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messerxo · 2 months ago

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LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

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

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

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

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

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

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

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you look up.

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

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

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

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

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

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

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

You glance up. He’s there.

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

You blink. He panics.

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

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause, then finally tell him.

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

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

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

“You choked on air.”

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

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

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

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

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

You blink. “That’s random.”

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

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

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

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

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

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

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

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

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

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

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

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

And you are. You so are.

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

You look away instantly.

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

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

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

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

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

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

“So…”

You turn.

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

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

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

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

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

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

“What girls?”

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

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

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

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

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

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

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

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated.

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking 😇

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had.

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch.

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Satoru Gojo... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed.

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

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messerxo · 2 months ago

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local emo spotted outside. Scientists baffled🐸

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messerxo · 2 months ago

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gojo's holding back // megumi's babysitter x dad!jo

gojo's home this morning. you don't know how or why, but he's smiling, watching you take megumi by the hand to drop him off at school. It's just a seven-minute walk towards the city, but you still spend extra time kneeling in front of him at the doorway, buttoning his coat high and pulling gloves over his small, delicate hands.

he's pouting, hating the way his coat sounds when he walks. he always has, and he always complains to you, but you won't budge. in the middle of winter, the least you can do is make sure he's warm on his way to school.

"leaving without telling me first? that's harsh. " gojo's been back in his bedroom all morning, napping with one eye open after a long night at work. when he emerges, he's spikey-haired and sleepy—a reflection of his sweet son.

you smile in his presence, turning around to say your goodbyes. long, lanky legs only have him taking four big steps until he's crowding you two.

he's sweeping megumi up on his hip, hugging him with one arm. "look'a my handsome bundle. you warm, 'gumi?"

"put me down." megumi deadpans, but you can see the way he nuzzles a bit deeper in gojo's shoulder.

you feed gojo a laugh he's throwing at you, tight-lipped smile so familiar as you watch the two of them. "thought you were asleep."

"i was, but that's okay. I never see him off, so i wanted to be awake." his voice is so soft, genuine, and persuasive as he gives you unyielding blue eye contact. you have to look away just to maintain some mystery.

"dad, we're gonna be late." megumi whines, crisp white sneakers kicking in gojo's thigh. "tsumiki said she'd meet me right at 8."

"punctual and only six years old." gojo pinches megumi's nose, breathing out a laugh. "alright, kid. i won't keep you."

when megumi is back on his feet, he pouts and reaches back for your hand to tell you, 'i'm ready to go. ' you squeeze him back.

"i'll be asleep when you're back." he catches you just as you start to pull open the door. "make sure you're quiet for me!"

"'course." you turn back down to megumi, raising your eyebrows as he stands with a less-than-entertained look on his face. "c'mon, baby. i know you're eager to head out."

when you get back to the house after dropping megumi off, gojo isn't asleep like he promised—well, hardly—he's limp-necked, dozing in and out on the couch with the television on.

you don't notice his reflection at first as you shrug off your coat and shoes. all you had to do before your six-hour break was clean up after breakfast and start some of megumi's laundry, then you're free to leave.

you're texting a friend back when you round the back of the couch, phone clicking incessantly with your ringer on. it's hardly noisy, but it stirs the giant from his rest. he twitches.

"megumi get to school safe n sound?"

you stop just before you leave the room, heart pattering in your chest because his deep voice scared the hell out of you. "of course."

"that's my girl."

then, you're blushing like an idiot when he groans and stands up. "w-what?"

"when i adopted him, i was always insecure about his lack of a mother figure. it's why I hired you, and I'm so glad I did... i mean, you're just angelic."

he's definitely trying to tell you something—you're not stupid. you know he likes you—too much, as more than a transactional partnership. he was just too professional to say.

but never too professional to pin you to his couch cushion, hot and breathless against your skin as he kisses your neck. it's so embarrassing, so needy and pitchy when you whine his name, crying for more. he fucking loves this, he could just eat you alive.

"the need for you is just... it's suffocating, i apologize."

"don't." you bite, fist all bunched up in the back of his loose shirt. it's frightening just how many times you've stewed over this situation. how many sleepless nights and traffic lights you've endured with visions of crystal blue eyes. the guilt eats you alive, but it's like he said, the need is suffocating. it's insurmountable, you have to let him in.

you crane your neck for him, willing him to take his fill.

you feel so innocent under his big hands, so ethereal and motherly and downright delicious to satoru, that he has to stop.

he can't let himself have you, yet. you're far too pristine, his mind wouldn't allow it. even now with your sexed hair, blown pupils, and panting lips, he wants to pull you apart.

then, he asks. because he's nosey, yes, but more because of the way you're shivering underneath him right now. "are you a virgin?"

"no! i'm not a virgin." you're already overcome, so hot and overwhelmed under his headlight-gaze.

"because you're flailing like a newborn foal," he smirks, a gentle laugh behind his tone. his plush, pink lip drags through his teeth. fluffy white hair tickles your forehead as he kisses you again.

you conjure up every single piece of resilience in your soul to suppress a needy whine. he's been edging you for weeks now -- pulling you away to stare deep into your eyes or to suck your lips off. but that's always as far as it ever goes, you can tell he's rearing up to stop.

"please..." you're begging, not quite whining. fists digging in the back of his shirt to keep him close. "please, don't... stop this time."

"it's just so inappropriate," he hums, breath so hot and clean over your pouting lips. he's staring at them, tasting your flavor when he darts his tongue.

then, he's sitting up, ruffled shirt, fluffy-haired, and flushed pink. he's so godly, you could cry.

so, you do, palms pressed into your eyes as he stares down at you.

"oh - i'm sorr-

"don't even."

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messerxo · 2 months ago

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𐔌 、toji　ﾉ　a ruthless assassin finds you at the worst possible moment but instead of silencing you, he decides to keep you, worming his way into your life with obsession, violence, and a twisted hunger that turns your fear into desire 𓈒　◟

cw: dubconノCNC roleplay ノ obsession ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You didn’t mean to see it.

One wrong turn down an alley to dodge the buzz of a Friday night crowd, one flicker of movement caught in the corner of your eye, and suddenly you were rooted in place. Your breath caught mid-inhale. The earbuds still piped some lazy indie tune into your ears, but your brain tuned it out. Because there, bathed in the jaundiced glow of a flickering streetlamp, stood him.

Toji Fushiguro.

You didn’t know his name then—just the shape of him, tall and built like a panther, scarred and heavy-lidded like he was bored with the world even as he tore it apart. His blade had already cut deep. The man slumped in front of him was barely gurgling, torn open from collar to gut, blood steaming in the cold air.

You’d gasped. Too loud.

Toji’s head snapped toward you.

Predator. Nothing human in the way his gaze pinned you to the bricks. You tried to move, tried to pull back into the shadows, but your feet were stone, your hands trembling like they didn’t belong to you. One step. Two. You almost made it.

Then he moved.

No noise. Just a blur, a shift in shadow and steel and suddenly he was there, towering over you, body so close you could feel the heat rolling off him. Rain clung to his black tee, plastered against the ridges of his chest, his arms smeared with blood—some his, most not.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, like distant thunder. “Aren’t you a curious little mouse.”

Your back hit the wall. Cold brick bit through your coat. His hand slapped against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His other hand? Still held the blade. Crimson dripped from its edge, trailing down to spatter the ground at your feet.

“I shouldn’t let you leave,” he said flatly. His gaze dropped down your face, over your heaving chest, down to your shaking thighs like he was reading a menu, deciding which course to start with. “But I’ve been bored lately.”

That was when the fear changed.

Because he wasn’t angry. Wasn’t rushing to silence you. No—he was smiling. Like your fear was delicious, like he was savoring every twitch of your muscles, every shallow breath, every time your eyes darted toward the exit behind him that you’d never reach.

“I think I’ll keep you,” he said, and that smile widened.

And that was just the beginning.

You didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe you?

Toji started appearing everywhere. At the café where you worked—leaning against the counter like he belonged there, sipping bitter black coffee, staring at you over the rim. On your walk home, just a flash of him in the corner of your eye, leaning against a lamppost, following without a word.

Sometimes you'd come home and something was off. The door unlocked. A mug moved. Your underwear drawer slightly ajar.

Your heart would pound, throat tightening, skin crawling with the electric knowledge that he’d been there. Maybe watching you sleep. Maybe touching your things.

One night, you stepped out of the shower and found him already inside your apartment. Sitting on your couch like it was his. Shirt discarded, scarred chest gleaming in the lamplight. His eyes slowly crawled down your wet, towel-wrapped body.

“You really need better locks,” he drawled.

Your scream never made it out.

He played with you.

Touching you like it was a game. A hand at your throat, not squeezing—just resting there, possessive. Fingertips dragging along your thigh under the table in public. A whisper against your neck: You like this, don’t you?

You told yourself you hated him. That this was wrong. That the flutters in your stomach were fear, not desire.

But every time he cornered you, pressed you against a wall, breathed into your ear how fucking tight your thighs were trembling, how your scent was getting sweeter every time he showed up—you hated how wet you were.

You told yourself to run.

But when he pinned you to your bed that first time, knee forcing your legs apart, hand fisted in your hair, cock dragging heavy and hard against your thigh—you didn’t say no.

He didn’t undress you gently. He tore. Fabric split. Lace snapped. You should have fought harder, but your body betrayed you. Moaning when he dragged his teeth along your neck. Arching when his fingers pushed into your panties and found how soaked you already were.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re dripping. Filthy little thing.”

He grinned like a beast and pushed two fingers inside you without warning, deep and slow, curling until your knees buckled.

“You scared?” he murmured.

You shook under him, tried to nod, but your hips lifted, grinding down onto his hand. He laughed. A low, satisfied sound.

“Then why’s your pussy sucking me in like she wants more?”

He fucked you like it was a claim.

Bent you over your own kitchen counter. Gripped your throat while he shoved his cock inside you so deep your scream came out strangled. Told you to keep your eyes open while he ruined you on your own sheets.

“Look at me when you cum,” he growled, sweat dripping from his chest onto your skin. “Look at who owns this cunt now.”

You did. And you hated how you shattered for him. Hated how your orgasm ripped through you like a storm the moment he bit your shoulder, his thrusts brutal, relentless.

Afterward, he didn’t leave. Just laid back and pulled you onto his chest, like your trembling was something he liked feeling.

“I should gut anyone who looks at you,” he murmured into your hair. “But then I wouldn’t get to see your face when you beg me to stop and cum all over me anyway.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just pressed your face into his skin and hated how your thighs squeezed around his.

Weeks passed.

You didn’t know when the fear turned into something else. Some nights you still woke up gasping, unsure if you were alone, terrified to reach for the light.

Other nights, you laid awake waiting for the door to creak open. For that low voice to fill the dark. For rough hands and sharp teeth and the brutal ache of being split apart by a man who used you like a doll and touched you like a worshipper.

He trained you. Conditioned you. A kiss if you obeyed. A hand between your legs if you didn’t scream. A reward for cumming when he said you could. Punishment when you defied him—a slap to the thigh, a harsh fuck against the wall, your wrists bound in your own pantyhose.

You should have broken.

But you bloomed instead.

Soft sighs turned to gasps. Gasps to moans. Moans to whimpers for more. For him.

One night, he brought you to the mirror.

Bent over the sink, cheek pressed to the cold glass, your eyes locked with your reflection as he took you from behind, hand fisted in your hair, the other squeezing your breast so hard it ached.

“You see that?” he snarled in your ear, hips pistoning into you. “That’s the face of a good little toy. You’re mine now. Say it.”

You hesitated.

He slapped your ass so hard you cried out.

“Bark, dog.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Toji.”

He growled. Came deep inside you. Didn’t stop fucking you until you came too, sobbing and biting your own arm to keep from screaming too loud.

He never let you forget.

“You belong to me,” he’d whisper. In public, in private, in your dreams. “You breathe because I let you. You cum when I say. You exist for me.”

And the worst part?

You started to believe it.

You started to want it.

Toji Fushiguro didn’t need to kill you to erase who you were.

He just rewrote you.

With his hands. His voice. His cock.

And now, when you hear his footsteps outside your door—you open it.

Because he owns you.

And you fucking love it.

