs.

“you don’t like fucking pretty girls?” 

your sudden crassness makes him shift, crossing one leg over the other. he liked that. 

“i suppose i’m just tired of it now.”

your grin grows. “oh, i see, so you’ve fucked too many pretty girls.”

he shrugs with that predatory smile, running his free hand through his hair to muss it slightly. “the waiting’s the best part anyway.”

“so what do you find not boring?” you ask.

he looks at the ceiling in a show of consideration that makes you laugh. his gaze snaps back to you at the sound, immediately preening with it. “you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

your scoff only sets him alight further, scooting just barely closer to you, angling his legs so they still don’t touch yours. but you’re tucked further into his side now, noses closer, and it makes something animal inside you flex and bite. your thighs squeeze quickly but you track his eyes as they catch the movement.

“see that, right there,” his hair flops to one side, loose now from its gel in all his fussing, “you’re scoffing at me. do you know how rare that is?”

he seems genuinely delighted, whole-heartedly excited by your diminutive little noise.

“oh i see,” you start, “you like being degraded?”

he scrunches his nose and it’s sort of boyish. “no, honestly, not really. i just have so few people in my life that treat me like a real person.”

you chew on this slowly. “so you…” a coy smile breaks through, “you came to a hostess bar for the humanity?” but you can hardly finish your sentence without laughing again, light and amused but real, and he chuckles at himself, too.

“yeah, i guess so.”

you feel his pointer finger brush the skin at the back of your neck and you shudder, narrowing your eyes at him again. he corrects himself immediately, pulling away, and breathing out, “sorry. i forgot.”

you can see on his face that he means it.

“tell me about your life, little moon,” he says, voice low and quieter as it fans over your face. when did you get so close together? both of your bodies contort beyond reasonable expectation to fit so closely without touching.

you have never felt quite so charmed by a client before. whether it’s because you already feel so familiar with him outside of this room or the appeal of harboring this secret you cannot decipher, but nonetheless you are doing things you would normally never allow yourself. you have never leaned so close before, have flirted so overtly with the breaking of a rule you have historically enjoyed.

you want him to touch you. for so many reasons that is a terrible, life-alteringly horrific idea.

you try to speak with him instead.

“little moon?” you ask.

he points to your door. “tsukiko. moon-child,” he clarifies, but something thinly veiled and knowing tugs at his lips.

you hum. 

“but i guess that isn’t your real name, is it?”

something about the low rumble of his voice tickles at your spine, makes you want to arch into his touch. you’re trying so hard to remember yourself, to remember who he is.

“i don’t think it’s wise for me to answer that question.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “then answer my other one. tell me about your life.” you hesitate and he grins. “or scoff at me again.”

you smile and push an amused breath through your nose. this is a somewhat perilous trap of a question but you don’t show it on your face.

“wouldn’t that ruin the illusion? peeking behind the curtain and all?”

“what illusion do you think i’m under?”

you appraise his face slowly. you suppose you don’t have an answer to that, so you relent to his other question, at last.

“i’m fairly boring outside of this job, actually.”

“i don’t believe that.”

“i spend all my time here and at home.”

“oh, little moon, such a shame. pretty young thing all alone all the time?”

the teasing lilt of his voice, sweeping in that low whisper of a register, makes your thighs clench again. he doesn’t even look this time, only grins a little bigger to show you he knows.

“i’m around people all the time, people are my job,” you argue.

“that’s not the sort of alone i’m talking about.”

you cannot help but want to play this game with him, you lob the ball back, though your voice comes out a fraction more breathless than usual. “what sort of alone are you talking about then, satoru?”

“well i can’t touch you,” you can feel his pointer finger hover over your shoulder again, intentional this time, running a knuckle so close you can sense it without looking, but still not touching. “but is anyone?”

you’re taking in a stuttering breath in an attempt to respond but he continues, lips closer to the shell of your ear.

“surely someone gets to feel this tight pussy, huh?”

you huff out all your air, fuck you’re so wet and he’s looking at you like you can smell it. what the fuck is happening? you have never, ever reacted to a client this way. and better yet, this is your boss.

but rationality slips from your ears and down your neck, you think, because you only shake your head.

pity drips from his voice like honey, every ounce of power you implicitly relinquish to him a thing he takes on with what appears to be great pleasure.

“surely you must have needs.”

“i can take care of myself, but i appreciate your concern.” your double entendre doesn’t dawn upon you until you’ve already said it and he’s laughing with a lewd sort of tenderness. your face burns and you make use of your remaining faculty, looking away from him knowing he cannot tilt your chin back himself.

“uh huh. and how often are you…taking care of yourself?”

“i don’t have to answer that.” that’s a weak retort and you both know it.

“no, you don’t.”

you try to deflect. “i thought fucking pretty girls bored you.”

“i’m not fucking you, am i? unless you’ve had a change of heart about the touching rule.”

“no,” you reply, as firmly as you can manage, though something below your navel is bellowing for him.

“i figured not,” he admits, leaning just slightly further into you, whispering low and hot into your ear, “it’s enough just knowing how fucking wet you are in that little skirt just from the sound of my voice.”

your mouth drops open in disbelief, head snapping towards his, so close your noses almost bump. “i’m not,” you protest, voice clipped. fucking liar. 

“no?”

“no.”

“why don’t you prove it for me?” he taunts softly.

you squeeze your thighs harder, desperate for any sort of friction, anything, but your restraint is waning with him whispering so sinfully in your ear.

“you’re not allowed to touch me,” you remind him again.

“but you can touch me, can’t you?”

this is a suggestion you’ve heard from a few patrons before but it’s a first to feel so tempted to take one up on it. you search his face for anything to tether to, looking for a reason to refuse, but god he’s so pretty and you want him. he has almost as keen an eye as you do, you think, because he sees the moment your trepidation lowers.

“why don’t you get on my thigh and let me feel?”

his legs uncross and he splays them out, a saddle for you. your eyes drop there, and then to the tent in his slacks as they pull tight across his hips, to his face—wild and manic—and then back again. shit. 

you brace one hand on his shoulder, just to see what he’ll do. he tenses with the contact but doesn’t move, doesn’t make to grab at you. you look at each other a moment longer, both of you waiting for something terrible or wonderful or both, and then you’re swinging one bare leg over his, settling slowly on his pant leg, skirt fanned just to the middle of your thigh.

the pressure of his muscle under your swollen clit makes you whimper as soon as you sit down and a breath punches from his lungs but still he does as you have asked, still he doesn’t touch you. he tilts his head to the side, mouth parted. 

“come on, little moon,” he encourages lowly. “use me.” he punctuates it with a little bounce of his leg and you’re gone.

you start slow, dragging your clit on the warmth of his slacks, surely leaving something shiny and humiliating behind but you can’t find it in you to care. you brace your other hand on his other shoulder for balance, rolling your hips faster now, mewling quietly as he watches with rapt attention.

“you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? that all for me?”

you nod wordlessly but he bounces his leg again. you only barely stop yourself from screaming. “answer me.”

“f-fuck, yes, satoru, f-for you,” you exhale, words stuttering and stumbled as your stomach tenses with your movement. the pleasure whips through your body, coils around your diaphragm and around your hole. you flutter and pulse and surely he feels it, how badly you want to be filled. his fists clench at his sides watching it, cock aching and huge from the looks of it, jumping in time with your little grinds along the fabric.

with each roll you thrust harder, whimpering as the feeling bubbles and smokes inside of you. “fuck,” you whisper, to yourself or to him you do not know.

“fuck you look so fucking—oh that’s it—perfect humping me like a slut,” he groans.

you throw your head back, rolling your hips harder, faster, you need to cum and it’s so close you can taste it, can feel it between your fingers. he takes the opportunity to lean closer to your neck, exhaling slowly on the beating of your jugular.

“i’m so cl-close,” you whine.

he bares his teeth against your skin. “oh baby you really did need it, huh? cumming so fast.”

you nod, all pretenses and attempts at self-possession abandoned. the maw of your heat unhinges its jaw as ecstasy washes over you, hips gone frantic and lost of all rhythm, riding your high as you gush over the fabric of his pants. he moans with you watching it happen, feeling the wet heat spread across his thigh.

with one final sigh you slow to a stop, panting lightly. when you raise your head to meet his eyes again you feel something like sheepishness coiling feverish in your chest but his expression is so open in its wanting that the humiliation doesn’t last.

“fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

with the remaining shreds of your crazed desire you are put upon to slide two fingers past the hem of your panties, collecting your slick where it pools. you raise them in front of his face, shiny and tacky.

“open,” you order softly.

he obeys immediately, gratefully. you press your fingers lightly on his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, half-lidded as he licks your fingers clean, his groaning around them reverberating down your hand. you pull away with a faint pop.

“you are fantastic,” he breathes, as dazed as you are.

you smile something small and honest, slowly disentangling yourself from him to right yourself on the couch again. 

“thank you,” you say, for the compliment and…for everything else, you suppose.

he almost seems nervous now that he’s seen you cum. his cock is still obscenely swollen in his pants, still jumps every time you look at it, but it feels like he’s swallowed his swagger along with your cum. he reaches for his sake cup and takes it all in one swig before standing.