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messerxo · 2 months ago

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𝐁𝐅𝐅! 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 | teases you on the couch

(found this in my drafts and thought it was lowkey tea so enjoy)

MDNI

your sensitive body couldn't help jumping the moment his hand met your skin - his big palm massaging the squishy skin of your inner thigh while you two watched a movie on his couch. when you inevitably shuddered under his grasp he turned to you, "everything okay?" and after a heavy breath you asked what he was doing. "why? does it bother you?"

you couldn't find the right words, instead shaking your head and dropping the subject. his hand stilled momentarily, but once you relaxed again he continued what he was previously doing, causing your stomach to clench at each pass of his thumb against your sensitive inner thigh. you sat through the entire movie, allowing him to continue to touch you there until the credits, very aware of how worked up you had gotten and incredibly embarrassed that you felt that way because of your best friend. you were incredibly gullible, not realizing satoru knew exactly what he was doing and instead blaming yourself for being so perverted. satoru had always been touchy-feely; completely oblivious to the idea of personal space. being his best friend, it wasn't new to you - but something slowly started to change between your dynamic. what once was satoru struggling to understand the basic concept of 'keeping your hands to yourself' - now turned into slow, deliberate touches you tried diligently to justify to yourself. the older you both got, the more rampant and almost possessive satoru got. you couldn't convince yourself that he was even aware of what he was doing - instead believing it was you who was the problem. twisting his touches into intentions your body wanted but your brain screamed at you for enjoying. the back and forth between what your body craved and what your mind warned against was approaching its climax. you thought the worst of it was when satoru pulled you into his lap at a party; justifying it due to the fact the couch was full (you had to ask him why he did that. he didn't think he needed to clarify) while you squirmed against him. that night he held tightly onto your hips to prevent you from rubbing against him, whispering to you in the deepest octave you've ever heard from him - begging you to relax. you were thankful that the music defeaned your pounding heart you failed to steady as you struggled to melt into his touch. you were tipsy, but still awfully aware of how wrong it was that you enjoyed the feeling of your back against his chest. and now - sitting in satoru's dark living room enduring the gentle massage at one of your most sensitive areas - the war inside you was surely at its peak; causing you to grow light headed.

it wasn't satoru's original intention, but once he noticed the way your hips moved with each tempting squeeze of your thigh he found it next to impossible to ignore something so enticing. he was fully aware that his actions were no longer friendly - it was just a matter of when you would begin to realize it... and maybe you needed a little guidance to understand.

"are you sure you're okay?" he asked you, voice soft and concerned. you promised him you're fine, your voice shaky and your thighs clenched. the dim light of the credits on the screen barely allowed him to see the struggle in your face - but it was there. "you're not turned on, are you?" he asked you and you almost died right then and there. "n-no!" you insist, sitting up straight after being accused of something 100% true. "i'm sorry. i didn't realize," satoru says, gauging your reaction as you stumbled over your words. "no... i'm just tired," you try to explain yourself away.

"you know it's okay if you are..." he whispers, his intense eyes never leaving yours. "well... i'm not" you insist, clearing your throat while trying to act indifferent. completely passing over the fact he said it was okay - too busy trying prove your innocence. his hand meets your thigh again and you jump, earning a breathy chuckle from your friend. "well if you aren't then you won't care if i keep doing it," he says. his other hand grabs the remote, searching for part two of the movie you both had just finished. "i think i should really get to bed," you tell him and he gives you a light smack where his hand rested in the crook of your thigh. "you promised we could watch all three parts!" he huffs, looking pretty disappointed with you as you considered going to bed. "you're right. i did promise. sorry we can watch them." you cave almost instantly.

it's halfway through the second movie that you know for a fact your panties are soaked through, entrance clenching with each pass of his hand on your inner thigh. you had tried several times to close your legs but satoru was far too strong - always pulling your legs apart to keep his hand where he wanted it. it was embarrassing how sensitive you had become just from the brush of his knuckles on your skin and you grew anxious at the thought of your arousal leaking through the fabric of your shorts - knowing that was going to come next. no one would be able to blame you for it though - and satoru was impressed at how long you lasted even though he saw right through it since the beginning. his fingers roughly pressed into the plushness, dragging across your skin and towards the top of your thigh, before slowly inching back into the inside of your leg. His pinky occasionally strayed underneath your pajama shorts, almost reaching the soaking wet gusset of your panties but pulling back to join his other fingers before finding your secret. when his pinky came scarily close to what you were hiding your hips bucked and you instantly sat up, exasperated by the amount of effort it was taking you to remain neutral. "if you think it's turning me on, why are you doing it?" you huffed, sticking up for yourself when you could no longer take it.

"so it is..." he smirked, unwilling to acknowledge your question. you knew he would dodge the true meaning and skip to teasing you but you were at your wits end. "fine! yes! you win. just stop," you pout. his smile remained strong in his features, studying your frustrated expression and the fact you couldn't manage to sit still. your arms were crossed, frowning up at your friend as he licked his lips, "well let me make it up to you," he said. satoru had always been cocky - but this was another level. you choked, not believing his words and instead interpreting it as him still teasing you. "that's not funny satoru!" your face grew beet red. "and i'm not laughing," was all he responded, he had gotten closer without you realizing, and you grew stiff at the seriousness of his tone. "let me help you out. it's my fault after all. right?"

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messerxo · 2 months ago

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sebbyyy... <3 <3 <3

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messerxo · 2 months ago

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Summary: You accidentally call the hottest professor on campus Daddy. Total slip of the tongue—nerves, exhaustion, whatever! At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Unfortunately that same professor can't seem to let it go.

Pairing: Professor!Satoru Gojo x Fem! Reader Tags: NSFW, Smut, Power Imbalance, professor x student relationship, cream pie, Unprotected Sex, Daddy Kink, spanking, mild Dubcon, Wordcount: 3.6k

Note: This is dedicated to the wonderful @dollfacefantasy. <3

𝙰𝚜𝚔 𝙱𝚘𝚡 • 𝙰𝙾3 • 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 & 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎

The idle tapping of keys and scribbling of notes was all you could focus on. Midterms had been brutal, even for the easiest classes, leaving you an overstimulated, exhausted mess. All you wanted was to go home and sleep.

With drooping eyelids, you tried to make out the equations on the board, wondering—not for the first time—why the hell you thought taking an 8 a.m. class with Professor Satoru Gojo was even remotely a good idea. The man never shut up, spouting every thought that popped into his head, whether it related to the lesson or not. Worse, he was strict as hell when it came to grading and gave out more homework than any other professor. He’d mark you for any and every technical error he could. Semantics? He was the king of them.

And yet, he was the most popular professor at the university. Students practically lined up just for the chance to talk to him.

Why?

Because he was hot.

You weren’t any better—jumping on the opportunity to take his class the moment your advisor suggested it. And yeah, he really was as attractive as everyone said. You hadn’t noticed it much at first, too focused on your studies and making sure you passed.

But now? Now, in your half-conscious state, hand going numb as it propped up your head, you found yourself zoning in on him. He was all shaggy silver hair, the unruly spikes bouncing with his overly animated movements. His blue eyes—only half-hidden behind those thick black sunglasses—that glinted with mischief. His button-up was undone just enough to be distracting, sleeves shoved past his elbows, chalk tapping against the board at an almost inhuman speed. The white undershirt clung just right, and you knew there was a lean, gym physique hiding under there.

And that voice.

That perfect blend of hubris and sarcasm made even the dullest topics weirdly entertaining. The constant teasing, the smug witticisms—they should’ve been irritating. But instead, they just sounded way too good falling off his lips.

Your imagination drifted, slipping past the appropriate as your dreary eyes began to shut on their own. Your head floated off into a fantasy…

Until his voice cut through it like a lightning strike on a sunny day.

“Alright, who wants to solve this?” Gojo’s voice rang out, irritatingly cheerful.

Silence. No one was dumb enough to volunteer this early in the morning.

“How about you, sleepyhead?” he singsonged, striding across the room until he was uncomfortably close to your vicinity.

Your half-conscious brain barely registered that someone was speaking to you, dredging up an automated response.

“Uh…what?”

Satoru grinned. “Solve the equation, silly.” He tapped the chalk against the desk a few times before pointing behind him at the board.

Your brain—still half-in fantasyland and woefully unprepared to function under pressure—short-circuited. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out:

“Yes, Daddy.”

The silence was deafening. You could hear your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears, counting the seconds as they passed.

Someone choked on their coffee. A few others barely stifled laughter.

Gojo froze. Then, slowly, a devilish grin stretched across his face, adjusting his sunglasses allowing them to slide down the bridge of his nose.

“Oh?” His voice dripped with amusement. “Did you just—? Well, that’s a first.”

Your soul left your body.

“I—I meant Professor! Professor Gojo!”

“Nah, nah, you can’t take it back now. You sounded pretty confident.”

You wanted to die. Right here, right now. But of course, Gojo wasn’t done. He propped his chin on his hand, leaning way too close.

“You know, I always had the feeling I was the favorite Professor, but this really confirms it.”

“Please, just let me do the question,” you begged, desperate for a change of subject. You could feel the eyes of the entire class burning into you, like a spotlight had opened from the heavens. You only wished you could manifest a cartoon hole in the floor instead.

“Alright, alright,” he finally relented, straightening up and turning back toward the board. “Let’s focus, everyone. But—” he cast a glance over his shoulder, smirking, “if anyone else feels the need to work through their daddy issues or nap in my class, just know you’ll be joining your friend here for office hours. Extra credit mandatory.”

His voice was uncharacteristically serious when he spoke those last words, making your stomach flip. Then, just as quickly, he slipped right back into his usual tone. “Or maybe I’ll just refer you to my buddy in the psych department.” He tapped the chalk against the board, already writing out a new equation, having given up on the first. “I hear he loves a good case study.”

Laughter erupted.

You buried your face in your hands.

Being assigned to Gojo’s office hours as a punishment for sleeping and then subsequently calling him Daddy? That had to be illegal. Or at least against some ethical code. Then again, you were pretty sure they didn’t cover “verbal humiliation and unintentional kinks” in the student handbook, but here you were anyway, making the walk of shame to his office.

Anxiety had been twisting you apart since the incident, not giving you the chance to focus on anything the rest of the day beyond the horrible humiliation you’d be suffering the rest of your college life. The idea of now being in a confined space with the very same professor had you nauseous.

All you could do was hope—beg, pray, manifest—that he’d be professional. Maybe hand you some extracurricular worksheet or a math problem set and let you go in peace.

“Right on time,” Gojo said, leaning forward on his desk. His voice dripped with amusement, and the smile stretching across his face was so smug it bordered on evil. “I admire punctuality.”

You stifled a groan and dropped into the farthest chair across from him without looking at him. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Straight to business?” he clicked his tongue. “Cold. I thought we had something special,” he teased. “I can respect it though.” he slid a blank paper across the table along with a shitty yellow pencil—the cheap kind you’d get from the dollar store. You stared at it, before finally meeting his gaze.

“You going to make me write lines or something?”

“Not quite. I want you to write an essay on your feelings.”

“…you’re a math teacher.”

“Professor,” he corrected. “Let’s use the right titles. We wouldn’t want any casual slip-ups like earlier.”

“Ok well…I can do this at home. Can’t I just turn it in to you tomorrow?”

“Nice try,” he said, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the desk. “But this is a punishment. Office hours are mandatory when you call your professor Daddy mid-lecture and then pass out like we’re in daycare.”

His words dredged up some existential dread at the memory. “It was a slip! I was half-asleep…”

“Mmhm.” He was chuckling now. “It’s fine. I’m flattered, really. Just didn’t expect math to bring out someone’s kinky awakening. But that’s what college is for, I guess.”

You opened your mouth to quip something back at him, but the words caught in your throat. When you finally met his gaze, unhidden by the sunglasses he normally wore—you saw it. It was uncanny, unlocking some mental paranoia, like he already had your next 10 moves planned.

“Will you quit staring? It’s like you’re enjoying my humiliation. Just…let me write the essay in peace.” Normally you’d never have the nerve to be so bold with authority, but given your slip up early and the fact your humiliation couldn’t get any worse, it had you emboldened. You were white knuckling the pencil, fairly sure it would snap under your grip any moment.

“You’re not exactly making it easy not to,” he replied, tilting his head. “You’re flustered, it’s cute. Ah whoops, guess I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”

“I’m mortified, actually.”

“Even cuter.”

His words had your whole face flushed, the feverish embarrassment burning down to your shoulders. It throws you off kilter completely. Was he flirting with you? No way, it had to just be some sick way for him to mock you. The essay felt like an insurmountable task, the blank paper mocking you as well daring you to put something on the page.

You started scribbling something onto the paper, trying to keep your focus away from him—away from the tension in the air. But every time your pencil moved, you could feel his eyes on you. Watching. You made a mental note to report him after this.

“What kind of essay even is this?” you asked, unable to handle the silence. “Feelings? About what?”

“About me, obviously,” he said without missing a beat. “Or how about the shame and complicated emotions tied up in calling your professor ‘Daddy’ in front of the entire 8AM lecture hall. Plenty of material there.”

“That’s—” you started, but couldn’t even finish the sentence without dying a little inside. “Why do you keep having to bring it up? It’s not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Gojo said. “I mean, I’ve had students call me all sorts of things—sensei, sir, even boss once, which was weird—but never that.” His voice dipped lower. “Never daddy.”

The pencil lead snapped under the pressure of your hand, digging a hole into the paper and leaving a mark on the wood beneath.

He whistled, clearly amused. “Wow, strong grip. You always this tense, or is it just me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. I’m already blushing.”

Not wanting to feed into whatever the hell was happening, you decided it was in your best interest to not reply. Instead, you sharpened the pencil and focused again on the essay scribbling nonsense onto the page to at least look productive. At the very least you hoped he would just get bored enough to let you go without reading it. He could yell at you tomorrow for bullshitting, or better yet, you both could have a chat in the Dean’s office.

Unfortunately, Satoru Gojo didn’t like being ignored.

“I bet,” he started, spinning a pen between his fingers, his expensive looking wristwatch jangling with the movement, “if I asked you to say it again, you’d do it.”

Your eyes shot up to him, but he didn’t give you the chance to reply as he continued. “It’s probably just sitting right there on the tip of your tongue. Ready to slip out again, given the chance.”

“Why are you doing this? Is this how you treat all your students?”

“Nope,” he replied lazily. “Just the ones who blush so pretty when I tease them.”

You gawked at him, unable to form a single cohesive thought. You should have walked out after telling him off. Reported him the second your foot hit the doorway. Instead, you didn’t move, held in place by an invisible force.

He took that opportunity to close the distance between you by leaning over the desk, invading your personal space. Your senses processed the too-rich cologne and the mishmashed hues of white and blue that made up his form. His thumb ran over your bottom lip. “You want me to stop?”

“I uhmm…uh,” you responded, barely coherent.

“Not much of an answer. Really gotta work on those listening skills, sweetheart. Tell ya what, let’s make it easier.” He brushed his nose against your jaw, making you swallow air. “If you don’t want this, say ‘Professor.’ Loud and clear and I’ll stop. But if you do…I wanna hear you call me Daddy again.”

You couldn’t remember what it was like to speak, electricity ran through every nerve, dancing beneath your skin. Maybe a more sober version of yourself would have been smart enough to reject him. But he was so close and so tempting.

“…Daddy,” you whispered, so quiet not even a fly on the wall would’ve heard the word.

“Good girl.”

The praise made you giddy, like a pampered puppy. In a second his lips were connected to yours. They were warm, far softer than expected and a little sticky from the chapstick he always wore.

He cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss as he leaned further over the desk. The forgotten essay paper slipping off the desk and falling to the floor, the pencil clattering along with it. Your fingers gripped the chair arms like a lifeline, keeping you grounded.

He pulled back just enough to let you breathe. If he was as affected as you were, it didn’t show. His lips brushed against yours again as he spoke. “Still with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, dazed, lips tingling. You wondered if he could hear how loud your heartbeat was in the silence of his office.

He chuckled, low and evil. “Then be a good girl again and go lock the door.”

Without hesitation you slipped out of the chair and despite your wobbly legs, managed to make your way over, pulling the shade over the window and clicking the press-on lock. When you turned around he was back in his chair, patting the desk in front of him. “Hop up.”

The wood was too hard and uncomfortable against your thighs, but you ignored it—far too focused on the man sitting beneath you. His slacks were tenting with his own arousal, spiky locks of snow wilder than usual.

His hands found your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms. “You look nervous. Having second thoughts?”

You shook your head quickly—too quickly.

“Words, sweetheart,” he chided.

“N-no, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine what?” He pressed, white brow raised.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” you replied, the word making you burn with embarrassment all over again.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, letting his fingers tug the fabric down. You lifted your hips and kicked off your shoes to help him with his task. The frigid air of the office felt strange against your bareness, intensifying the growing need between your legs.

“Now, just so we’re clear,” he began. “This is still punishment...so rude of you to fall asleep in my class, after I work hard to keep it interesting.” Lithe fingers found their way between your legs and before you could question what he meant, he gave a light slap to your exposed pussy.

You gasped, more in surprise than pain, your thighs instinctively pressing together. He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction as his hand pressed against your thigh to spread them again. He stood so he could catch your lips in another kiss, two fingers dragging through your folds, stopping only to rub soft circles around your clit.

“Bend over for me,” he commanded, pulling back. He helped you slide off the desk, letting you bend over the oakwood, leaving your lower half spread and exposed to him. You couldn’t believe you were doing this, or how good that agonizing sense of humiliation felt. He stood behind you, silent for a moment—long enough for the anticipation to start chewing at your nerves.

“Look at you,” he spoke, voice laced with amusement. “Didn’t even hesitate to listen.”

You couldn’t see him, but you heard the sound of his chair before feeling his warm breath on your most sensitive lips.

“Beautiful even down here,” he whistled again. You throbbed with aroused anticipation. His hand came down against your bare bottom, the sound of skin striking skin echoed in the small room before the blooming sting set in. It wasn’t unbearable, in fact, you were surprised that you liked the way it felt. Then his hand came down again, striking your other cheek, making you yelp.

“I’m not hearing any apologies,” he teased, as he pressed a kiss to your reddened skin before spanking you again.

“A-ah, I’m sorry f-for falling asleep,” you squeaked.

“Mmm I think that apology is missing something,” he added, marveling at the handprints forming against your skin.

“‘M sorry D-daddy.”

“That’s better.” He gave you one last slap, lighter than the others. “So wet already too, fuck.” He groaned, delving in and dragging his tongue against your clit, swirling the tip around it. Your brain went blank—only able to focus on the heat he was pulling from your core with the pink muscle. The sounds were wet and sloppy. He ate you out shamelessly, barely taking a break to even breathe.

His hands gripped your plush cheeks, spreading them to get more leverage.

Your toes curled, moaning as you resisted the urge to grind back against his face—somehow still trying to keep some level of self-preservation. Even still, you couldn’t remember if anyone had ever been this good, unraveling you so fast it gave you whiplash.

Two fingers pumped inside of you, pressing against that inner most sensitive spot. Between that and his mouth sucking your clit, you came undone, legs kicking out as spots peppered your vision.

“D-daddy, daddy n-no more,” you whined as he continued to tease you.

He pulled away, giving you a moment to collect yourself. By the sound of his own panting, it was clear he was now equally as worked up. The metal of his belt clanked behind you and he groaned.

“Damn, you’re seriously hot.” You heard drawers opening and closing behind you. “You on the pill, sweetheart? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ve got any condoms on me—oops.”

“Yes,” you replied, pushing yourself up. He spun you to face him, pulling you down into his lap. His button up had been discarded, leaving only the white undershirt. By his arms alone you could tell you had been right in assuming he was secretly fit, and curiously you wanted to know what else was underneath.

His cock was free, pressing against his clothed stomach—pale with an angrily flushed tip, perfectly sized—it made your mouth water with want.

Daringly, your hand came up to the cotton fabric and tugged on it. He got the hint, slipping it over his head and tossing it to the floor. He was all lean muscle and angles.

“Your turn,” he grinned, fingers hooking into your top. “Don’t leave me all exposed and bashful now.”

You lifted your arms, letting him slide your shirt off. He managed to catch your bra with it, both items tossed somewhere in the small office room. His inhumanly blue eyes were fixated on your chest, hands coming to massage them between his hands. You squirmed in his lap, earning a moan in return.

“You want me to fuck you?” He asked plainly, and the sinfulness of the words had you worked up again.

“Yes, please.”

“Ask me properly.”

“Please Daddy, I want you to fuck me.”

In a swift motion he had you flat against the desk again, his shaft rubbing through your wet folds a few times before sliding in. The stretch was delicious, making you feel full instantly. Your arms wrapped around him, legs around his waist, clinging to him as he rocked his hips into you. Every thrust was quick and rough but tantalizing. His mouth found yours as you devolved into a mess of sloppy kisses as his hips continued to meet the skin of your ass and thighs.

“Feels so good Daddy,” you moaned, head falling back. “So big…”

“Shit, you take it so well,” he praised. “Good…fucking…girl…” he groaned, changing the pace. His thrusts were faster but more shallow, no longer pulling all the way out each time—preferring to stay buried in you. When his movements lost their rhythm, he came with a shudder, sucking the skin on your collar bone, forming a purple mark.

He pulled back when he was done, catching his own breath—a sight to behold, panting above you, white bits of hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes were lidded, shadowed by thick white lashes. You wondered how many people had been lucky enough to see this.

Without thinking, you pulled him back down into a kiss. He obliged your desires, returning the affection, until there was a knock at the door.

“Satoru, are you still here this late? If so—” the sound of professor Geto’s voice rang through the door freezing you beneath the older man.

As if sensing your panic, Gojo laughed quietly and held a finger up to his lips before motioning for you to get dressed.

“Suguru, hey, still here. Guess I must’ve passed out at my desk. Hold up, give me a sec,” he replied before hastily zipping his pants, and feeling around the floor for his own shirt.

“Wait 5 minutes, once I’m out the door. Then you can sneak out past me,” he said, quickly buttoning his wrinkled shirt and batting his hair.

You nodded, half-dressed, working to pull your top back on.

Gojo made his way to the door, slipping out as he greeted his fellow professor. Before the two of them walked off, you swore you heard Geto mention something about an “interesting choice of nap partner, Satoru.” Not willing to stick around and deal with the consequences, you followed his instructions—waiting five minutes until the voices faded, then quickly gathering your things and slipping down the hall.

Your phone buzzed, an unknown number flashing on the screen. You opened the message once outside:

‘Sorry for cutting it short, but don’t worry about Suguru. He’s not about to rat me out. Just… don’t fall asleep again unless you’re begging for Daddy to give you round two. 😉’

You groaned at the text but found yourself already typing a reply. You weren’t sure how far you wanted to take this, but you definitely weren’t planning on letting it end now.

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messerxo · 3 months ago

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Jambalaya, Jambalaya Soup, and Gumbo: Descriptions by Your Resident Louisianian

TLDR: i’ve seen a lot of fics describing jambalaya soup or gumbo instead of actual jambalaya, so here’s a quick description of each if y’all want to know their differences for future fics :D

(ps: this is in no way meant to be condescending to those who didn’t know the difference before now. i understand we have cultural differences and it can make it hard to get all the facts sometimes, especially when google is just WRONG.)

other fun facts about Louisiana that y’all may not know:

we have almost no basements here. the water table it too close to the surface, so everything gets flooded the second we dig too deep into the ground

swamps and bayous STINK. they don’t smell fresh and crisp, they smell like humid shit water. it smells like dogass all the time here😭

i know most of y’all aren’t from louisiana, so it’s easy to get the facts wrong. and i know y’all try to do y’all’s research, but sometimes google tells us…weird shit if i’m being honest. because guys. THIS—

—is NOT jambalaya. i know it’s what pops up when you google “jambalaya,” but this is jambalaya SOUP, not jambalaya. typical jambalaya is not a soup. in fact, i’ve never seen jambalaya with liquid in it. jambalaya usually looks like this:

i’m not sure why jambalaya soup is the top result when you look up “jambalaya,” so i’m absolutely not blaming anyone for this misinformation.

that being said, what about the difference between jambalaya and gumbo? gumbo is a soup or stew made with roux that is often served over rice, not cooked with it like jambalaya. i’ve seen some creamier, more saucy-looking gumbos, but most i’ve seen have a noticeable broth:

the browner jambalaya on the left is typically what you see around here (with varying meats of course).

idk. just thought i’d let people know because i know so many fic writers like to write alastor making jambalaya but it’s always the soup version?? and i know some of y’all like to put in the extra step and research for your fics, so here’s some info from someone who has lived in Louisiana for 10+ years :)

i hope at least one person finds this helpful!