“i’ll…see you again, i’m sure,” he says as he makes for the door. you sort of want to giggle at the absurdity of it all, at this situation you find yourself in. but then he turns back, as if remembering something, and digs through his pocket.

he pulls out a wallet, leather and embossed with the kanji of his name, a tidbit you know but cannot divulge. yes, the fact is slapping you across the face again: this is your boss. 

he throws something to the tune of 150 thousand yen on the table, for the first time looking less than certain about what to do. you think for a moment that he seems like he’s just remembered, there at the threshold and one foot out the door, that this has been first and foremost a transactional encounter. 

when the sound of his expensive shoes walking down the hallway fades into silence—or as close to silence as the club is capable—you hang your head in your hands. what the fuck did you just do?

the next week passes like torture. for the first time in your life you dread going to work, dread seeing him again; even worse you spend equal time hoping he’ll turn up at your private room. satoru gojo plagues you, plagues tsukiko, infiltrates somewhere deeper beyond the character.

to add insult to injury, you are subject to continued messages from him under your real name, a new character borne of necessity under the pretense that you didn’t fuck his thigh last thursday. though you suppose the only benefit to keeping such close contact with him is that you do not have to wonder when he doesn’t turn up for a week after his first appearance; you know he is busy, know he’s working past sunset, and you have the slack receipts to prove it.

he is as hopeless with his computer as he has always been—you suppose a clandestine encounter with a hostess wouldn’t have changed that—and every time he turns to you, endlessly grateful and funny and reverent, somehow, of the ways in which you help him.

like now.

Satoru Gojo 6:06pm Sweet intern

normally you would have logged off by now, but you have the night off from the club, and what better way to spend your evening than with a glass of wine and engaged in a treacherous IT session with your boss and best single-visit client?

you nibble on your lip as you respond.

You 6:06pm Good evening

Satoru Gojo 6:07pm My evening has been terrible.

You 6:07pm More computer troubles?

Satoru Gojo 6:08pm You must think I’m an idiot.

You 6:09pm Definitely not.

Satoru Gojo 6:09pm Helpless?

You 6:10pm Something like that.

oh god. did you just send that? you need to log off. take a week of PTO. do anything other than continue responding while a little tipsy and still fucking horny for him. to his credit, he takes that comment in stride.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm I appreciate your honesty.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm And yes, more computer troubles.

You 6:12pm Do tell.

Satoru Gojo 6:13pm Suguru retaliated

You 6:14pm From your retaliation? It’s becoming a vicious cycle.

Satoru Gojo 6:14pm He logged me out of my Partiful account

you almost spit up wine laughing at him.

You 6:15pm Why is your Partiful account attached to your business email?

Satoru Gojo 6:15pm It’s a business party!

You 6:16pm Go ahead and request the Forgot Password email. It should send to the domain admin (me) and I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be a temp password and then you can reset when you log in again.

it’s an easy fix; so many of his requests are. he is never any less grateful.

Satoru Gojo 6:18pm Thank you thank you!

case in point.

you begin to rise from your bed to refill your glass when another ping! lights up your screen. 

Satoru Gojo 6:20pm Do you live in Tokyo?

you pause. is this…still business related?

You 6:21pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 6:21pm You should come by then.

something skittish pokes from behind your ribs. 

You 6:22pm Come to what?

Satoru Gojo 6:23pm This business party. It’s the company’s 100th anniversary. You can come by the office, meet your poor disciples in person

despite everything that still makes you smile. 

of course, you cannot under any circumstances attend. the moment he sees you in person he’ll know, likely firing you in the middle of the party. and he’ll know, too, that the night you met in person, you knew who he was even though he took great care to equivocate. was that a betrayal on your part? should you have suggested he leave that night when he walked in?

it’s all so hazy now, glossed over with your lust and his, the heat a contagion you haven’t quite baptised yourself of.

his message blinks before you still.

You 6:25pm I’m busy that night, unfortunately

Satoru Gojo 6:25pm I haven’t told you what night it is yet

are you the stupidest young woman on the planet? it is so unfamiliar to feel so out of control, your grip slack where it normally tightens, white-knuckled.

you aren’t entirely ready to concede.

You 6:26pm I just don’t do well with people.

lie.

Satoru Gojo 6:26pm I really would like it if you dropped by. You don’t have to stay for long.

you groan aloud.

Satoru Gojo 6:27pm You’ve helped me so much the last few months

Satoru Gojo 6:28pm It’s next Friday at 7pm. Most people will be there straight from work so business formal is fine. I hope you’ll come

the truth—it descends upon you like wrath, venomous and toothy—is that you have no options. you cannot deny the CEO at the company for which you intern three times. you also surely cannot attend, cannot let him see your face. but the former is a more pressing problem, you suppose. maybe it’s the wine, but you feel your resolve bruising into submission.

maybe this is for the best; you’ve saved enough now that you can stay in this apartment long enough to find another job. and was it really sustainable to continue to work alongside gojo after what happened at the club?

the terrible part of you—you’ll never forgive her—wants to think you would sustain this as long as it was viable. but the rest of you acknowledges that the lifespan has arrived at its bloody, inelegant end.

You 6:30pm Okay

there is something deeply ironic about zipping up a pencil skirt of appropriate length in preparation to go see satoru gojo again. your stockings are sheer and black, catching the light where your foot curves into the lowest heels you managed to find in your closet. no matter how you arrange your gray sweater over your torso you feel sort of crude-looking. you have come to associate this style of clothing so closely with the club that you cannot process your silhouette in the mirror as anything other than whorish.

with a manic sort of giggle you think, oh well. you’re getting fired anyway!

you’ve considered, over the last week, feigning sickness or some personal tragedy, all manner of terrible scenarios which would keep you from the party. but in the first place you suspect, after your couplet of dreadful attempts at rejecting the invitation, that he would know outright you were simply trying to weasel your way out of the obligation. 

and secondly, some naive part of you does want to go. the other coworkers you’ve helped online seemed so excited when they found out you had committed to come: yuuji itadori, a new hire who seems entirely incapable of recalling his passwords, kento nanami, a clearly whip-smart high-level employee who harbors a secret fear of pressing buttons he doesn’t understand, ieri shoko, an altogether efficient young woman who simply cannot remember to clock in and out.

you have put in tangible time of your life to help these people, and in turn have forged something like friendships with them. what you had said to gojo that night is true; other than the club, you don’t encounter people much. there is something embarrassingly exciting to you about solidifying, even if only for ten minutes, these little bonds you find you care a lot about.

the gojo enterprises building is enormous and beautifully designed, you notice, as you walk towards the revolving entrance doors. the scaffolding gleams in sleek gray steel, large windows across swaths of floors cleaned to a pristine shine. the lobby is still full of people, even at this hour, shuffling about in all directions along the marble flooring.

nobody seems to pay you any attention, which soothes your nerves slightly. at least only you and him will know you’re a slut. 

you approach a pretty young woman at the front desk, hair cut recently in an auburn bob that suits her face.

“um…hi,” you begin, resting one hand on the counter. “i’m here for the office party?”

she smiles at you easily, like you aren’t about to be fired and potentially publicly humiliated. “wonderful! it’s on the penultimate floor, so just click the second button from the top.”

you nod and thank her, heartbeat increasingly demanding in the cavity of your ribs. a part of you remembers the way gojo acted that night, how pliable and kind he remained even as he paid you and stumbled out. you’d like to think the man you know—both versions—would spare you the degradation of announcing your misdeeds in front of everyone. it’s not like he isn’t lewdly implicated in such an announcement, either.

but you can’t help the slight tremble in your hands as you press on the button and it chimes, thrusting you upwards.

the last thing you consider before the doors open is that he simply won’t mind, that you’ll laugh about it together. it’s a little startling how much you find you’re hoping that he isn’t upset with you. 

and then the doors slide open.

you are reminded, as you wade through the gaggle of people chatting over champagne, that the only person here who knows what you look like is gojo, and even he might not realize at the outset that you are you. you have no way of recognizing your familiar coworkers, and thus no reasonable way to begin conversation with anyone. you make a beeline for the bar.

you assess the room around you from the far end, nursing your champagne with as much poise as you can manage. this floor has only a few, large desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by even larger board rooms flush with long, dark tables and leather seats. at the far left corner you see two single-person offices with plaques by the doors, surely gojo and geto’s offices, you think.

you cannot see gojo anywhere, though you’re unable to decide whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. you scrutinize the crowd so hard you hardly sense the figure approaching at your side until they’re already there. a deep voice clears its throat.

the man you find when you turn is rather beautiful. hair long and dark around his shoulders, face sharp and fox-like, eyes the sort of keen that might frighten someone who didn’t enjoy observant people so much. you give him a polite smile.

“you’re new,” he says simply.

you shake your head. “only partly.” you hold your hand out to shake and tell him your name. “i’m actually your remote IT intern,” you explain.

the man smiles wider, almost secretive, and assesses you quickly. his eyes rake down your form, across your face, but it isn’t hungry so much as it feels vigilant, void of the voyeuristic heat you’re used to. 

he introduces himself: “suguru geto.”

you grin at him, laughing a little. “it’s great to meet you. i’ve been wondering what you’re like.”

he raises one eyebrow. “that so?”

you realize only now that it’s more difficult than you anticipated to speak with attractive men in a different way than how you talk at the club.

“i just mean that you’ve never needed my help. i only know the technologically-challenged of you.”

he chuckles. “you must know satoru well.”

actually, you go back on your previous thought; you are positively indebted to your time at the club. all your practiced grace and easy charm prevents you from choking on your champagne. just barely. 

“yeah, in fact, i do.”

“are you the one who helps him get back at me?”

“guilty as charged.”

he clicks his tongue in his mouth. “i knew he couldn’t have been doing it on his own.”

you take another sip of your drink. “i really am sorry for my participation,” you assure him, “but when the CEO demands you attach a lewd photo to your launch button i don’t have much of a choice.”

geto’s lips tug up at one corner. “so you saw that photo then?”

heat licks over your nose and you hope the fluorescents cover it. “unfortunately, yes.”

“he’ll be so hurt you said that.”

your eyes widen only slightly, but you know he catches it. you try to imbue your voice with the casual leisure you hope to convey. “don’t tell him.”

he clinks his glass against yours with a small, knowing smile. “you have my word.” and then, over his shoulder as he begins to walk back into the heart of the party, he adds: “it was nice to meet you.”

you wave him off politely, leaning again against the bar.

your attention is pulled quickly towards a broad, blonde man as he approaches the bar, another, much younger man seemingly attached to his hip. 