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messerxo · 5 months ago

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The palace of souls locking Lionel out of most of the rooms

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messerxo · 5 months ago

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𓍼 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐓

— eijiro kirishima

cw ⋮ 18+. frat!kirishima. mentions of sex & threesomes. oral (m! & f! receiving). alcohol & weed use. slight frat!kiribaku.

frat!kirishima who really is a nice guy, but is absolutely notorious for unknowingly breaking the hearts of his many hookups, too oblivious to realize they actually loved him.

frat!kirishima who you’ve heard so many stories about, from his go lucky attitude, his giant frame, all the way to how he fucks like a damn dog in bed.

frat!kirishima, who despite having such a carefree and kind spirit, spends his weekends hanging around with the infamous, harsh fraternity lead katsuki bakugo.

frat!kirishima who’s had his eyes set on you from the moment he saw you with a red solo cup in hand, his favorite color.

frat!kirishima who attempts to spark up a conversation with you, using his sharp toothed charm, but gets greeted with surprise at your accusation when you tell him you’re “ not looking for a fuck and dump ”.

frat!kirishima who, since that day forward, has tried to ask you on a multitude of dates. he’s a respectful man, he swears, and he’s determined to show you that.

frat!kirishima who stops dabbling in hook up culture and charming girls into his bed after your first date, and instead, asks you on a second one.

frat!kirishima who finally has his way, managing to put the girlfriend title on your name after much convincing that he’s only interested in you.

frat!kirishima who shows you off to all of his fraternity brothers, especially katsuki, because he wants them to finally see what beauty had been changing his status.

frat!kirishima who proves all of the old rumors to be true when he finally fucks you for the first time. brawn and big, an absolute beast when he ruts his thick cock into you in the drivers seat of his car.

frat!kirishima who, for the first time since he joined his fraternity, didn’t leave you heartbroken after getting into your pants. instead he’s cuddling you in your dormroom bed and giving you a wet kiss, falling asleep.

frat!kirishima who eats your pussy like he was born to do so. slobbering like it’s his last meal he’ll ever eat, fingering you and sucking on your clit until you’re squirting on his face.

frat!kirishima who invites you to every single frat party thrown, holding your hand while playing beerpong and taking shots off of your tummy for fun.

frat!kirishima who’s too oblivious to realize just how good he is at unintentional dirty talk, soaking your panties from a few whispers in your ear.

frat!kirishima who takes you, his gorgeous girlfriend, to the bathroom of the frathouse and fucks you to the beat of the music that plays just outside.

frat!kirishima who believes in the phrase, sharing is caring, and invites his best frat buddy over to have a taste of you and your sweet pussy.

frat!kirishima who watches from his seat, smoking a joint as frat!bakugo licks through your folds, spitting on your clit and making you cum.

frat!kirishima who moans as you gag on his dick, while frat!bakugo pounds your cunt from behind. all while praising you for what a good girl you’re being for his favorite frat brother.

frat!kirishima, who despite his reputation, stays loyal to you while also staying loyal to his fraternity.

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messerxo · 7 months ago

Text

too sweet (yuta okkotsu)

summary: you start training the new hire. green looks very good on your favorite coworker.

content: dubcon, alcohol consumption, intoxication, manipulative!Yuta, jealousy, manhandling, fingering, titty sucking, a dash of foot stuff, and spoilers for the film Malignant (2021) dir. James Wan. Yuta is also mean at times.

wc: 6.5k

a/n: this really ran away from me, it ended up being around 17 pages in word. so sorry about that. i think it might get an epilogue too honestly, bc i had a lot of fun with it and i'm not entirely satisfied with the ending. so maybe. (cross posted on ao3)

It was just your luck, running late the one day you needed to get to the office early. People plan, God laughs. You'd set your alarm for 5:30 PM somehow, so you ended up waking naturally well after you planned. Still, you would've made it at least on time if the rest of the morning hadn't gone to shit. You dropped a full pot of coffee on the kitchen floor, which required you to sweep the glass and mop the tile. That made you just late enough to miss your train, forcing you to call an overpriced Uber. A car accident at an intersection slowed the driver down on her way to you, delaying you even more. When it's all said and done, and you're bagging your damp umbrella in the foyer (because, of course, it's raining as well), you're nearly twenty minutes late.

You catch sight of a head of pink hair out of the corner of your eye when you get to the reception area and let out a sigh of relief. He's still here; thank God.

It's not often that you remember candidates from their interviews, but Yuji Itadori's bright hair and even brighter personality stuck with you. You had to admit that you were pleased to hear he was the one who snagged the position. You didn't even complain too much when you were told you'd be the one training him for the first few weeks since he was taking over the role you were promoted from six months ago.

You approach him in the sitting area, the sound of your heels clicking drawing his attention. He stands and meets you halfway, extending his hand out to you. You shake it with a smile.

"Yuji! I'm sorry I'm late; today has been a disaster so far. But it's good to see you; congratulations on the position!"

"Thank you! And don't worry about it, we all have those days, y'know?"

"Wise words. Let's head upstairs and get you settled."

"Sounds good to me!"

Yuji follows you to the elevator, and you chat about the building on the ride up. When the lift lets you out on your floor, he follows your lead, turning his head about to look at the office space you've gotten used to over the past five years. You head to your cubicle to set down your belongings with Yuji trailing behind you. He's like a puppy. It's kinda cute.

"There you are! I was wondering if you'd gotten washed down the storm drains," Yuta jokes from his cubicle next to yours. You let out a genuine chuckle at his lame joke. The only jokes Yuta had were lame ones, but something about his delivery, something about him, made you laugh every time.

"Yuta, this is Yuji. He's taking over my old role, so I'm going to be training him for the next few weeks.

"Nice to meet you, Yuji," Yuta says as he stands to shake the younger man's hand.

"It's good to be here. What's your role?"

You tune the two out as they talk about Yuta's position, one that works closely with your own. You set down your bag and umbrella, boot up your computer, and log in. After a minute or so, Yuta sits back down, and Yuji turns his attention back to you.

"Ready to get started?" you ask, turning to Yuji with a smile.

"Absolutely!"

"Alright, pull up the chair from that desk over there; it's your desk, but I need to show you some things here first."

"You got it!"

You smile again at his eagerness, watching as he pulls up his chair. I have a good feeling about this.

Yuji's first week at the office flies by; it's a whirlwind of introductions, HR trainings, and calls to IT, but the two of you make it out alive. On Friday afternoon, you're sat at your desk, fighting a yawn. Training Yuji had set you behind on your own work, so it was looking like you'd have to stay late at the office this evening to catch up, much to your dismay. You enjoyed your work, but it was still Friday, and you would much rather curl up on your couch with take-out and catch up on your shows than pour over spreadsheets. You were lost in your own little world when Yuta tapped the flimsy wall of your cubicle to get your attention.

"What's up?" you ask, turning your chair towards him.

"I was just wondering if you're going to the company Friendsgiving next Friday?"

"Oh gosh, I completely forgot about that. Do we have to bring a dish?"

"Nope, it's at a restaurant this year, on account of the food poisoning incident from last time."

You both shudder at the memory of a green bean casserole that almost wiped out the entire company.

"That's probably for the best. Yeah, I think I will go then. Are you going?"

"Yep, there's supposed to be an open bar. Which could be a whole new kind of disaster that I wouldn't miss for the world."

"We can watch the world burn together then," you joke, still chuckling at the thought of your coworkers absolutely sloshed.

"I should invite Yuji; it'd be a good chance for him to meet people outside our department," you say after your laughter subsides.

"I can go do that right now, if you want. I know you have a lot to catch up on," Yuta offers, reminding you of the pile of work in front of you.

"I'd appreciate that. You're the best, Yuta."

"I try," he laughs, standing and stretching his arms above his head before walking up to Yuji's cubicle in the row behind you.

You don't hear their conversation, shifting your focus back to the spreadsheet you're currently looking over. You don't notice when Yuta returns to his desk, or when Yuji calls goodbye before stepping into the elevator. Before you know it, it's 5:15 and Yuta is packing up next to you.

"Hey, it's about time to go home, you know," he says as he zips his jacket.

"Oh, I really have to finish these today, so I'm gonna stay. Enjoy your weekend!" You say, looking up at him from your seat. His face settles in a frown at your words.

"I can stay and help you if you want? It's not your fault you got behind," he says, already setting his bag back down on his desk.

"No, it's no one's fault. I really don't mind, but I'd hate to ruin your Friday night with these," you gesture to your desk, covered in sticky notes and print outs.

"But what about your Friday night?"

"Don't worry about me. Now get out of here before you miss your train!" you order with a smile. He's too sweet.

Yuta sighs before returning your grin.

"See you Monday then!"

You wave as he enters the elevator, holding his deep blue gaze until the doors close.

Yuta is kind, and (too) sweet to you at work, but he is also far too attractive to be alone with after hours. Just the thought of the two of you in the empty office for hours, sat at the same desk to view your screen together, is enough for the heat to rise in your cheeks. Yes, it's better for you to work alone, especially with your overactive imagination. You were sure Yuta wasn't interested in you in that way, and that it was better to keep your work and love lives separate. You press your cool palms to your warm face, shaking your head slightly to clear all thoughts of your coworker from your mind. You have work to do.

The next week drags on. Yuji needs less support, but your boss saddles you with a new project due at the end of the month, in addition to your normal tasks. You're capable, but it's still short notice and has you working through your lunch breaks all week. Yuji still comes to your desk with questions or sometimes just to chat, and you're thankful for the momentary distraction. He really is a nice guy, and you're happy he was the one to get the position. He's kind, eager, competent, and his smile is contagious. It's thanks to him and the mug of coffee Yuta keeps "secretly" refilling for you that you're able to make it through the week.

On Friday, you wear a dress to the office, a rarity, but you don't feel like going home to change before the party. It seems Yuta has come to the same decision, wearing an actual suit with a jacket instead of his usual button up and black tie. He looks good. However, when he pops his head into your cubicle to ask a question, you notice something different about his dark red tie.

"What's the pattern on your tie?"

"Oh, uh, they're turkeys. It's my turkey tie," he explains, pulling the bottom of the tie into the light so you can better make out the brown little birds.

"Can I ask...why?"

"Hey, don't look down on the turkey tie! My mom gave me this, and it happens to be very popular with my grandma."

"And when did she give this to you? When you were 12?"

"11. And I've worn it at every Thanksgiving dinner since," he says, puffing out his chest in faux pride. You lose the battle with yourself, giggling at both his tie and his antics. He smiles at you try to regain your composure before he settles back down in his seat.

The rest of the day passes quickly after that, and before you know it, it's 4:45 and your boss announces that everyone is free to leave early to head to the restaurant. You begin to pack up your belongings when Yuji calls out a goodbye before entering the elevator.

"Aw, I was gonna ask him if he wanted to walk with us to the restaurant," you say as you turn to Yuta, still seated at his desk.

"We're walking together?"

"I mean you don't have to, I still have to touch up my makeup, but I figured since we're going to the same place..."

"That's cool, I don't mind waiting on you."

"Okay, I'll be right back then. Hopefully Yuji saves our seats."

You head to the bathroom to reapply your mascara and lipstick, cursing yourself all the while. You shouldn't have just assumed that Yuta would be willing to walk with you. You probably made him uncomfortable, and he had only agreed to be polite. He may be your favorite from the office, he may be attractive and sweet to you, but he's still just your coworker. Even after five years of working at the same company, you could hardly say you knew him well.

"Boundaries. Boundaries. Boundaries," you chant in the bathroom mirror before exiting. You were feeling foolish and embarrassed as you approached Yuta at his desk. He was now standing and scrolling his phone, having packed up his own belongings while you were in the restroom.

"Ready to go?" he asks with a smile, putting his phone in his pocket. You do a quick check to make sure you have your phone, purse, and keys before nodding.

"Yep, let's go," you say, leading the way to the elevator. Yuta follows, and the ride down is filled with awkward silence. You become very interested in your heels and Yuta's loafers, eyes refusing to look any higher. You can feel his eyes on you, and it only makes you cower more.

After an eternity, the doors open, and the two of you exit into the lobby. You continue to lead the way through the main doors, only pausing when you exit onto the sidewalk.

"Uh, do you know where the restaurant is? I know it's close, but I've never been," you ask Yuta, finally looking at him while you await an answer.

"Yeah, I know where it is. Follow me."

You do as you're told, following Yuta down the sidewalk with a blind faith. After five minutes, you see the sign for the restaurant, glowing like a beacon in the dark gloomy night. Yuta holds the door open for you, gesturing for you to enter first. The first thing you notice about inside is that it is hot, nearly sweltering despite the November chill outside. The second thing you notice is that it is loud; voices and music mingle together into a dull roar. You can pick out your boss's voice in the chaos, but you have no idea what direction it's coming from. Yuta joins you in the doorway, the heat and volume seeming to have no effect on him.

"I think they're in the back room. That's what the e-vite said anyway," he says, once again leading you where you need to go. You're equal parts relieved and mortified to see nearly the entire office building crammed into the party room. Relieved, because there's some people that you only ever see at office parties, like Maki, from legal and Toge, from communications. Even the CEO, Satoru Gojo, is here, seated at the head of the largest table.

He waves at Yuta (they're cousins, if you remember correctly) when the two of you enter, pointing to the only free table left. It's a two-seater in the corner of the room, because of course it is. You scan the room for Yuji, hoping now more than ever that you were right and he did come early to save you a seat. But you don't spy his pink hair anywhere, so you follow Yuta to the empty table.

"I don't see Yuji; do you think he had a hard time finding this place?"

"I don't think so. He said something earlier about visiting his grandfather today, so maybe he skipped to do that?" Yuta suggests, looking around the room as well. You deflate a little at the thought of Yuji skipping the party, but understand if it's for his family.

"So...you said something about an open bar?" you ask Yuta, a smile spreading across your face.

"And when her brother takes over her body, she like walks backwards and all her limbs go inverted! And there's this really cool action scene near the end where he crawls out of her skull and kills a bunch of people in the holding cell, and then he kills a bunch of cops. But it's still just like her, walking backwards with a knife. It's— hic— pure cinema!" You explain loudly, trying to demonstrate the stabbing motions without knocking your glass over.

"I uh, don't know if I'll check that one out honestly. I'm not really a fan of body horror," Yuta says, an apologetic smile dancing on his pretty pink lips.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! That was probably really uncomfortable then. Next time, you can just tell me to shut up and I will, okay? It's probably time for me to leave anyways. I'm really sorry about that, though," you ramble out quickly, looking around the table for your phone so that you don't have to meet Yuta's eyes, which are probably full of disgust and hatred for you. Way to go. Just had to creep him out, didn't I?

"Hey, it's okay; I liked hearing you talk about it. But I think you're right; it's time to take you home," he says, standing up from the tiny table you'd been sat at for the past two hours. People had been leaving in groups for the past fifteen minutes, and now it seems it's your turn. You stand as well, looking for the coat you had hung on the back of your chair. Yuta is already holding it out for you to slip your arms into. You do, cheeks heating in embarrassment. Yuta offers you your purse before you have time to wonder where it is.

"T-thanks."

"No problem. Ready to go?" he asks, double checking the table for any forgotten belongings.

"Yeah. You don't have to worry about getting me home; I was just going to call an Uber," you tell him, pulling out your phone to do just that.

"No, I'm making sure you get home; you're too drunk to be left to your own devices."

"I am not!"

"Walk to me in a straight line then, heel to toe," he says, walking until he's about ten feet away.

"I'm not doing that!" you complain, your face warming up as people begin looking at the two of you with curious eyes.

"Then I'm taking you home." His tone leaves very little room for argument, but you're drunk and stubborn. So you take the first slow step towards him, heel to toe, as he instructed, your arms immediately shooting out to the side to steady you.

"Nuh uh, put your arms down," he orders.

You oblige, but it makes the next steps harder and slower, and you stumble several times. You're almost to him when it happens; you trip due either to the higher than usual heels you're wearing or to your drunken state. No matter the cause, you stumble forward, straight into Yuta's broad chest. His hands fly to your sides, steadying you on your feet. Your face is burning as you look up at his face, his hands still on your hips.

"See? I can't leave you like this. So text me your address, and I'll call the Uber."

"O-okay," you agree weakly, reaching in your pocket for your phone once his warm hands finally leave your body.

You already had Yuta's phone number from a business trip you had taken with a few other members of your department about a year ago, but you had never ended up using it. You search your phone for "Yuta, Work" and compose a new message, thankful your phone autofills your address, not trusting your shaky fingers to type it properly or your alcohol fogged brain to get the numbers right. His phone dings a second later.

"Got it," he says, and you watch in awed silence as he taps around on his phone, presumably ordering the Uber to your apartment.

"They'll be here in ten minutes."

"Okay. I'm going to use the restroom first," you say, the words harder to find than usual, a combination of the alcohol and the thought of being in a car with Yuta. You really do have to use the restroom, but more than that, you need a moment to think, away from the man still standing in your personal bubble.

"Why don't you take Maki with you? Don't want you to fall in, y'know?" He suggests, head nodding in the direction of Maki, sat at the table nearest to you.

"Okay," you agree. You think you'd agree to anything he suggested at this point, which is why you need to get away from him for a minute to regain your head. You walk up to where Maki is sitting with Toge and a few others whose names escape you at the moment.

"Would you come to the restroom with me?" you ask, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Yeah, sure," she agrees instantly, excusing herself from the table before standing. You follow the signs on the ceiling to the hallway, entering the ladies' room with Maki close behind.

The two of you exit your respective stalls at the same time, approaching the double sink in tandem.

"You and Okkotsu, huh?"

"W-what?" you ask, looking up from your sudsy hands to meet curious eyes.

"Are the two of you together?"

'No! Not at all!" you squeak in surprise, your jaw going slack.

"Really? It looked like the two of you were in your own little world tonight."

"I don't think he's interested in me. We just got stuck at that table because we got here late, that's all."

"Hmm. Well, I think you're wrong. I think that guy's very interested in you. But that's just from my perspective," she says, holding out a paper towel for you. You quickly rinse the last of the soap from your hands before taking the towel, mumbling a thanks under your breath.

Maki holds the door open for you as you exit, mind more muddled than before. You both return to the party room in silence; your's contemplative, her's amused. Yuta has drifted over to the table where the CEO is still sitting, chatting with him quietly. As you approach, he says something that makes Mr. Gojo laugh, which startles you out of your daze. The restaurant has quieted down considerably since people have started to leave, so his laugh echoes off the high ceiling of the party room.

"Hi there!" You think this is the first time you've heard Satoru Gojo's voice in person. It's a bit deeper than you expected, but it's still kind, welcoming.

"Hello, sir," you say shyly, your face heating up at being acknowledged directly by the head of the company.

"Ha, there's no need to be so formal, this is a Friendsgiving. We're all friends here tonight."

"Ready to go?" Yuta asks for the second time tonight, his cheeks a little pinker than before you left with Maki. You nod, and he smiles before turning to Gojo.

"We're off then. See you at actual Thanksgiving," he tells his cousin.

"Yep. Have a nice night, you two," the white haired man says, blue eyes twinkling with...something. Like he knows something you don't. It unsettles you, and you're quick to follow Yuta as he departs from the table, heading towards the door.

You exit onto the street just as Yuta's phone dings again, indicating that your ride is here. You're close behind him as Yuta finds the right car and confirms the ride with the driver. He opens the back passenger door for you, and you're quick to climb in, eager to escape the bitter November chill. Yuta joins you in the back seat, and you scoot over to give him more room, buckling yourself in the rear driver's side seat. Strangely, he slides over until he's in the middle seat. He's so close his thigh touches yours, the warmth from his body passing through your dress and thin tights, searing your skin. You're sure that for the rest of your life, your thigh will always run warmer than the rest of your body, like a scar.

Yuta doesn't seem to notice your closeness on the ride to your apartment. He spends most of the ride talking to the driver, while you look out the window. The ride seems both longer and shorter than you're used to. Shorter, because you're in a car instead of the train. Longer, because you can feel Yuta's thigh burning a hole in you. You do your best to stay completely still, worried that fidgeting will draw attention to the fact that you're touching and that Yuta will pull away when he notices. You're not sure if you can live without his warmth, now that you've felt it. You're not sure how you're going to survive when it's time for the two of you to separate.

Too soon, the car is pulling up outside your building. You both thank the driver and climb out of the passenger side of the car. You stumble a bit on the curb, thanks to your stupid heels, but Yuta catches you by the elbow, steadying you.

"Thanks," you mumble.

"Let's get you inside before you break an ankle," he chuckles, waiting until both your feet are firmly on the ground before releasing you. You lead the way into your building, using your fob to unlock the main door. You make it to the elevator without stumbling, pressing the up button. The silence is deafening, but alcohol usually makes you chatty, so you put the past half hour behind you and begin rambling as you enter the elevator.

"Tonight was fun! I think a restaurant was the best choice; the food was much safer this year. I feel bad that we got there so late, I didn't talk to Maki very long, but I love her. She's so pretty. And it was a bummer that Yuji couldn't make it, I think he woul—"

"Shut up," Yuta says, shocking you into silence. You remember your words earlier in the night, giving him permission to say this very phrase. You just hadn't expected that he, too sweet Yuta, would hold you to it. The elevator dings, and you stumble again in your haste to exit. You don't expect Yuta to catch you again, but he does, grabbing your hips again to right you. You freeze in the hallway, hearing the elevator close behind you.

Yuta's palms leave your hips, but he takes your right wrist in his grip before leading you towards your front door. He goes slow at first, reading the numbers on the doors to make sure he's headed in the right direction, but once your doormat comes into view, he moves faster, practically dragging you the rest of the way.

He stops in front of your door, finally looking down at you, expectantly.

"I-I'm sorry," you stutter, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Do you know what you're sorry for?"

"No," you admit, attempting to pull your wrist from his grasp. He lets go, and you cradle it in your other arm like a scolded child. You feel like one in this moment.

"Do you like Yuji?"

"He's a nice guy—"

"Am I not a nice guy? I'm always so nice to you, but ever since Yuji started, he's all you care about."

"That's not true. I care about you, Yuta," you say, still refusing to lift your head.

"Really? Open the door and prove it."

You do as he says, using the fob still in your hand from unlocking the main doors. You turn the handle, but Yuta pushes the door open before you get the chance to. You enter the apartment, Yuta hot on your heels. Before you can even turn on the entryway light, the door is slammed closed, and your body is pressed up against it. Yuta's body cages you in against the door, and your breath hitches as he forces his knee between your thighs.

"Do you care about me? More than Yuji?" He asks, mouth right next to your ear.

"Y-yes," you whisper, your gut turning with anticipation and fear. There was another feeling stirring inside you, but you refused to give it the power of a name.

"Do you think I'm a nice guy? Nicer than Yuji?"

"Yes."

"Do you like me? Better than Yuji?"

"Yes."

"Good," is all he says before his lips are on yours.

The kiss isn't gentle or sweet or shy like you've imagined late at night with your fingers between your legs. It's messy and wet and overpowering. As soon as your lips meet, he's pushing his tongue past them to explore your mouth. He licks at your tongue, coaxing you to do the same. You comply, shyly wiggling your tongue against his. He hums in approval before the kiss morphs into more. He sucks your tongue into his mouth and moans when you begin exploring him in return. As a reward, he grinds his knee between your legs, the fabric of his dress pants dragging against your tights. You think you feel them tear, but you're so overloaded with sensations you can't be sure.

Yuta pulls back from your mouth, whispering "Fuck," as he watches the strings of saliva connecting the two of you pull and break, snapping against both your chins. Your chest heaves with effort, oxygen deprived lungs trying to make up for lost time.

"So fucking pretty," Yuta pants. You can't see his face in the dark, but you can feel his eyes on you, and you fear he can see straight through your soul. You haven't fully caught your breath before his hands are on you again, groping around under your coat for the zipper of your dress. He finds it after a moment, and you wince at the sound it makes as he yanks it down, material tearing at the force he uses. You don't have time to mourn your favorite dress as he removes your coat with a similar roughness. It's barely hit the floor before he's pushing the straps of your dress down, revealing your best bra.

"Wanted to do that all day, shit," he confesses as he sinks to his knees, pulling your dress down with him to reveal your stomach and the tops of your thighs. He presses his wet lips right above your belly button, keeping them there as he reaches for the waistband on your tights. He pulls them down with more care than he used with your dress, but you still feel them rip under his fingers as he guides them down to your ankles.

You're left almost entirely exposed apart from your bra, panties, and heels, while Yuta kneels before you, still in his coat. He finally removes his lips from your tummy to look up at you. Now that he's not towering before you, you can see the light from the city lights outside your window, though dimmed through the blinds. Yuta's pupils are blown so wide, you can't even make out the blue around them. His lips are shiny with spit, and his hair is tousled; whether from the wind or your hands, you can't tell. He's beautiful.

Yuta rises from the floor, eyes never breaking contact with yours. He catches your lips in another kiss, not as deep, but still sloppy. His fingers roam up to the clasp of your bra, undoing it on the first attempt. He pulls back from the kiss to watch as he frees your breasts from their confines.

"You have the perfect body, you know that? Huh, you know what this body does to me? Know how many times I've had to jerk off in the bathroom at work 'cause of this body? Do you?... Answer me," he demands as he palms your left breast, squeezing experimentally.

"No, I-I didn't know," you respond, arching your back slightly at the feeling of his fingers digging into the fat of your tit.

"That's okay. I'll show you just what you do to me, pretty girl," he promises, lowering his head to take your right nipple into his mouth. You mewl as he wraps his spit-soaked lips around your bud and sucks. He sucks your nipple like he's convinced that if he does it just right, something will come out.

You throw your head back with a thud against the door, too absorbed in the feeling of Yuta to care about the ache that follows. Yuta's hand is not idle on your left breast, still pinching and groping and squeezing it in harmony with his mouth. You're grateful that Yuta stripped you down before doing this because your body is so hot with pleasure that you can almost feel steam rising from your skin. After a little while, his hot mouth moves to your left nipple as his hand moves to your right tit.

You feel tears prick your eyes, and you wonder if you're going to cum from this, just from your angel of a coworker suckling and fondling your tits. It feels like you could; you don't even have to put a hand between your legs to know that your panties are soaked through. You can feel the dampness as you rub your thighs together in a desperate attempt for friction. You whine in protest when Yuta finally releases your nipple from his mouth.

"Don't worry, sweetheart; I'm not going anywhere," he chuckles softly, and you moan at the puff of cool air it sends over your sensitive bud. He straightens up a bit to kiss you as he works on removing his coat and suit jacket, tossing them behind him to be dealt with later.

Once he's shed his outerwear, his hands make their way to your hips. Yuta's fingers toy with the waistband of your panties before he slips them under the material. He drags his fingers through the slick that has gathered at your core, eliciting a breathy moan from you, one he quickly swallows with his kiss.