“no, itadori, you can’t handle your alcohol,” the older man admonishes.

“please? it’s the company party, nanamin,” he pouts.

you smile to yourself. two of your frequent flyers.

“look, you’re an adult,” kento sounds wholly unconvinced of this, even as he says it, “but if you’re asking my permission for some godforsaken reason, then i’ll tell you–”

“wait a second,” yuuji stops. it takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you. “aren’t you our IT intern?”

you sputter in surprise. “i–um…yes?”

yuuji beams. “i knew it! it’s nice to meet you in person.” his handshake is so firm and eager it jostles you a little bit. something lost in his online translation is how frenetic of a thing he is, bouncing about in a constant state of buzzing that endears you to him.

“how did you know it was me?”

“he has a weird sense for those things,” nanami interjects, taking your hand next.

“it’s really nice to meet you both,” you smile.

“thank you so much for all your help. i was just mentioning to gojo how i wouldn’t ever get any work done without you.”

“you said that to gojo?” nanami asks disapprovingly, though yuuji doesn’t even seem to register it.

“i know he wanted to meet you, too. i’ll go get him!” he chirps, bounding off between people beyond your reach, not hearing—or choosing to ignore—your feeble oh no you don’t have to!

you turn back to nanami to find an almost pitying look on his face. you scrunch your nose. “is he that bad in person?”

“he’s…a lot,” he qualifies.

you lean an elbow on the counter of the bar, watch your champagne swirl about in the flute. “it’s sort of strange meeting all of you in person,” you admit.

nanami scans the throng briefly again, quickly muttering into his own drink: “into the eye of the hurricane.”

you have only a moment too little to discern what he means.

“—and he keeps taking my champagne away,” itadori grumbles.

lord help you you recognize gojo’s footsteps as they approach, still as certain as you remember them, and the discs of your spine align in a taut stack, but you do not turn to him.

his laugh is easy, unaware, the low scratch of it only a few feet away now, but you learned that night that he watches when he speaks. he doesn’t see you yet, surely still turned and attentive towards yuuji. “probably because you threw up in his office trash can at the last christmas party.”

“i told you, that wasn’t me.”

“who else could it have possibly—oh.” the footsteps stop, and you feel his eyes fall on you.

when you turn your head, a number of things become obvious at once.

he is as handsome as you remember him. melted a little around the edges, tie loose, suit jacket gone and button-up bunched at the elbows to expose his forearms. his scent makes your thighs clench a little, less perceptible under your reasonable skirt, his hair disrupted by the long day and possibly a glass of champagne. the terror of your present circumstances, and the punch of guilt, too, come fettered to how badly you want him. 

the other revelation—or, you suppose it’s more like a reminder—is that gojo is a great deal like you. you can almost see the way he’s counting the moments in his head, taking stock of the time he can allot himself to think, to decide, knowing that this gnawing silence will at some point grow too monstrous too ignore.

in that time the shock meets his eyes first. they widen and then pinch, flitting across your face and down your body, and you do your best not to preen in the attention. and then his lips part a little, any further salutations stone dead in the back of his mouth, swallowed down. he breathes out once, twice, heavy things you think he wanted to attach to words but couldn’t quite manage to animate.

and you want to say something, want to apologize; you almost want to encourage him to fire you now so you can avoid the anticipation and get home before your feet hurt. 

but then something devious pokes out from behind his teeth, something vital and alive, something like a smirk. his head cocks just so, bearing his large hand out.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” he says, voice so even you could strike him. 

and this is the final cognizance, thrust towards you between his lithe fingers; he plans to enjoy this. beginning, it seems with a cheeky homage to that night, the shaking of hands you refused him once but cannot deny him now. 

you shake his hand firmly, smiling something only he would identify as divergent from polite. he grazes the inside of your wrist with his pointer finger before your arms drop, posture twitching with the feeling of you despite the mundanity.

you nod your head in acknowledgment. “good to see you, sir.”

his tongue pokes briefly on the inside of his cheek. “i trust nanamin has introduced you around.”

“don’t call me that.” nanami sounds exhausted with him already, weighed down further by what you fear is a flicker of recognition. whatever dynamic flare is crackling between you and gojo, nanami’s eyes narrow, just a moment, like he sees it.

“you let me call you that,” yuuji adds unhelpfully.

and even though you’ve come upon this game in the wake of a monumentally terrible decision—or maybe because of that, you’re unsure one way or the other—you let the other proverbial pleaser drop.

“would you introduce me?” you ask gojo.

both his eyebrows jump, something silent exchanged, but he takes little time to seize the opportunity. he rounds beside you to lay a hand on the small of your back, all but delighted to guide you away, pressing only minutely harder than what would be appropriate. enough to remind you that he can touch you now.

“it was nice to meet you both again,” you offer to nanami and yuuji as satoru shepherds you off, but as soon as the pair looks away gojo is leaning down to your level slightly.

you beat him to the punch. “is this really wise?”

low enough that it’s only for the both of you: “definitely not.” he squeezes your side again quickly. “but i think i’d like to show you off to all your lovely coworkers before i fuck you in my office.”

you suck on the back of your teeth and try your best to glare up at him, but it’s hard when your panties stick so tacky to your mound. he bumps into you on purpose, giving you one, ephemeral moment to feel how hard he is in those expensive slacks. 

“can you even wait that long?”

he drops his hand from your back just to graze the swell of your ass, swipe there once with his thumb. “i already told you, little moon…the waiting is my favorite part.”

with what is clearly no small amount of reserved prudence, gojo stays true to his word. he deposits you about the party, peering at you heavy-lidded as you greet the people you’ve thus far only known over email. every time you steal a glance at him he’s already staring, the weight of his gaze so heavy your knees nearly buckle. you feel more supine than you ever have in your life, soft and watched and wanted.

but surely he must know you’re observant enough to notice he is winding you, slowly, to his office. with each new introduction you are a few feet closer to his door; it’s just shy of torture waiting this way. how long has it been since you’ve been fucked? you choose not to answer that question for yourself, though with each step you feel the gluey swipe of your slick between your legs and you cannot deny that you’re greedy to be filled.

still, you do your best to appear something like normal when you walk through the threshold of his office door, when you hear the metal snick of the lock behind you. 

the panel of glass looking out into the bullpen is so frosted you can hardly see through it, a modern design choice that suits the building, and the rest of the room follows suit; a glass coffee table stacked neatly with books, an enormous desk flush with papers and folders and an intercom system, windows that span the outer wall to boast half of tokyo.

gojo stays a moment by the closed door but gives you no direction, so you simply stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind your back and waiting for further instruction. you suppose he likes the look of it, because he makes no move to gesture you anywhere, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he watches you.

“get down on your knees for me, baby,” he says simply.

the air punches from your lungs and you bite down on the inside of your cheek but you find your legs curling under themselves anyway. you can’t look way from his face, that crazed manner of watching you a scorching cloak you don’t want to shed. 

only once you’re on your knees does he approach you, reaching a hand to your face to cup your jaw. with a little tug of your jaw your nose is brushing against the bulge in his pants and you exhale over it. he sighs up at the ceiling as you bring one hand up to cup his twitching cock—god it’s so big.

“you’re not mad at me?” you murmur.

he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “oh i’m fucking furious—ah” he’s cut off by your palm applying more pressure, rubbing him in earnest, and his hips buck into your fingers. his right hand weaves into your hair and grips it like a handle, humming at the way you whine.

“so i have rules of my own now,” he finishes. you still and blink back up at his face. “no touching.” you lower both hands and fasten them behind your back again. 

gojo pulls his belt loose and tugs the zipper of his pants down, aching cock jumping up and out. he’s so red it looks like it hurts, curved up a little and as massive as you thought he was, and with one hand he wraps his long fingers around the base, tugging up once, twice. your lips part as precum pearls at the tip and he grips the back of your head, bumping his slit against your lips to gloss them. when you don’t take more than you’re given he groans low, “good girl.”

and then in one, mean thrust, he’s fucking the entire girth of him into your mouth. he’s so big he bumps halfway down your throat, you gasp and sputter around him, spit pooling already and eyes watering but you’re nothing if not determined, swallowing hard around his tip.

“fuck i knew you’d take it,” he growls.

you try to nod but his length pins your head in place, not to mention each of his hands taking a tight grip on each side of your face to start thrusting into your mouth.

he’s loud, so loud that you have moments of clarity when you worry the party will hear, but he’s so fucking long that mostly you dedicate all your attention to taking him without gagging. with each thrust your nose brushes the neatly trimmed hair at his base and you lave your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling a vein there that pulses every time you moan around him.

“that’s it, that’s it,” he lets one hand travel down to your throat and wrap there, not pressing so much as feeling himself as he fucks in and out, “swallow—fuck me—swallow around me again, baby.”

you do and he moans wild and honest, almost surprised at how good it feels, and you’re so desperate for anything that your hips start to rock over your own heels. feeling the wet trail you leave on your shoes is vaguely humiliating but the pressure behind your pulsing clit is almost unbearable and you’re afraid he’ll pull out if you use your fingers, still clung together behind you. gojo looks like a deity with his head tipped forward watching you, brows pinched together and mouth agape, droopy eyes sharpening when he sees the little ruts of your hips.

“you fucking like this don’t you?”

you hum out a pathetic mmhmm around his skin and his eyes almost roll back. forgetting yourself you bring both hands up to claw at the vee of his hips but he catches them immediately, thrusting once with a particular malevolence to tell you to behave.

his thrusts are gaining urgency, losing their rhythm, you know he’s close and you can’t tell if you want him to finish or would prefer it be inside of you. most of all, though, you find you want to please him, so you whine one more time around his cock to hear him mewl something broken and desperate. he does.