"Hah, you're soaked. Did I do that? Am I the one who made you so wet? Am I?" He asks, pulling his mouth away from yours just enough to voice his questions, his tone more pleading than interrogative.

You nod your head gently to avoid slamming it into the door again. Yuta nods his head in a copycat motion, each bob forward bringing his lips to yours in an improper kiss.

"This fucking wet, just for me. Here," he says as he gently removes his hand from your panties to take your hand. He guides your hand to the front of his suit pants, laying it over the tent that's formed there before using his larger hand over yours to make you cup the shape of his cock.

"That's all for you. This dick is yours, baby, it's been yours, fuck," he moans as he cants his hips against your palm. His hand leaves yours to slip back under your panties, slender fingers grazing your clit, earning him a moan from your swollen lips. The desire to return the favor has you unbuckling Yuta's belt and unbuttoning his pants. But his free hand catches you before you can get to the zipper.

"You want it that bad? I already told you it's yours, so be patient, yeah? I wanna make you cum first. Sound fair?" You nod as you pull your hand away, causing Yuta to frown.

"Did you lose your voice, pretty girl? Or do you just need more encouragement?" he punctuates his question by gently pinching your clit between his forefinger and thumb. You squeal in response, but it morphs into a moan as his fingers begin rubbing your clit.

"Yuta, don't stop," you whisper as you tangle your fingers in his hair once more.

"There's that pretty voice. I love when you say my name, baby. Say it again for me," he asks as he rolls your clit between his fingers.

"Yuta, fuck, Yuta, I wanna cum, please,"you whine, the feeling on your clit too much and too little at the same time.

"Don't worry, I'm gonna take care of you. Gonna take real good care of you," he promises, sinking back down to his knees. You think you hear him undo the zipper of his slacks, but you're unable to focus on the sound as you feel his warm mouth connect with your clothed pussy. He moves his fingers from your clit to your entrance, pressing his two fingers past your folds. The feeling of being filled has you biting your lip in a futile attempt to suppress your moans.

Yuta begins slowly pumping his fingers inside you, finally pulling your panties down to allow him better access. He mouths at your clit, sloppy kisses full of tongue. The sensations of him filling your cunt with his fingers and devouring you with his mouth are almost too much. You can feel your orgasm building; you can see it coming like a wave from the shore, and you know there's nothing you can do to stop it.

"I'm gonna, fuck, Yuta, I'm gonna cum! Feels so good I—" your rambling is cut off by the man below you wrapping his lips around your sensitive bud and sucking. It takes the words out of your mouth and the breath out of your lungs, the way your clit is fully enveloped in his warm mouth. The wave hits the shore, and you're cumming harder than you ever thought possible. Your whole body tenses with the intensity of your orgasm, and you're thankful that you've braced most of your weight against the door, sure that you would fall over otherwise. You can feel the wetness gush from between your legs, more than you'd ever achieved on your own. As you ride the waves of your climax, Yuta doesn't stop; his lips remain latched around your clit, sucking and licking at the little bud. When you start coming down, the feeling goes from mind-blowing pleasure to overstimulating discomfort. You thread your fingers through his hair again and guide his head back from your mound.

Yuta looks up at you,with his lips and chin glistening with your slick and his spit and hearts in his eyes. Truly, you've never had anyone look at you the way he is, and it's almost frightening. There's lust and longing and desire and expectation all wrapped up his pretty blue eyes, and it's almost as engulfing as your orgasm. You can't find the power to look away, your eyes boring into his, even after you notice the pumping of his arm and the little huffs escaping his lips. You don't look away, even after he says your name like a prayer as his eyes slide shut.

You only look away when you feel something hot and wet land on your foot, still covered in your tights. You look down in time to see Yuta release another rope of cum on your foot, narrowly missing the strap of your high heel. After a moment, he's spent his load, and your eyes meet again.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I should've asked. Shit, kick me if I ever do that again; I wasn't thinking, I—"

"It's okay. Just help me take the shoes and tights off," you say, endeared by his apologies.

"Yeah, okay," he says reaching for your ankle to unfasten your heels. His touch is tender as he undoes the buckles, holds your leg as he removes each foot from its shoe, and finally tugs the tights from your feet. His actions have you feeling your nudity for the first time tonight, and you feel the urge to cover yourself with your hands. Yuta tucks himself back in his pants and stands before you again.

"Was that too much?" he asks, looking at the ground as if meeting your eyes will turn him into stone.

"No, no not at all. It was just...unexpected. I didn't know you liked me like this," you answer truthfully. Your words prompt him to raise his head and meet your eyes again. "Really?"

"Yeah." To your surprise, Yuta throws his head back in laughter at your confession. He takes a step towards you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you flush against his body, still laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"I've liked you since we started working together. I didn't think I was being discreet about it; Gojo was making fun of me about it tonight. That's why I told Yuji not to come tonight," he explains, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"You told Yuji not to come? What for?"

"Because he likes you too. And I don't like competition. I was planning on confessing to you tonight, but then you kept talking about that idiot and I snapped," he says, all traces of humor gone from his voice.

"But I like you, not Yuji. That wasn't very nice of you; you need to apologize to him," you scold, pulling from the embrace enough to look him in the eye.

"You like me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Yuta pulls you in for another kiss, one more like your imagination, gentle and sweet. An obvious distraction.

"Yuta," you mumble against his lips.

"Yeah, baby?"

"You need to apologize to Yuji."

"Okay. But first, I need to fuck you until you forget that moron's name," his words are your only warning before you're swept off your feet and into his arms.

187 notes · View notes

messerxo · 7 months ago

Text

Love Thy D!LF - T.F.

Synopsis. Yes, your neighbor is a hot, pérvy D!LF. Yes, he’s a total tease. No, you don’t think your poor new bed frame is going to stay in one piece…

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, older! Toji, voyéurísm, pánty-stéaling, male mast., exhibítionísm, he is so DOWN BAD, matíng presses, marathon s, víbrators, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, p slápping, p talking, BRÉEDING, mentions of kids, PÚSSYDRÚNK TOJI, proposals, overstím, creampíes, shóoting blanks, he’s a tease that’s shírtless half the time, Megumi’s a real one, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.1k (PHEW)

A/N. Apartment building wouldn’t last a week if he was my neighbor.

Neighbor (UGH): another pair of those cute lil’ pajama shorts made their way onto my balcony again, ma.

Your neighbor was a tease.

Ever since you’d stepped foot into this apartment building a mere few months ago, it seemed like everything and anything he did was to rile your poor head up into a frenzy - and, well, down there…

Because, for lack of a better term, Toji Fushiguro was hot.

Once your landlord had off-handedly mentioned that the occupant of the apartment right beside your own was a single father, you’d imagined a sweet older man that doted on his young son and would likely steer clear out of your way.

What you certainly had not expected was for your housewarming gift of a fresh batch of cookies to be oh-so-blatantly greeted by a staggeringly gorgeous man that took up every inch of the doorframe. Shirtless.

Bzzt–!

Your skin burns with the realization of just how deeply you’d been reminiscing back to that heavenly sight, hastily snapping your eyes back onto your blaring phone screen.

Neighbor (UGH): well? hurry before i start to like them too much <3

Ugh, you’re rolling your eyes at that mischievous little heart placed at the end of his text. It was absolutely embarrassing how that was enough to have a tiny squeal slipping through your lips involuntarily. Calling you flirty nicknames, flashing winks your way, lingering his hands just slightly whenever he helped carry your groceries upstairs - Toji did everything.

You find yourself giving your reflection a slow one-over in your phone camera - just in case. Before padding eagerly down the treacherous pathway that carried you out of your apartment and along the five steps down the corridor to your neighbor’s door.

Heaving out a shaky breath, you knock.

And Toji Fushiguro never made you wait. He never had you standing in the hallway for more than two seconds before that heavy wooden door swings open…almost as if he’d been suspiciously standing by for this.

“Took ya long enough. Heh, I was beginning to think you almost wanted me to have it, doll.”

Oh.

Shit, you should’ve known - and it takes every ounce of will in your body to keep your gaze locked with the forest-green eyes sweeping down the expanse of your figure. Greedily.

Because Toji was showing off what looked like miles upon miles of slightly-tanned, bulging muscles that were just about seconds away from ripping straight through the thin, white undershirt that stuck to him like a second skin. Molding to every curve and dip down, down, down-

It’s not something new exactly, and if there was one thing you’d learned during your time here, it was that your eccentric neighbor wasn’t shy to show skin.

Especially around you.

In one hand was grasped the soft fabric of your cotton shorts, swallowed up by his thick digits. The other propping up on top of the door to flex his strong biceps in a way that makes you gulp.

You notice with a jolt that Toji’s pinkish tongue briefly peaks out to swipe over that sinful scar sitting prettily at the very edge of his smug smirk. Moving to hum cockily, “Cat got yer tongue?”

He knew what he was doing.

God, this was already shameful enough without him making it worse. You were only grateful that so far you’d been called over for only a few sundresses and t-shirts - nothing scandalous, yet.

“No-” you’re mumbling out. Trying oh-so-hard to not let your eyes flicker to the too-tight strain of his boxers around his thick thighs. Failing. “Just wondering how you probably need those shorts more than me, anyway.”

He didn’t - in fact, you’d prefer him without one.

A fat thumb of his finds its way to the hem of his boxers, tugging down so tantalizingly slightly to give you a sexy flash of skin. Lined with a sharp hipbone, and a dark happy trail - “S’that your way of tellin’ me you want me out of this, ma?”

“You wish, pervert.” You try to swipe at your shorts, only for Toji to dangle it far, far away from you. “I just meant those b-boxers look like they’ve seen better days. Years, even.”

“Hah?” Toji’s dragging out mockingly, leaning his broad shoulders against the doorframe. He’s crossing his hands, letting your sight be obscured by the display of his strong, rippling forearms. So close now that you feel his breath fan your face, could smell every waft of his cinnamony masculine scent. Grin only widening, “M’being nice enough to take the time outta my day to hand over your cute lil’ pieces of laundry and this is how ya talk to me? I have better things to do, y’know.”

Huffing, you’re ready with a quick apology on the very tip of your tongue to get this over with as soon as possible. That is, before-

“He’s lying.”

Both of you snap your heads down towards the direction of the sullen, deadpanning voice. And you already know by the wearied sigh at the end who it belongs to.

“Why, hello there, Megs-” you’re smiling, reaching out to ruffle those spikes of black hair that’d magically manifested beside the door. Ignoring Toji’s affronted grunts of “he never lets me do that.”

“He’s lying, y’know.” Megumi blinks his eyes up at you, and you silently wonder just how it was possible for a six-year-old to look like he’s seen all the horrors of the world already. He’s ruthless. Pointing a sharp, accusatory finger up at his father, “He doesn’t have better things to do. He’s been giggling disgustingly to himself in front of the door for the past-”

“That’s enough- why don’t you get some homework done, my son.” Toji’s clapping his hand immediately over Megumi’s mouth, wrangling his tiny, thrashing body over one shoulder before briefly disappearing inside.

“Just tell her!”

“I’m taking your iPad time away!”

It’s just about all that you hear from inside before he makes his appearance again - shaggy, black tresses now disheveled, high cheekbones flushed, and from the corner of your very obvious staring you notice a pearly bead of sweat disappear between his cushiony pecs. Though, your eyes follow, you didn’t mind…

“Tch- kids these days, right?” he’s gasping in a few hurried lungfuls. Planting the shorts into your open palms, his calloused pads linger on your hand. “S-so uh, I take that the dryer’s not working, yet?”

You’re sighing, rubbing your fingers over your throbbing temples. “Yeah, I told Higuruma- our landlord to look at it, but he’s still on that business trip and won’t be back for a while. Sorry about all this, Toji.”

“Please-” he’s waving. “You worry your pretty lil’ head too much, it’s not like m’complaining now. Am I?”

“Yeah but-”

“Besides. Why don’t I take a look at it?”

“What?” your brows scrunch together, and the thought of Toji being inside your home made your words tremble ever-so-slightly with- anticipation? Excitement? Want? Whatever it was, it made his dark brows raise, and you’re sure you had an utterly unexplainable look on your face right now. “Do you even know how to?”

He’s scoffing, eyes rolling at you with practice. “Asking me if I know how to fix shit- of course, I fuckin’ know how to fix a dryer. Probably better than ol’ clipboard Higuruma himself. You need to be taken care of, y’know.”

And, yes, that might be so - but more than that came the idea that Toji had to enter your home to do so. You couldn’t help but think of something else. Making you mutter out a heated, “I’ll…consider it.”

He smiles a smug smile, a tiny dimple digging into the very end of his cheek. “Tha’s what I like to hear, ma.”

The very second that door shuts, you’re rushing back to your own apartment. Shorts clutched to your thumping heartbeat and thighs slightly weaker than they were just a few minutes ago. Slightly…hotter. Ready to scramble back into your bedroom and create just a bit more laundry for tomorrow.

And only a few seconds later does Toji find himself doing the most pathetic fistbump behind closed doors. The beginnings of a sleazy smile on the very edges of his lips.

“Smooth, dad.”

“Now I’m serious about no iPad-”

Megumi’s running back into his room before that rasping threat has even left Toji’s predictable lips. Grumbling, he’s making his way to that godforsaken frog-cased iPad cushioned in the middle of the sofa, possibly to hide it away for a few hours.

And then, he sees it.

Now, one of the very reasons that Toji had rented this apartment in the first place was for that idyllic skyline winking up from over his balcony. Towering buildings, flashing lights, all overlooking his living room couch - which, unfortunately for him - or, well, fortunately more like - just-so-happened to be positioned right next to your own balcony lined with laundry.

So it wasn’t exactly a surprise for him to catch a fluttering piece of cotton or ratty sleep shirt of yours for him to tease about later.

With a sigh at the flashing piece of fabric, he’s shuttering the sliding window open - ready to call your pretty self over again before-

“Shit.” Toji hisses, deep baritone wavering. His brows are raising down at the stray cloth, prominent Adam’s apple bobbing with a gulp. You really wear this type of shit? Well, he shouldn’t exactly be surprised but…

But this?

Because wrapped easily around his long fingers was a pair of pretty, pretty lace panties. Panties. All pink and see-through enough that Toji thinks he could see his own fingerprints through that flimsy excuse of underwear.

All of a sudden…his hands mindlessly raise up, up, up - mere inches away from his nose when…fuck.

“Damn, woman.” he’s spitting, snapping back to his senses. Ignoring the tightening in his pants to speedwalk his hasty way over to his bedroom in search of his phone. Just a few clicks away from texting you- “Gonna be the fuckin’ death of me I swear-”

And, see, Toji Fushiguro isn’t the type to stutter.

He isn’t the pathetic type to let anyone else’s voice shoot a bolt of electricity down his spine - to choke right in the middle of his sentence.

But, you always did throw him off, didn’t you?

Because he’s letting his maw slack open in a sharp gasp- no, shudder at the muffled, drawling sound from beyond the walls. Fingers loosening around his phone in sheer shock when he snaps his head towards his shared wall where your bedroom was.

Where he could hear your honeyed voice. Moaning.

And Toji gulps…before locking the door to his bedroom.

Like an animal, he’s immediately sneaking up to press his greedy ear against the wall where it was emanating from. Aching for every tiny gasp and whine, he could just imagine the way you were splayed out across your plush mattress, fingers buried deep.

So cute.

“Please- it feels s-so good.” Comes your cute mewl, followed by the buzzing vrrrr—! of what he assumes to be that hot pink rose toy of yours that’d accidentally gotten delivered to his address last week. And Toji almost snickers.

“F-fuck-” he breathes out shakily. Unabashedly listening for more, more, more- “Ya can’t be serious- what a treat.”

And Toji knows he should be the bigger person and stop listening, he knows he should ignore the sultry way your trembling moans were sending shockwaves down to his tight boxers. But he can’t.

“Ngh- r-right there-” you’re whimpering, and Toji tuts at the way he could’ve found your sweet spots much earlier. “-yeah- hah- jus’ a little more- Toji-”

His phone clatters! to the ground.

Did you just say…his name?

“Fuck-” One massive hand of his comes down to clap over his jaw-dropped mouth, biting back an answering moan coming from something dangerously dark, primal from inside his heaving chest.

Shit, he can’t breathe - he can’t even think right now because every drop of blood in Toji’s entire body was sprinting down to his heavy cock smacking down his thigh. Rock-hard. Angry. Just twitching when your voice repeats his name louder.

“Toji—!”

Ah, there it was again. And with it, he can feel every shred of his sanity being thrown away. Only once- twice was enough to get Toji addicted. To have his melty mind yearning to hear it again. And again. And again and again and-

Toji feels pathetic.

Like some hormone-hazed, younger version of himself when his hands frantically fumble their way to hook into the elastic band of his boxers. Feeling absolutely zero guilt when he tugs-

Toji was hard. Painfully, furiously hard just from the mere sound of your voice. Swollen and sobbing. It was enough to have his fat, strawberry-pink tip smack! against his toned abs, smearing down a wet glissade of precum that makes him hiss. All but drooling at the scratch of your panties being wrapped delicately around his sensitive shaft.

“Oh god.” he’s breathing out, thumbing over a wet glide on the bawling divot of his swollen head. It’s pooling like a translucent little puddle, wet enough that those pearlescent beads gloss a wet trail all the way down to his wrist. And he’s popping the salted-caramel digit into his mouth. “Wh-who the fuck do ya think you are ta get me this hard, ma?”

The fat curve of his thumb latches on to plug up the very ends of his cock, stopping himself from wasting a single precious drop before listening.

For anything.

“C-c’mon–” Toji lets his heavy body lean against the wall after a few more sloppy squelches that pull from your saturated cunt. He could already hear how dripping wet you were. How needy. “Wanna hear your hah- pretty lips talk-”

Toji’s sinking his sharp canines onto his lower lip to hold back a groan. Because as much as he loved to hear himself talk - hearing you moan was worth more than anything. Even if it cost him his rationality to quieten down. Please-

Ah, his prayers are answered.

Because the wall slightly jitters with your vibrating voice once more. “Oh- sh-shit it feels so good-”

“Heheh, does it?” he’s grunting, drawing a slow wetness of swirls on the underside of his slit. Hard enough to send him seeing stars. “Tell me- t-tell me more, ma.”

And could you read his mind?

Because whatever’s left of it certainly seems to think so at the way that no sooner are the words spilling from his babbling lips that you’re feeding his blessed ears with a few more syrupy sweet whines. And Toji shivers when he hears the creak of your bed.

Damn…he could make it break. He’s sure.

The thought is enough to send his hips rutting into his fist, furiously fucking up into it like he was angry. Like he wishes he could do with you-

“O-oh-” Toji gasps out a hot, condensed breath feeling the slight massage of your thin panties at his twitchy balls. He’s unsteadily picking its sticky cloth apart to press it even deeper into the drenched tufts of black at his hilt, down every thumping vein that’s lightning-bolted down his length. “This thing b-barely even wraps around my cock, doll.”

He’s hot. So, so hot. Latching onto the hem of his undershirt with his teeth to swipe across his sensitive nipples.

Burning.

And, really, he didn’t know what was worse for his poor self - your noises from just the other room, or the way your panties felt so good down his cock in this one.

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He twirls your panties around his fat hilt, meshing against the creamy pink at his hefty base. Fucking it up, up, up with pound after pound that half-leaves the poor thing in tatters. Well, he sure hoped you didn’t like this pair too much. “Probably so fuckin’ oh- wet now, huh? Did I do that? Didn’t know you were s-such a slut f’me.”

Every slobbering drag down his length has Toji’s dark brows knitting together. Back and forth back and forth back and- So hard.

So hot and heavy. He could barely catch his breath, sweat perspires across his forehead, and Toji could almost taste the metallic tang of blood when he’s holding back every rasping ah! ah! ah! just to hear your voice.

It was agonizing.

And he couldn’t help but imagine the way you were probably toying your tired fingers over your clit - the way you’d probably be so shy at how he could so clearly hear you. Killing Toji that it was the only thing he could do.

SLAM!

“Shit-” Toji’s snapping his head up at the mindless way his free hand had come smashing down onto the nearby drawer for any shred of balance. Sharp ears searching desperately for any sign that you’d heard-

“Ngh- yes- jus’ a bit more-”

He breathes out a guilty sigh of relief when the saturated slurps of your cunt only continue. Filling his mind sloppily like his favorite song. Gulping in a harsh wad of saliva before spitting a thick stream right onto the very edge of his plump, reddish head. His hulking body wracks with a violent shudder as it drip! drip! drips down every tender spot on his swollen cock. Beading down to cover his heavy balls in a thin sheen of spit.

“Look what you’ve done.” he’s spitting. Other hand coming down to rub lazy, massaging circles around his bulbous, cum-filled sacks. The sheer stimulation enough to have his head lolling drunkenly against the wall.

“M’so close-” Your voice only makes Toji fuck into his hand even harder - if only it was you. You, you, you - the only thing playing around his currently stupid mind. “-g-gonna cum ah-”

That makes him bawl out another furious wave of precum staining your panties see-through, glinting with every flutter down his raw cock. Faster. It was building and building up so close-

“C-close already?” he’s snickering, bending at the knees with how weak he was. Toji’s biceps flex and and ache with just how wildly he was fucking up into his fist, abs rippling with each wild buck. He half-wonders if he’d be able to see that pretty frilly pattern of your panties imprinted on his cock the next day. Over and over- “I woulda m-made you cum sooner.”

Would your beautiful eyes roll to the very back of your head when you did?

Would you beg him to cum, too? To fill you up. To breed you. Shit, that had his hefty shaft twitch in his hands, electricity flashing behind Toji’s eyes.

Would you moan his name - oh, please moan his name.

“P-please-” Toji finds himself gasping, and his entire body was hunched over now. Pathetic. Waiting for any second that you’d reach your high - he was a gentleman, after all. “Cum f’me- ah fuck fuck fuck-” Twiddling a manicured thumb in a slow line underneath his sensitive slit, it was making him moan so dangerously loud. “-please- cum on this fuckin’ cock, ma.”

“Fuck! Toji-” Comes your yelp, and it makes his mouth water. Breath held in a choked-up gasp in his puffing chest, “-m’cumming.”

He could see it already - just how pretty you’d look with your head thrown back and your back arching into his cock when you finally reach your high.

Now, Toji doesn’t know what overtook him to drag those drenched panties up to his face - to press it thoroughly against his nose and smell your essence. Breathing it in. drinking it in. But he can’t pretend like he hadn’t imagined it many, many times before.

And it makes him cum

It makes him shudder with a heavy puff of air, once. Twice. Before dumping and dumping out stringy wads of seed until your soft panties were soaked.

“Oh shit- shit shit shit-” he spews out a slurring slew of profanities, painfully hard cock bursting at the end with wet splatters of cum. So much of it. It’s making such a filthy mess that he almost feels guilty.

Jaw clenching when he’s forced to part with your panties with a pained gruff, sliding it along his thoroughly coated cock. Hi cum seeps through the fabric and into a milky puddle that pools at his wrist, dripping down a milky sheen across his skin.

“Mmpf–” his mouth salivates. A low, disappointed scoff bursting at the back of his throat when your own obscene noises quieten down. He missed you already. Dewy eyes veering to the back of his head, he’s only wondering how much prettier these would look on you. Still as ruined. “You’d be lucky to get these fuckin’ panties back, woman.”

Bzzt–!

From its discarded place on the floor, he can read the notification flashing across the phone screen.

Cutie-next-door: I’ve decided - can you come by tomorrow to fix the dryer, pleeeease?

---

“-ah, ya see when this vent is clogged s’gonna stop working. And so what you hafta do is-”

You weren’t listening.

You couldn’t.

Because Toji Fushiguro was sprawled out across your cramped kitchen - completely shirtless.

You had half the mind to turn him away after he’d knocked on your door with absolutely no sign of any upperwear - that sleazy grin plastered all over his face begging the answer to whether this was on purpose. To tease you. “Can move better this way” your ass.

But the thought of having even more of your laundry fly away, forcing you to potentially face this very same display multiple times is what had you opening your front door wider to let him inside.

No matter how much you would’ve appreciated the view…

And so here you were, squirming in one corner of the kitchen while Toji worked on your dryer. Sweat sheening down his swole muscles, disappearing in tempting beads down underneath his low-hanging pants. Slight smears of grease decorate his pecs, and you have to cross your arms to stop yourself from thumbing them away. He was so handy.

Shit, this was why you’d dolled-up just a bit more than usual. He was so-

“-doll? Doll.”

“Uh-” you’re yelping, blinking your eyes back up to meet an extraordinarily smug smirk now directed at you. “W-what were you saying?”

“Heh, I was saying you should take a picture, it’ll last longer.” he titters with a slight rumble, tools clinking when he’s taking off his bulky gloves. “Ya can enjoy the view later, but I was askin’ if ya had anything to dry right now to test this piece of junk.”

Urgently, you’re looking towards your empty laundry basket. “Sorry, seems that I dried them all out yesterday.”

“No pressure, besides-” You can only watch when he shuffles a hand inside one of his curiously bulging pant pockets. “-I came prepared.”

“Wh-wha- where did you get that?”

Because held so daintily within Toji’s cocky clutches, dangled one of your missing pairs of panties. They looked recently washed, and you’re reaching with a yelp for it. Falling onto your knees to match his seated position - which, obviously didn’t mean he’d hand it over.

Why would he? This was Toji Fushiguro.