“fuckfuckfuck i’m g’na cum, i–”

he can’t even finish his own sentence, hips stuttering and growl caught in the back of his throat as he finishes heavy on your tongue. you swallow it all down like a blessing and the bob of your throat makes him pulse a little more, whispering mainly to himself a breathy: jesus. when you pull your lips away slowly a few webs of spit snap down your chin but you let them glisten there.

gojo can hardly allow you enough time to get to your feet, wrapping his arms under yours to haul you up and over his desk. your hands press over files and polished wood and he bends you into a deep arch with one hand. with no less urgency than before his first orgasm gojo rips your skirt and stockings down to your ankles, groaning low at the damp spot in your panties, on display with your legs spread and hips flared out to him.

he uses one finger to pull your thong to the side and you can feel the filthy slide of your slick as it slips around your folds, down your thighs. you can hear the squelching of his hand on his cock again, jerking himself over the remnants of your spit and his own cum, and you tense your legs waiting for him to breach your tight hole.

he chuckles when he sees the cords of your muscles move.

“oh baby,” he coos, “are you waiting to get fucked?”

your fingers pull in and leave crescent marks on your palms. “please,” you whimper, wiggling your hips, “please fuck me.”

“i dunno,” the fwap of his hand is speeding up seeing you present yourself further for him. “i think seeing you like this is enough to—fuckfuck—make me cum again.”

you drop your forehead to the wood to ground yourself but still your words come out like a sob: “i need you satoru please, please.”

“fuck!” again his hand gets quicker, “beg me again baby. beg me better than that.”

“please satoru i need your cock so bad, i need you to fuck me, i–”

in all honesty you don’t know whether it was you begging that did it or the dissolution of his own resolve, but without warning gojo fits his angry tip at your hole and pushes, hips slapping against your ass as he sheaths himself fully in one go.

you both groan in unison, relief and nirvana and the aching heat with her claws in both of you, and satoru holds your head to his desk as he starts to move.

his thrusts now are not exactly like the way he fucked your mouth; he isn’t testing your limits, isn’t using every ounce of his remaining strength, each grind is calculated, slower than before. it almost feels like he’s pausing after each rut to hear the sound you make and learn. that consideration alone is enough to make you clamp down around him, and a moan claps like thunder from his mouth.

“god it’s like fucking a virgin you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. 

recovering from the burn of the initial stretch you start to incline your hips back into each thrust, the punches of his tip around your walls even harder as you arch to meet him. your arms reach back to feel for him but he only seizes the opportunity to wind them in one hand and hold them to the curve of your spine. 

“was it worth it fucking embarassing me?” he pants out, beginning to bend at the waist to fuck up into harder, words nearly spat onto the wing of your shoulder. “i’ve spent all—fuck—week thinking about it.”

you mewl and hum into the wood of the desk.

“made me feel like a fucking teenager at the club,” he thrusts harder, the sound of his skin on yours louder in your ears, “made me feel like a fucking creep at my job.”

you…what?

somewhere between your insistent moaning you ask him “what—ah! oh f-fuuck satoru—what do you mean a creep?”

he bands one arm around your torso and shifts upright, holding you to his chest as his hips continue to buck wildly, more erratic, more in it. his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“all this time i’ve wanted to fuck my sweet intern,” your mouth drops open in surprise and pleasure and something else, the mounting feeling of ecstasy scintillating through your body, “thinking you were some fucking hermit,” he spits. your ass is surely red from the snapping of his toned hips but you’re so close and the hot tickle of his breath on your face just might be enough to get you there.

he almost seems to hear what you’re thinking, though, because then his free hand is jumping to your swollen clit, rubbing messy circles over and under the hood. “went to the club hoping to—oh yeah baby, squeeze me like that—get her off my mind just for you to fuck me over again,” he spits, but it isn’t angry, not really, he’s just desperately and pathetically close.

your body catches and locks, toes curling into your heels as you start to come undone, the dull pleasure coming first and then that cutting slice of your high. you shudder and pulse and milk him as it washes over you, about to pull him over the cliffside with you.

“i’m g’na fuck my cum deep in this cunt and you’re gonna have to fucking walk out of here with it dripping out of you.”

and then he’s gone too, rutting quick and thoughtless and then exploding inside of you, groaning deep in your ear and arm tight across your chest. he thrusts lazily through it, plugging you with the ropes of his seed, trying to feel the slosh of it in your channel.

the disentanglement of his body from yours is almost silent save for your shared quiet groaning at the overstimulation, an almost self-conscious kiss pressed to your temple as you redress, and the murmuring buzz of the corporate party still going outside. 

fuck. the party.

satoru takes great care righting your clothing, brushing fingers through your hair. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to—only smiling sort of boyishly as you do the same for him. you try to replicate the easy and rushed tug on his tie from before, the right pleating of his sleeves halfway up his arms. 

really it’s no use. you look like you’ve been railed, you can feel it, and the scent of sex sticks to gojo, supplanting even his cologne. you shrug at him and he laughs softly, muttering a small c’mon as he ushers you back out.

to your surprise and great delight, the party outside seems…normal. people hardly turn when you exit, engaged in their own conversations, a considerable group of them watching yuuji—absolutely plastered now—trying to get nanami to dance. satoru places his hand again on your back one last time and presses there, but it isn’t hungry now. he means it to be comforting, you think, and it is.

or it would’ve been, if your eyes didn’t immediately land on geto, leaned against the wall and watching you both with that serpentine glare. you nudge gojo with your elbow to get his attention.

when they make eye contact suguru only smirks wider. you turn slow and dangerous to satoru, who stands upright like a statue.

“satoru,” you begin, a calm that should frighten him if he’s smart, “what does he know?”

he shakes his head quickly, lips turned down in a dismissal. “nothing.” 

satoru gojo is frustratingly excellent at a great number of things. lying isn’t one of them.

when you return to your apartment that night, legs sore and aching and happy, you flop immediately onto your bed and pry open your computer, single-minded. it only takes a few moments of navigation through the admin channels to find it, a conversation from two weeks after you first started.

Satoru Gojo 3:11pm Hello

Suguru Geto 3:13pm Oh I’m sorry I don’t have any change

Satoru Gojo 3:14pm I need your help

Suguru Geto 3:15pm I’m not a philanthropist

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm I’ll give you 3 extra days of PTO

Suguru Geto 3:15pm What is it

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm You’re not gonna like it

Suguru Geto 3:16pm When do I ever

Satoru Gojo 3:16pm I need to fuck the IT intern

Suguru Geto logged off 3:16pm

~~~~~~~~~~~

to anyone who read to the end dm me you're entitled to a big messy kiss!!

comments and reblogs always appreciated <3 :3

[loyalguma]

thank u 4 the tag <3!! i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child tags: @robinhooded @chososcamgirl @cuntphoric-main @diivineangel + any1 who wants 2 join :3

tag game 🤭

rules: color the sentence that's true about you

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

this is a whole lot of yellow lmfao

no pressure tags: @marthawrites @schniiipsel @aemonddtargaryen @aemondsbabe @adragonprinceswhore @arcielee @black-dread @lovelykhaleesiii @aemondsbabygirl @valeskafics @connorsui

[loyalguma]

whenever i c sua i just wonder if mizi just hugs her just 2 smell her not even in a weird way, but i feel like sua would smell like flowers or something soft

[loyalguma]

505 — gojo satoru.

At 5:05 a.m. in this beautiful mourning morning, Gojo Satoru finds himself standing outside your apartment door. Well, at least he remembers that it was 505A. The last time he was here, it was too dark to read the sign. He stares at the numbers for a long time, bleary-eyed and uncertain. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's the weight of everything he never said, but they don’t quite look real. Just metal digits screwed into a door that feels both painfully familiar and impossibly distant. The hallway is quiet. The kind of silence that feels sacred, like the world is holding its breath. He’s not sure what he expected from you after all this time. But he has thought about it on the way here. Maybe he needed some kind of clarity, maybe. Or perhaps some sort of jolt, that was full of certainty. 

GENRE: alternate universe - canon divergence

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, smut, post-hidden inventory arc, post-break up, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, long-term on and off relationship, profanity, loneliness, emotional distress, emotional trauma, resentment, confessions, toxic relationship, love, hate, longing, pining, emotional, bittersweet, reunion, introspection, sex as emotional release, depiction of sexual acts and scenes, depiction of nudity, depiction of toxic relationship, depiction of emotional distress, depiction of emotional trauma, sorcerer! gojo satoru, former sorcerer! reader;

WORD COUNT: 8k words

NOTE: i know the kayu's playlist usually gets to be the update but ive been so busy lately that i genuinely just have no time to do the fics in order that i want to. but im slowly getting them done, don't worry, you guys!!! thank you for waiting!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

kayu's playlist — side 3000;

HE WAS SO EXHAUSTED FROM ALL OF THIS. Gojo Satoru could feel the shrill of his back against the leather of his car seat. He’s been moving too much lately, perhaps even more than usual.

Everything was easy for him, of course. Yet he was still human at the end of the day. Not everything could be healed. That's just how it was at the end of the day. He had to deal with it somehow.

Gojo Satoru has a license. He's had one for years. He also has a car. It was a good one. It was sleek, obnoxiously fast, like everything else in his life. Yet he didn’t need them. He just has them at his disposal.

These were little things they didn’t know about him. Things he didn't want them to know about him. But he hardly cared for that and he thinks to himself, no one could care all about it. That was normal, right?

Satoru rarely finds himself behind the wheel for more than a few minutes at a time. He had no time for that, if he was being honest.  And that’s not his job anyway. Even without it, he could just take a Shinkansen. 

But a ten-hour drive done by him, by his own whim. It was practically unheard of. He doesn’t do road trips. He barely has time for sleep, let alone long stretches of highway and playlists and gas station coffee.

He’s always been too busy for that. There’s far too many missions, too many students that need him, too many responsibilities on shoulders that carry the weight of the world. Driving for the sake of driving just isn’t his thing. He has better, faster ways to get where he needs to go.

And yet, here he is.

Ten hours, give or take. It's a ridiculous decision, by all accounts. He wouldn’t do something like this. Not for a vacation. Not for a friend. Hell, not even to go save the world again. He’d teleport, fly, bend space before ever touching the brake pedal on some remote country road.

But when it comes to you?

That's a different thing altogether.

He likes to do everything for you the hard way.

It started small, back then. A forty-five minute drive to your apartment just outside Jujutsu High when you were younger. It didn’t seem like much at the time. Just enough distance to make it feel like an effort, like a choice. Then came the seven-hour flight. All of that crossing borders, crossing oceans just to see you for a weekend that felt like seconds.

And now, it’s this. This stupidly devoted ten-hour drive. No cursed spirits, no mission orders, no duty. Just him, the open road, and the need to see you. After all this time. And somehow, it’s worth it.

It’s you. It was always going to be worth it.

He doesn’t even remember when the distance stopped being a hassle and started feeling like a promise, like proof of something. That no matter how far you were, he’d find a way to reach you. That no amount of space could stretch his feelings thin. 

Maybe that’s why he didn’t take the usual shortcuts this time. No warping space, no flashy entrances. Just the slow, deliberate pace of a man who wants every mile to mean something. The road hums under his tires, the kind of white noise that lets his thoughts get louder.

He wonders what you'll say when you see him. If you’ll laugh, call him crazy. If you’ll pretend you’re not surprised, even though he knows you will be. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting, like he has. Quietly. Stubbornly. Holding out hope in the stillness of days that feel too long and nights that echo too much.

There’s something sacred about driving this far. Something uncharacteristically human about it. He’s used to existing above the ordinary, untouchable and untethered. But this? This makes him feel real. Every sore muscle, every roadside diner, every hour crawling by—it grounds him. It reminds him he’s still allowed to want things. Not just to protect, or to fight for, but to have.

And he wants you, more than anything in him. Not in the abstract  sort of way. Not in the maybe-someday sense. He was sure it was in the tangible, aching, you’re-right-there-and-I’m-holding-you kind of way. He always has. And perhaps he always will.

The sun’s setting by the time the city creeps into view, its lights blooming on the horizon like a sigh of relief. His long fingers tighten on the steering wheel all together. He takes a breath for a moment. He’s almost there.

Ten hours is nothing, really. Not when it’s for you. Not when it means he finally gets to see you again. Not as a memory, not as a voice on the phone but as fully human, fully you. In the doorway, or waiting on the porch, or maybe still inside, not even knowing he’s just minutes away.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when you see him. He hasn’t seen you in two years, after all. You’ve moved yourself from the urban cities and into the far flung countryside, unwilling to be perceived or known to the people you once knew to be the closest to your heart. Including him.

You left Jujutsu Society quietly. No press release, no goodbye drinks. You packed your things in the middle of the night and vanished before the sun could rise. A shadow slipping out the side door.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Not after Suguru.

Not after Nanami.

Not after Haibara.

Each loss had carved something out of you, something essential. You told yourself you could bear it, that you were built for this. But Suguru's defection had broken your faith. Nanami’s quiet departure shattered your sense of order. And Haibara… he was the one that cracked your heart clean in two.

You stayed after that, longer than you should have. Longer than your sanity could have ever allowed. You stayed for him, he knew that. You stayed until grief started living in your bones and sleep became a luxury you couldn't afford. What finally broke you wasn’t death. It was Gojo Satoru.

“You’re still her.” he had said one night, finding you on the steps outside the dorms, half a cigarette burning between your fingers. His voice was low, almost surprised. “Thought you would’ve left by now.”

You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Maybe because the real answer was sitting next to you, all cold shoulder and infinity, and you couldn’t say you back to him. You just couldn’t. It was a different thing that he knew it, but it was even more different when you said it out loud. That was going to be worse. 

In the absence of words, there is the ability to ignore, to pretend that the world you lived in was the same. But when you say it, you wouldn’t be able to pretend. He wouldn’t be able to let it pass as it was, not when he needed you. 

Goojo Satoru knew it all too well, reading behind the lines. He started to see how that was killing you Killing you in it with Suguru. But he took your word for it. And now, he couldn’t handle it, seeing it unfold. Not again. Especially not with you. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Everyone leaves eventually, you know that right?” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’m getting used to it.”

That was the thing. You didn’t want to become another name on that list. To be another loss of his life. But loving him was exhausting, staying here is making you feel like death was the better option.

It was a war between what you needed and what he couldn’t give. He was always halfway in, always too much and never enough. And still, a part of you ached for him. That was the part you hated most.

You remembered your voice, brittle like glass that night. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He had glanced at you sideways, something unreadable in his eyes. “You mean the work?”

You shook your head slowly. “I mean all of it.”

His silence then was the loudest thing you’d ever heard. It settled between you like a storm cloud, heavy and electric, thick with all the words he wasn’t saying. Maybe he should’ve said something else. Maybe he should’ve tried.

Something to anchor you.

Something to pull you back in.

Something—anything—that sounded like stay.

But Gojo Satoru has never been good with the words that matter most. He’s good with bravado, with jokes, with control. But not this. Not you, broken and unraveling before him. Because he was selfish. God, he was so selfish.He wanted you.

He wanted all of you, even the pieces you’d lost. Even the parts of you buried under grief and exhaustion and anger. He wanted to hold onto you, to keep you by his side like he always had. As if loving him could be enough to carry the weight of everything else.

And yet, he loved you too much, too. Too much to chain you to a life that was slowly killing you. Too much to pretend he didn’t see the way you were disappearing before his very eyes. Too much to be the reason you stayed, when staying meant dying in degrees.

He told himself that. That he was letting you go out of love, not fear. That he wasn’t just watching you leave because he didn’t know how to ask you to stay. So he said the worst thing he could think of.

“Why don’t we break up then?” he said, finally. His voice was too steady, too quiet. A man ripping his own heart out with surgical precision.

“Satoru—”

“You’d be free of me.” he added all too quickly, not giving you a chance to say anything. “Free of all of this.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You couldn’t. You just stared at him like he’d slapped you. Maybe he had. Because you hadn’t said the words. You had only said you couldn’t do this anymore. You had only needed something from him. A reason. A promise. A fight. But all he gave you was an exit.

You nodded, eventually. What else could you do? The moment fractured something in both of you. You got up from those dorm steps and walked away. Not just from him but from the world you once fought so hard to protect.

He let you go. And he told himself it was for your sake. Even if it shattered him. And so you left. Not because you stopped caring but because you cared too much. Because you couldn’t breathe in that place anymore. 

Because every hallway was a grave to you now, a grave with wailing ghosts you can never dispel. Because looking at him, just looking at him, felt like pressing your hands against an open wound and pretending it didn’t hurt.

At 5:05 a.m., this beautiful mourning morning, Gojo Satoru finds himself standing outside your apartment door. Well, at least he remembers that it was 505A. The last time he was here, it was too dark to read the sign.

He stares at the numbers for a long time, bleary-eyed and uncertain. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's the weight of everything he never said, but they don’t quite look real. Just metal digits screwed into a door that feels both painfully familiar and impossibly distant.

The hallway is quiet. The kind of silence that feels sacred, like the world is holding its breath. He’s not sure what he expected from you after all this time. But he has thought about it on the way here. Maybe he needed some kind of clarity, maybe. Or perhaps some sort of jolt, that was full of certainty. 

But all he feels is the ache in his back, the stiffness in his legs, the ringing in his ears from hours of the road and too many thoughts he couldn't turn off. He exhales slowly and lifts a hand, hesitating before his knuckles meet the wood.

What if you're not here? What if you moved out months ago and he just never found out? What if someone else opens the door and a stranger with no idea who he is or who you were to him?

What if you are here? What if you open the door and look at him like he’s nothing more than a ghost of a life you buried? What if you don’t want to see him? What if it’s too late?

But still, at 5:05 A.M., he gathers the courage that was needed. And then he knocks. Three soft raps. Hesitant. Uncharacteristically gentle. He could’ve warped into the room. He could’ve forced the lock, peeled away the door with a flick of his fingers. 

But no, this isn’t a mission. This isn’t a battlefield. This is something far more terrifying. This is you. So he waits, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other shoved in his coat pocket, fingers twitching slightly from exhaustion and nerves.

He’s never been this tired. Not from fights, not from cursed spirits, not even from death itself. But standing here, outside your door, unsure if you’ll open it. He feels like the most fragile version of himself.

Still, he’s willing to take the risk. Because it’s you. Despite everything, after everything, he still hopes. He still wants to believe you might open the door. And maybe, just maybe, you haven’t stopped waiting for him either.

The knock fades into the hush of early morning. Stillness settles around him like dust. He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Seconds, minutes. Long enough for doubt to start clawing its way up his spine.

And then, a soft shuffle behind the door. A click. The sound of a chain sliding back. His breath catches. The door opens just a crack at first, cautious. A sliver of warm light spills out into the hallway, brushing against his face like a memory. And then, slowly, it opens wider.

And there you are. Bleary-eyed. Hair tangled from sleep. One sleeve of your shirt slipping off your shoulder. You look like the past few years have lived in your bones, too. You blink once, twice. Like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s really standing there.

“Satoru?” Your voice is hoarse. Barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat tight. “Hey.” he says softly. His voice almost breaks on it. “Sorry. I… probably should’ve called.”

You don’t say anything. Just stare at him like a ghost’s walked back into your life. His bright blue gaze flicks down, he sees the faint tremble in your hands, the way you hold the door like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. And yet, you don’t close it. You don’t shut him out.

“I didn’t know if you still lived here still.” he says. “But I had to try.”

You let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sob. “You drove here?”

“Ten hours.” He tries for a smile, but it’s weak. “Well. Nine and a half. I got lucky with traffic.”

Silence settles again, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The last time you saw each other. The way it ended. The way it never really did. You look at him like you’re still waiting for the punchline.

He shifts on his feet. His shoulders slump a little. “I’m not here to make things harder for you, not at all.” he says to you. “I just… I wanted to see you. Even if it’s just once.”

Your eyes flick over him, taking in the exhaustion carved into his features, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands won’t stay still. And then, softly, you ask him, “Are you going to stand in the hallway all morning?”

He blinks. And then, you open the door the rest of the way.

Just enough for him to step inside.

Just enough to let something back in.

SATORU TAKES IT ALL IN LITTLE BY LITTLE. But he was thinking too fast, too much that he didn’t know how to truly handle this. After all, this was the first time he’s seen you in a long while. He stepped inside, and the first thing he truly, honestly, felt after all that overwhelming sense wasn't relief. It's a shame.

Because he’s done this before. So many times over the past ten years, he’s found his way back to your door. Sometimes with apologies. Sometimes with silence. Sometimes with nothing but his presence and the weight of everything he couldn't bring himself to say.

And every time, you let him in. That’s the part that kills him the most. Because this, this thing between you and him, it was never healthy. Not really. There was love, yes. But love doesn’t mean safety. Or relief. 

Love doesn’t mean good. And what you had with him was so tangled up in grief and guilt and need that he can’t separate it anymore. Can’t tell where his feelings end and yours begin. Can’t tell if coming back was ever about you, or just his own inability to let go of the one place in the world he could feel something other than pain.

He watches you move through your apartment, in the unfamiliarity of your space, your life and the familiarity of it guts him. He shouldn’t still know the way your shoulders hunch when you’re tired. Shouldn’t still know which cabinet you keep the tea in. Shouldn’t feel like this place is a page from a chapter he refuses to close.

This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is so fucked.

Because this isn’t love anymore. Not the way it used to be. It’s a cycle. It’s him leaving, and you letting him go. It’s him returning, and you leaving the door open just enough.

And he tells himself every time that it’ll be different. This time, he’ll say the right thing. Stay longer. Try harder. Be better. But it’s never different. It always ends the same way, with you breaking apart in front of him and him too afraid to hold the pieces. Or worse, clinging so tightly he crushes what’s left.

He sits down at the kitchen table, the cup of tea warm in his hands, and says nothing.  Because what can he say to you? That he missed you? That he’s sorry? That he still dreams about you brushing your teeth and yelling about socks in the sink? 

He almost laughs at himself. It’s pathetic, really. The strongest sorcerer in the world, chasing after a ghost he keeps resurrecting for his own comfort. You sit across from him in silence. Just like always. As if the two of you are playing your roles in a scene that never ends. All too quiet, tired, full of ghosts.

He looks at you and wonders how you do it. How you still let him in. Maybe you’re just as broken as he is. Maybe that’s why it’s always been so easy to come back. Maybe that’s why he keeps doing it.

Not because it’s love, but because it’s familiar. Because it’s the one place where he doesn’t have to be Gojo Satoru, The Strongest. Just a man. Just yours. Or what’s left of him, anyway. He leans back in the chair and stares at the ceiling, exhaustion settling into his bones.

“We’re really bad for each other, aren’t we?” he says suddenly, voice quiet.

You don’t flinch. You just nod, eyes down on your cup. “I know.”

Somehow, honesty feels heavier than all the lies you’ve ever told each other. He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, and for the first time in years, he wonders if maybe this really is the last time he’ll ever walk through your door. And if it is, would that finally be the kindest thing either of you ever did?

The sun begins to bleed through the blinds. It casts long stripes across the floor, across the table where your hands rest, unmoving. It catches on the rim of his teacup, half-empty, long gone cold. Neither of you touches it.

The silence stretches, not hostile, just hollow. Like a house no longer lived in. Gojo Satoru  watches you from across the table, eyes heavy-lidded, but alert. Always alert. That’s part of the curse, isn’t it? Even in this fragile moment, even in your home, he can’t stop watching. Can’t stop bracing.

You look up at him finally, and your voice is soft, but not unsure. “So why did you come here?”

He exhales. It’s not frustration, not defensiveness. Just… tired. “I don’t know if I’m going to be honest with you….Maybe because I missed you. Because I’m selfish. Because I thought maybe I could fix something.”

You nod slowly, like you expected that. Like you’ve heard it before. “Or maybe…..” you say quietly, eyeing him. “You just needed somewhere to feel less alone.”

The words don’t stab, they sink. Like a stone dropping into still water. You’ve always seen him too clearly. Even when he made himself impossible to reach. Even when he wore a smile like armor and a blindfold like distance. You always saw him.

And that more than anything might be the reason he keeps coming back. Because you were the only one left that could ever touch that barrier that he had set long ago. Satoru rubs his face with both hands and lets out a long, ragged breath. 

“This thing we have, baby.” he says slowly. “It’s not love anymore. Or if it is, it’s the kind that hurts too much to be worth anything.”

You nodded back at him, in some ways agreeing. You don’t fight him on it. You don’t cry, either. That’s how he knows you’ve thought the same for a long time. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“I used to think…” he trails off, then laughs, bitterly. “I used to think the strongest thing I could do was keep going. Keep holding on. Keep you here.”

“And now?” you ask.

He looks at you for a moment.

There’s no shield in his blue eyes. 

No glasses, or any mask to hide it away.

Just a man stripped bare, finally.

“Now I think the strongest thing I can do is leave, or at least I think that’s it.” he says, smiling almost too bitterly, too sadly than anything you could comprehend. “And never come back.”

You look at him for a long time. Long enough for a thousand memories to pass between you in silence. All the nights spent curled around each other like lifelines. All the mornings after fights. All the wordless apologies. All the doorways he stood in. All the times you let him stay.

You reach out then. Of course, not to pull him back, but to set your hand over his, gently. It’s the softest you’ve touched him in years. The most honest way, you had in a long while, too. Everything about it burned as much as it comforted.

“I loved you, Satoru.” you whisper. “Far too much for my own good.”

“I know that already.” he says to you, all too knowing. “I loved you too. In all the wrong ways.”

You both sit with it. That awful, beautiful, human thing. The sun shifts again. Warmer now. Higher in the sky. No longer a suggestion of morning, but a quiet declaration of a day beginning. Whether or not you’re ready for it. 

It spills across the floor in golden slants, brushing over dust motes, stretching across the table, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the delicate bend of your wrist, the rim of the teacup that’s gone cold and untouched. A relic of another ritual that once meant something.

You don’t let go of his hand right away. There’s no tightening, no grasping, just stillness. You hold it not like someone holding on, but like someone making peace. Between you is not a plea, not a prayer. It was just the soft shape of a goodbye neither of you can say yet.

Your weary eyes stay on the light dancing across the floor. It feels symbolic, ridiculous, almost theatrical. But you don’t look away from him. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t help it, if you were being honest.

“I think I stopped being myself when we started falling apart, Satoru.” you say quietly. The words don’t shake. They land with the solemnity of truth, a truth long overdue. “And I didn’t even notice until there was nothing left but pieces.”

It’s not an accusation. You’re not blaming him. You’re not even blaming yourself. You’re just stating a fact, like reading the last line of a book you’ve read too many times. One that always ends the same. He squeezes your hand once. It’s small. All too human. It trembles just slightly.

“I noticed that too well too.” he murmurs, eyes down. “I just didn’t know how to help without ruining what little we had left.”

His voice doesn’t carry anger. No resentment. Just resignation. The dull ache of someone who tried even clumsily, wrongly, desperately and still came up short. Someone who held onto the hope that loving you was enough, even when he knew love couldn’t stitch together something that was already fraying at the seams.

You let go first. And it’s the bravest thing you’ve done in years. Braver than walking away. Braver than staying. Braver than every time you cracked open the door and let him back in, convincing yourself maybe this time would be different. This time, you let go, and you mean it.

He stands slowly. Like someone coming out of a long coma. His spine protests. His knees creak. There’s a heaviness to him, not just in body but in soul. Like gravity has finally caught up with him after years of pretending he was above it.

You watch him glance around the apartment. And you know what he’s doing. He’s archiving it. The crooked photo on the wall, taken years ago, before everything fell apart. The chipped bowl on the counter you always swore you’d replace but never did. 

The blanket on the back of the couch still carries traces of both your scents. The stack of books he never read but always asked about. This wasn’t just where you lived. It was the life he almost had. The version of him he could’ve been. The future that never quite formed.

And then he turns to you, still standing in that patch of sunlight, the light now softening the sharp edges of his face. Somehow, it was making him look younger, sadder, more human than he’s let himself be in years. The god for a moment was off the pedestal.

“I’m going to try.” he says, voice low, eyes fixed on yours. “To stop coming back.”

It hits like a soft thud in your chest. You don’t speak right away. Your throat is tight, your heart louder than it should be. You want to say something back to him. Anything. But there’s nothing left that won’t undo what you’ve both finally started to build: distance, clarity, peace.

So you nod. You nod like it’s the only language you trust yourself to use. “I see.”

“I want you to be happy.” he adds, almost too hesitantly. “Even if I’m not there to see it.”

It’s the most generous thing he’s ever said to you. Because you both know: he won’t be there to see it. He can’t be. That’s the whole point. Still, he means it. At least he tries to make it so. And you… you believe him.

You look at him then, really look. Like you’re trying to memorize him in return. The slope of his shoulders, the tired set of his mouth, the way he still stands like someone bracing for impact, even when there’s no one left to fight.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Even if you’ll never see me again?”

The question hangs in the air between you, raw and trembling. It’s not meant to guilt him. It’s not meant to beg. It’s just the truth laid bare, like everything else this morning. He swallows hard. Something shifts in his expression. Something deep and reluctant and vulnerable. His mouth lifts, but it isn’t a smile. Not really.

He laughs, bitter and broken at the edges. The kind of laugh that tastes like regret. “But I’m not strong enough to admit that.”

There it is. The crack. The fault line that’s always been there between the two of you. Because for all his power, all his strength, Gojo Satoru was never good at losing. Never good at walking away without leaving the door cracked open, just in case.

And all of this, all that could ever be, and most of all, you? Letting go for good? It scares him more than death ever did. You let the silence stretch again. Not to punish him. Not to demand more. Just because this is the last silence.

The last time you will sit across from him and feel every version of yourselves folded into the space between you. Every argument, every kiss, every time you swore you'd never do this again and then did it anyway.

You inhale slowly, and your chest feels too full and hollow all at once. He doesn't move. Still standing there, a man made of contradictions. The strongest sorcerer alive. The loneliest man you’ve ever known. A boy who never learned how to stop reaching for things already slipping away.

You rise to your feet, slowly. There's no drama in it. No chase scene. Just a tired kind of grace. You walk toward him, not to stop him, not to plead. Just to stand with him for a moment longer.

You pause beside him, just barely close enough that your shoulders almost touch. You don’t look at him when you speak. “Then I’ll be the strong one, for the both of us.” you say.

He closes his bright blue eyes for a moment. He did so like the words hurt. Like they’re mercy and cruelty in equal measure. You reach for the doorknob before he can. It’s gentle, but decisive. You open the door for him.

The hallway is flooded now in the morning. Golden, blinding. The kind of light that makes you squint, makes everything look a little softer than it is. You don’t know if it’s kindness or illusion. He hesitates at the threshold.

You don’t. You step back, just enough for him to leave. And he does. Slowly. Like a man walking out of a dream he doesn’t want to wake from. He turns to go. He even takes a step, just one, all toward the open door.

But he stops. His hand flexes at his side, caught between impulse and restraint. And then  slowly, deliberately, he finds his body acting on its own. Fully now, he finds it all comes too suddenly. He turns back to you.

You’re still standing where you were, barely a pace away. Your eyes meet his, and something shifts in the air between you. A tension that has lived there for years, never fully named, never fully released. It hums now, sharp and quiet, like a held breath.

He steps forward. One step. Then another. Until he’s right in front of you. Towering over you like he always does, all height and presence and gravity, but somehow more fragile now than you’ve ever seen him. Like the armor has finally worn through. Like he’s not sure if he’s here to say goodbye or beg for one last moment.

You look up at him, and your throat tightens. Because you know that look. It’s the look he wore the first time he kissed you. The look of someone who already knows the ending but chooses the beginning anyway.

There’s so much he doesn’t say. 

He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t make promises.

He doesn’t tell you he loves you.

Not again, not now, when it’s too late for it to change anything.

And still, he leans in as close as he could, little by little. Slow, hesitant. His eyes search yours, asking a question without words, one last time. You don’t pull away. You don’t stop him. And when he kisses you, it’s not passionate. It’s not heated or desperate.

It’s soft. Devastatingly soft. Like a goodbye dressed up as something sweeter. As something more sinful, something more deadly than poison, something more despotic than desire.  His mouth moves against yours with reverence, not possession. 

There’s no rush. No hunger. Just aching tenderness. Like he wants to memorize the way you taste in the light of morning, the way you feel when there’s no one left to lie to. Not even yourselves.

When he pulls back, he lingers. He lets his forehead brush against yours. Both your eyes shut. Breathing the same air like it’s the last thing you’ll ever share on this earth  ever again. Because it is. He liked to believe it is. And maybe, he’d convince you too.

He steps back, but then something inside him shifts. Maybe it’s the years of unsaid words, the moments stolen and lost, the weight of all the things he wishes he could take back. Without hesitation, he leans in again.

This second kiss is quieter, softer. Less a demand and more a confession. His lips brush yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, as if he’s trying to press every ounce of his regret, every fragment of love, into this single, fragile moment.

The world around you fades. The sunlight slanting through the blinds, the chipped bowl on the counter, the silence filling the apartment. All that disappears beneath the gravity of his touch. Time folds in on itself, drawing you into the eye of something quiet and devastating.

Satoru’s hands find your waist, fingers trembling with a restraint he doesn’t bother to hide. He steadies himself against you. Not just physically, but as though you are the last true thing left to hold onto in a world that’s constantly slipping from his grasp.

His touch is tentative, reverent, as if he’s half-expecting you to vanish beneath his hands. Your own shaking hands rise before you can think, palms settling against the heat of his chest.

Beneath them, his heart beats strong and steady, a sound that has, for as long as you can remember, both comforted you and carved you open. It’s a rhythm you know too well, a rhythm that once meant safety, and now, carries the ache of everything unsaid.

When he finally pulls away, it’s not distance he creates, it’s pause. His forehead rests against yours, skin warm, breath trembling in the narrow space between. His eyes are shut tight, like he’s memorizing this moment by feeling alone. 

The slope of your brow, the hitch in your breath, the shared silence shaped like a wound. He didn’t want to forget it. He didn’t want it all to become hazy in the back of his mind in those lonely nights. He wanted to remember everything, piece by piece, line by line, moment by moment.

“I had to.” he whispers. The words break against you, fragile and raw, heavy with regret. They’re not an excuse. They’re a confession.

“I know.” You nod, eyes closed, anchoring yourself to the weight of him, the weight of what he’s done, of what it means. 

Your throat tightens with everything you want to say and can’t. So instead, you offer him the only truth you can bear. You swallow hard and take a step back, not far, but enough to gather what little composure remains.

“You should go, Satoru.” you say quietly. 

It isn’t cold words to you. He knew that, you were sure. If anything, it's a tiring tune sung by the other bird in this gilded cage you both made for yourselves, frayed in grievance and need for salvation. A threadbare plea in the face of something you no longer know how to hold.

But he doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable. And then, wordlessly, he leans in again. This time there’s no hesitance, no trembling in his hands. His mouth finds yours like it’s the only thing he’s sure of, like if he kisses you hard enough, time might rewind itself and mercy might bloom in the spaces between what you lost.

You should stop him, you tell yourself.

And somehow, somewhere in you, you don’t.

You don’t know how to do it, not when it comes to him.

You could never deny your god anything he ever wanted.

Not even this, not even relief, not even you.

You fall into him, into the familiar warmth of his mouth. The soft scrape of his teeth, the way his breath hitches when your fingers curl into his shirt. His hands slide up your back, slow, anchoring, and the kiss deepens. 

Everything was even hotter now, hungrier, greedier. Not desperate, but perhaps itching close to it. The kind of kiss that makes your knees forget how to hold you, that scrapes every rational thought from your head until there’s only him. His mouth, his breath, the weight of his want colliding with yours.

The world, already far away, vanishes entirely. There's only the drag of his lips, the burn of your need, the ache of history threading itself between kisses that taste like grief and defiance and something you’re too afraid to name.

His hands are at your waist again, pulling you closer, close enough that you feel everything he’s been holding back. And god, you want to hate him for it. But all you do is kiss him harder. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you don’t want it to stop. Not yet.

Satoru lets himself groan into the kiss, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him. He can feel every curve, every inch of you. To him, it's like coming home after a long, lonely journey. 

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, the feel of you. His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you meet him stroke for stroke, your own hunger rising to match his.He breaks the kiss suddenly, panting, his forehead pressed against yours. 

"Bedroom, baby." he rasps, his voice hoarse with desire. "Now."

He doesn't wait for a response, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you towards the bedroom.He kicks the door shut behind him, then sets you down gently on the bed. He stands there for a moment, just looking at you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with want.

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to unbutton his shirt, his bright blue eyes never leaving yours. Each button reveals more of his chest, the toned muscles, the light dusting of hair, the scars that map his history, his truth.

He shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor, then reaches for his belt, unbuckling it with a slow, deliberate motion. He pauses, his hand on the button of his pants, a question in his eyes. He's giving you a chance to stop this, to say no, to push him away. But you don't. You can't.

You're caught in his gaze, in the heat of the moment, in the tangled web of your past and present. You shake your head slightly, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. That's all the encouragement he needs. He unbuttons his pants, pushing them down along with his underwear, stepping out of them to stand naked before you.

He's hard, his erection standing proud and tall, the tip flushed a deep red.He climbs onto the bed, crawling over you, his hands braced on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with desire and something deeper, something that makes your heart ache.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, then another to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He nuzzles aside the neckline of your dress, kissing the swell of your breast. He looks up at you, his voice a low rumble.

"Can I, pretty?" he asks, his fingers toying with the strap of your dress. 

He's asking permission, giving you the chance to say no, to maintain some semblance of control. But you're past that.You're past thinking, past reasoning. There's only him, only this, only the burning need that consumes you both. You arch into his touch, a silent plea.

Satoru takes that as consent, his fingers deftly unzipping your morning dress. He peels it off slowly, revealing your skin inch by inch, his eyes darkening with desire at the sight of you. He tosses the dress aside, leaving you in your underwear.

He would remove those too, but he pauses, drinking in the sight of you laid out beneath him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your lips parted, your eyes heavy-lidded with want. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your stomach.

His massive hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts through the lace of your bra. He thumbs your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He looks up at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You're beautiful, baby." he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "So fucking beautiful."

He hooks his fingers under the straps of your bra, pulling them down slowly, freeing your breasts. He pauses, admiring the view. Your breasts are full and round, the nipples a dusky pink, hardened into tight buds. 

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the valley between them, then another to each nipple, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin. He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. 

His hand kneads your other breast, his fingers plucking at the nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He switches sides, giving the other breast the same attention, his touch driving you wild with desire.

You arch into him, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him against you. He releases your nipple with a pop, looking up at you with a wicked grin. He slides down your body, kissing a trail across your stomach, his hands hooking into the waistband of your panties.

He looks up at you, his eyes questioning, seeking your permission to continue. You nod, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching for his touch. He slides your panties down slowly, his fingers trailing along your thighs, your calves, until they're completely off. 

Satoru tosses them aside, then settles between your legs, his shoulders pushing them apart. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of you, bare and open to him.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, slowly working his way up. He pauses at the apex of your thighs, his breath hot against your core. He inhales deeply, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

"You smell so good, baby. So so good." he murmurs, his voice strained with want.

He presses a kiss to your folds, his tongue flicking out to taste you. You gasp, your hips jerking at the sudden contact. He groans at your taste, his tongue delving deeper, exploring your folds, circling your clit.

Satoru licks and sucks, his movements slow and deliberate, building the pleasure inside you. He slides a finger inside you, curling it upwards, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. He adds another finger, pumping them in and out, his tongue never stopping its assault on your clit.

Your hands fist in the sheets, your back arching off the bed, your hips grinding against his face. He looks up at you, his eyes locked with yours, watching as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

Your blue eyed lover increases his pace, his fingers moving faster, his tongue flicking harder against your clit. He knows you're close, can feel you tightening around his fingers. He doubles his efforts, determined to push you over.

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you, drowning you in pleasure. You scream his name, your body convulsing, your hips bucking wildly against his face.

Satoru doesn't let up, his fingers and tongue continuing their relentless assault, drawing out your orgasm. He wanted you until you're a trembling, oversensitive mess. He always has. You cry as you feel it.

Only then does he slow, gentling his touch, bringing you down from the high. He kisses your inner thighs, your stomach, your breasts, his way back up to your mouth. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your hearts beating in sync.

Your godly lover pulls back, his eyes searching yours, a question in their depths. He's asking if you're ready for more, if you want him to continue. You nod, your hands sliding down his back to grip his ass, pulling him closer. You're not done with him yet. Not by a long shot. And nor is he.

SAME OLD STORY IS YOU BOTH ENTANGLED IN THE WORST OF YOUR BOUNTIFUL COMPLEXITIES. Morning comes softly, slipping through the curtains like it doesn’t know what it interrupted. The apartment is still, heavy with the scent of sleep and skin, with the echo of things you didn’t mean to let happen again.

You’re lying face to face in your bed, tangled in sheets and silence, still bare from everything you gave each other last night. There’s no space between you, not really. But the distance between you could be felt everywhere. It is just as much present as your love. Perhaps even louder.

It felt almost like it didn't need to be this noticeable and yet it was. All too well, all too unspoken. And yet you didn’t want to let it go. This little selfish moment for you, this wanting, this desire that you just can’t help. You think about it too often, all too much. And you hated it, as much as you loved it. 

In the way your fingers don’t move to trace his cheek. In the way his eyes search yours like he’s already bracing for the end. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him. Minutes, hours. Time feels like it’s holding its breath.

His hand rests near yours on the pillow, not touching, but close. And god, it would be so easy to reach out. To stay. To pretend. But you can’t. You exhale slowly, eyes fixed on him like this might be the last time you allow it.

“You should go.” you say, quieter this time. 

Not like last night, not with the heat of everything still pulsing through you. This is softer. This is sadder. A truth shaped like surrender. His bright godly eyes don’t flinch. He nods, barely, his voice a whisper against the space between you.

“I know.”

It breaks something in you, the way he says it. Like he’s been expecting it since the moment he touched you again. Like maybe he wishes you’d asked him to stay. But neither of you say that. You never do.

You lie there for a few seconds longer, facing each other, your hearts still humming in sync from what you shared. And then, slowly, like peeling off a memory, he slips out of bed, starts gathering his clothes in silence.

The rustle of fabric is the only sound in the room. His shirt slipping over his shoulders, the zip of his pants, the soft scrape of denim against skin. You don’t move. You just watch the ceiling, your throat tight with everything you won’t let yourself feel.

He hesitates by the edge of the bed, uniform shirt still unbuttoned, hands stilled at his sides. The air between you is heavy, unspoken things crowding into the morning light. He doesn’t know how he can look at you right now. He can’t. Not like this.

“I didn’t come here to hurt you, baby.” he says quietly.

You close your eyes, feeling the tears fall from your eyes. But you hide it as much as you can. You can’t show it to him. Not now. You know that he crumbles completely when you cry. And he didn’t need that. Not when he’s wanting to whisper goodbye.

“I know.” you say to him. “I know it all too well.”

A pause. You can hear the way he breathes, sharp and careful. “I just…” he trails off, then tries again. “It felt like something real, again. Last night.”

You open your eyes and look at him then, really look. His luscious white hair is in a horrible mess, his bright eyes tired, his mouth still soft from sleep and kisses that should’ve never happened.

“It was real, you know that.” you say to him in a whistled whisper. “That’s the problem.”

He swallows hard, looking away like he can’t bear to hold your gaze. “I don’t know how to stop wanting this, [name].”

"Satoru, stop."

"I want you." he admits. It jarred you. How easily it tugs your heartstrings when he says your name. How easily he can draw you back. “I want….I want this.”

“You don’t have to stop wanting it, Satoru.” you say to him, not wanting to look at him either. “You just have to stop coming back.”

That lands between you like a bruise. His jaw tenses. His hands curl into fists, then relax again. “I’m sorry.”

You nod once. “I know.”

He stands there a moment longer, like he wants to say something else. Like maybe this time he’ll stay. But he doesn’t. He buttons his shirt slowly. He finds his shoes. He walks to the door. And just before he opens it, he speaks to you. Soft, barely audible.

“Satoru?”

He turns. The morning light catches the edge of his profile, all gold and ghost. A boy you once loved. A man you can’t quite forget. You don’t ask him to stay. You can’t do it. Not when he will never be the man you wanted him to be.

“Next time, don’t knock.”

His expression falters. Something almost shatters in his eyes. “There won’t be a next time……At least I hope not.”

Your breath catches, but you manage a hollow laugh. “We always say that.”

He leans against the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, head bowed, languid  fingers gripping the handle like he’s trying to convince himself to turn it. He didn’t even know he was holding his breath.

“I keep thinking if I leave fast enough, I’ll stop coming back.” he says to you. “But I never do.”

You shift under the sheets, pulling them tighter around your chest even though you’re not cold. “Because you know I’ll let you in.”

His silence is answer enough.

You sit up slowly, arms wrapped around yourself. 

He stays there, hoping for more in the bitterness.

“You want me to be the one to end it for good. That way you don’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. You almost wish he would. You almost wish he’d lie. Instead, he glances back one last time, eyes soft, mouth parted like there’s something more he could say if it would make a difference. But nothing will. So you give him a tired smile. One that’s more pain than peace.

“Go home, Satoru.”

A beat. Then he nods, opens the door, and steps out into the hall. You hear the soft click of it closing behind him. And when he’s gone, really gone, the weight of everything sinks in. You lie back down in the space he left. You wanted to capture it all, what is left of him. 

His side of the bed is still warm, still smelling like him, like last night, like all the nights before that you swore would be the last. You press your fingers to your lips, like maybe you can still hold the memory there a moment longer. 

And then, quietly, to the ceiling, to no one in particular,  “I hope not, too.”

But you know better.

You always do.

He will come back.

And you’d let him in.

[loyalguma]

[loyalguma]

DO NOT ask me abt the new alnst episode. i am in shambles.

[loyalguma]

MY BABYYYYY

I choose to believe that this is all that happened in all of jjk. Anything that came after their second year was just an angsty fanfic which I can cry over and forget about later because they're canonically happy.

[loyalguma]

jinu......... save me

[loyalguma]

guess who has a fat ass bruise on their foot and cant walk properly!!!

[loyalguma]

thank u my wife!! currently reading: jackshit (aka NOTHING) last song: 青い、濃い、橙色の日 by MASS OF THE FERMENTING DREGS last film: war of the worlds (2005 version) sweet/savory/salty: 4ever a savory gal tea or coffee: okay this is bad (i say while holding a document from years ago that basically said i have severe heart palpitations if i take caffeine or eat spicy foods) but coffee :3 working on: jackshit (aka NOTHING AGAIN.) no pressure tags: @robinhooded @cuntphoric-main @chososcamgirl

+ any1 else who wants 2 join :33

TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE

tried to reblog the original post but it was gone so here we are i guess. thanks for tagging me leigh!!!!! @poemeater <3 i love you to pluto and back come kiss me now

currently reading: nothing actually. walk of shame

last song: man in the mirror — michael jackson

last film: captain america brave new world

last series: new girl season 3, mha season 2 (rewatch), wbk s2

sweet/savory/salty?: savory + salty!!! but i would give up both kidneys for some cinnamon sugar pretzels rn

tea or coffee: tea always

working on: packing to move states in july, weeding through some rough friendships that no longer serve me, picking up guitar again, and. well. kinktober ‘25

no pressure tags 🤍 @carminechrollo @admiringlove @madaqueue @cheralith @bouqette @mochiqa @mosskissed @storiesoflilies @toadba @tokeposts @hiraethwrote sorry if you’ve been tagged i tried to choose people i haven’t tagged in awhile/at all hehe

[loyalguma]

might lowk retheme......

[loyalguma]

new comic from vivinos and its making me #WANNADIE baby mizi doesnt deserve 2 b COVERED IN BLOOD while holding her future self's body hello??? MIZI MY WIFE IM COMING HOME SOON </333333