He only throws them into your dryer, before closing the door with a dark snicker, “More like why let them fly their merry way over to my balcony again. Honestly- you call me the tease but look who’s talking.”

“You’re saying I’m the tease?” you shrill. The embarrassment was getting to you now - it was overconsuming you - and if the leering smirk on Toji’s face was anything to go by, you were sure that it was visible.

“If the shoe- or, well, panties fit.”

He was so cocky about his stupid lil’ joke.

You stab a rude finger right between the valley of his pecs, copping a feel of the velvety smooth skin. “Sh-shut up, if you want to talk about a tease then let’s talk about who showed up to fix a dryer shirtless.”

“Part of the outfit.” he shrugs. Tilting his head up at you, and shit, it finally hits you how precariously close you two are right now. Toji’s splayed out on your cool kitchen tile, while you’re straddling his slender waist with jittery legs, pressed up against the heated proximity of his unfairly shirtless body. Chest-to-chest. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the view, little miss had-a-fun-time-yesterday.”

You blink, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But in true Toji fashion, the closest to an answer you get is a large hand attaching roughly onto your waist. Jostling your body close enough for him to breathe out in a feverish chuckle - hot, and purposeful against your ear. “The walls are thin. Just sayin’.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You knew exactly what he was talking about - and so did he.

“...I heard you, too, y’know.”

Ah, you can now live your life happily knowing that you managed to make the ever-confident Toji gasp. You managed to make him part his lips in a slight gape, green eyes glinting with a hint of something dangerous as they widen. His sensory digits pinch at your hips.

“You mean-”

“Yes.”

Uncharacteristically, Toji takes a few gulping seconds to find his voice. And when he does - the very sound is enough to send shivers down your spine and make you wonder for a split-second whether this was really him. Hoarse, pained when he muses, “You heard me and still continued?”

Instantly, you’re trying to form excuses. “No! I mean- yes. It’s just that…”

“Heh, cute. You continued because of me- didn’t ya?”

Your jaw drops in shock, now a slightly defensive tone bleeding in with the embarrassment of your actions. “I-I mean I was doing- it- just fine before I heard you.”

Toji cocks his head, and only says one thing - “Prove it.”

“T-Toji this is embarrassing-”

But oh, all that Toji was wondering was whether he’d knocked his head on that goddamn dryer and gone to heaven already.

Because splayed out for all his pleasure on the cushiony bed was you - quivering legs straddled wide open, your back arched in such a delicious curve that makes his mouth water. Your silken sheets were disheveled and sloppy enough that you’d have to pray the dryer works now. Glistening cunt winking down at him eagerly, just begging him in cute, slurring squelches after every buzzing push of your vibrator.

And Toji? Seated right underneath your cute cunt - hovering mere inches away from sitting on his cocky smirk.

All he’d been imagining. As gorgeous as how he’d imagined you yesterday- no, even more so.

Toji’s leering up at you, muscular thighs manspreading even more to show off his furiously hard erection. “Shhh sh sh-” Toji hums, eyes unwavering from right between your legs. “She’s the one talkin’ to me right now, doll.”

And surely enough, it’s almost like he’s having a conversation with your pussy. Nodding and drunkenly humming along to every slurp that resounds across the heady room. “Tha’s right, make her- make her even wetter for me.”

He’s letting loose his long pinkish tongue to catch the drops of your sweet, sweet juices that slide down his throat.

His breath is so steaming hot against your cunt. Feverish. You huff out a dragged-out whine, kissing up your plump clit with the very edge of your rose toy. Just barely teasing the sensitive hood, “B-but I need you so-”

“Now now, what did I say?” he tuts away your stubborn moans easily. And you’re gazing over your shoulder upon the utterly unapologetic grin that falls across Toji’s face when he tugs down his own pants to flash you with the fat, rotund curve of his ruddied tip. Curling his fingers over the very top, “You don’t need me, remember- Let that pretty pussy talk with me or all you’re gonna do is watch.”

Except now you didn’t think you could talk even if you wanted to.

Your eyes are glazing over with a fresh wall of need when they fall greedily upon the peaking sight of Toji’s fat cock. So massive that it makes your jaw slip open, your cunt gushing out in a few gushes of slick.

“Oh shit- shit-” his eyes widen at the sight, so thoroughly honed in. Almost as if he doesn’t even realize he’s speaking to you. Doesn’t even know. And a few ringing squelches is all it takes for him to throw his head back with a groan. “That got ya wet, ma, didn’t it? Made your cute ngh- c-cunt happy?”

“Yes-” you’re gasping, winking away the overstimulated tears in your eyes. “B-but I want you-”

“Tell me exactly what you want, doll.”

So bossy, you want to snap back.

But right now you’re too hypnotized by the slutty sight of him to say a word. The way he seemed so ruined. That you can’t help but whimper, “I want you to hah- make me cum.”

And it’s just a split-second later when his brawny arms come wrapping around your jittery waist, hauling you over like some glorified rag doll to seat your fatigued legs down. Your dripping cunt meeting his mouth in a sultry, sultry French kiss.

He doesn’t waste a second longer - almost as if beating himself up for all the time wasted - before dragging his tongue to open your presoaked folds. Swirling so hotly to smear them out across his lips, Toji dredges his raised scar across your most tender spots and moans.

Sweet.

So sweet.

“This- this fuckin’ delicious?” He sounded like he was losing his mind, swatting aside your hand. “Move that fuckin’ hand. Y-you were- you were holding out on this? Could eat this cute cunt all the time- could marry ya-”

Proposing and proposing and kissing-

He latches down his glistening canines around your clit and pinches, almost as if a little punishment. And you could practically see the delight lighting up his dark eyes when your cunt slowly grows even more drenched. Little masochist, he’s thinking.

You yelp when without any sort of warning his cheeks hollow out in a sudden suck at your sensitive nub, swirling his tongue over it. “H-how’s that feel?” he giggles - giggles. “Better than your imagination or what?”

It already was.

But you couldn’t let his ego expand anymore than it already has, so the only thing you’re managing to do is trap a few sweat-dampened locks of his hair and drag your slobbering cunt down Toji’s mean mouth. Partly because you needed it, partly because you needed him to shut up.

Choking out, “D-don’t get so full of yourself, Toji–”

“Full of myself?” he’s chuckling - face smeared with a translucent mask of glistening slick that told you exactly why he should be full of himself. It glosses over his curled lips and drips down Toji’s sharp jawline. “Full of myself? Gimme that-”

Instantly, your till buzzing vibrator is being snatched meanly out of your hands. “S’this what ya want, instead, ma?”

Toji didn’t expect an answer.

And you can’t give him one.

Because that furiously jittery probe is being bullied right between your puffy pussy lips, licking a languid line down the edge of your sloppy hole. Before he’s bullying the long end inside your eager entrance-

“Does it feel good?” he’s taunting. Sinking down onto your clit and pulling. “Oh yeah- feels great. Doesn’t it?”

But it’s such a mouthful that sputtered out into your clit. The vibrations of white-hot pleasure making your spine bow like such a slut into Toji’s ravenous mouth. And your jaw slack open in the most strained of whines, “Y-yeah feels so-mmpf-”

Immediately, your mouth is being firmly shut closed with one of Toji’s mountainous palms, and he snickers. Giving you pretty lil’ cunt a pat that has splatters of slick speckling all the way to his lips - ones that he gladly licks up. And then some at the remnant excess all over your thighs. “I was talking to her.”

“Y-you’re so mean.”

At this, he pulls back and blows a heated gust of air against your puckered hole. “And you’re fucking drenched.” That spearing bullet is lodged firmly against a few tenderized sweet spots that make you keen. “And she’s saying…s’not enough.”

You were sure he was talking for himself.

Or…was he?

Honestly, you don’t even know - you didn’t even realize what you were missing until the fat girths of Toji’s digits shove their filthy way into your narrow opening. Already so stuffed, yet, he’s scissoring aside the vibrator into the gooey depths of your walls.

Either you could take him or he’ll make space.

Whistling out in awe, “Dontcha think this feels muuuch better?” As if to whittle out another one of your syrupy sweet noises, you’re being gifted with another sopping wet thwack! against the ready nub of your clit. Before Toji wraps his scarred lips around it and sucks. “Look- she’s even fuckin’ wetter.”

You didn’t even have to see to be able to know - because you could hear.

Toji was steadily pummeling your cunt with the most staggering smashes of the rounded curves of his fingertips into your sweetest spots. Jostling the vibrator inside, knuckles smashing it with friction to rub up against your constricting walls.

Honestly, it was just so much. You felt stuffed.

“F-feels like m’gonna explode.” you mewl at the heady thump! thump! thump! shuddering all across your body - and you didn’t know whether it was because of the thundering pulse in your ears, because of the way Toji’s fingers were crashing and thrusting against your tender g-spot. His neatly cut fingernails glide soaking wet grazes over and over in a sloppy staccato. “Ah! Right there, it f-feels so good-”

“Tch, you think I don’t know?” Toji’s rolling his eyes, muttering his words into your sopping slit. His free hand comes slamming down in a harsh smack! against your ass to make you lug against his face faster. “Ride yourself on me, ma.”

You stumble through it - yearning for more.

“Faster.”

“I-I’m trying.’”

But it wasn’t enough. Obviously.

And Toji’s impatiently revolving one hand around the curve of your waist to make you press down hard in the most sultry gyrations. Around and around it had him hypnotized. “Not tryin’ hard ‘nough. Cuz this pretty lady h-here’s just crying to cum, doll. Ya hear her?”

How could you not?

It’s all that you replay in your mind. Accompanied with a shot ngh ngh ngh that was curdling at the very back of Toji’s throat. Whispered into every graze of his tongue down your slit, you took a quick glance backwards to catch the way that he was properly fucking his fist now.

Long, thorough drags down his achy cock to bead out wet sloshes of precum. Only getting faster. Sloppier. Red and angry-

“Shit.” you’re whimpering, hands steadying on either side of his bulging deltoids. It felt like your very bones were rattling along with the vibrator. Nails digging in to the muscle, “I th-think m’close- think m’gonna-”

And oh Toji’s eyes stray to the back of his head at how reminiscent this was of just yesterday. Snickering a heavy, “You ‘think’? I know she’s so fuckin’ close. Can feel her. Isn’t she? Gonna cum? Gonna make a ngh- mess on me, is she?”

Answeringly, he’s leaving another few smacks! on your mound that have your gooey walls fluttering, the double penetration of both the buzzing bullet and his fingers too much. Too close. You feel every delicate bundle of your nerves exasperate.

And it’s impossible not to mumble out drunkenly - embarrassingly. “Sh-she is.”

It’s so rough.

Both your release and the way that Toji was fucking you through it - because the very moment he hears your breath hitch in a saturated manner similar to last time, he’s tugging out your buzzing vibrator and toppling it somewhere over the bed. Replacing it with every long inch of his heated tongue-

Like hell he’d have you cumming on some damn plastic before his tongue.

“Shit- it feels so-” Barely managing to formulate the words into coherent syllables. Your body convulses when he swiftly pecks your pretty clit with the rose toy instead. “-so good- ngh! M’cumming m’cumming ah-”

Toji’s fucking you through your high with the double stimulation of his fingers and his tongues spreading open your snug insides mercilessly. Ruthlessly. Wave upon wave of pleasure that had your toes curling, vision flashing white. Sensitive pussy dredging up from the very bottom of his sharp chin all the way up to his button nose.

It’s adorable how tired you were already, already huffing and puffing for breath. He could almost laugh if he didn’t have a mouthful already.

“Yeah tha’s right-” he slurps, more than talks. Thick digits curling tight and thumbing over his twitchy divot to wall up that velvety wisp of cum from escape. Leaving kiss after kiss to have your drooling cunt ride his sexy features faster. “-give it t’me.” Greedy. “Give it alllll to me.”

But even that didn’t seem like enough.

Because even after your aggressive orgasm was petering out into mere tingles at your quivering pussy, even after he’d slurped up every tiny drop of your honeyed juices - Toji Fushiguro was starved.

So completely ravenous when he speaks, “I think…she’s sayin she wants ta squirt, doll.”

“Wh-what?” you’re breathing - you didn’t even know if that was possible.

With a surprising amount of gentleness, Toji’s placing you to sit all prettily on his spread legs. Just slobbering your pussy lips in an innocent smooch over his hardness.

“Heh, what? Don’t trust me?” Toji cocks his head down at you in sheer smugness, a glistening gloss stained all around his lips. It made him look so fucked-out. And he felt like he already was - but Toji wouldn’t admit that. No, he’s only murmuring a wet, “Or are ya scared that m’gonna get ya ah- addicted?”

You showcase him with a slight pout that makes his riled-up cock twitch in one hand. That makes him immediately kiss it away - letting you taste him. Taste yourself.

It’d already taken everything in him to stop himself from cumming just by making out with your cunt.

“No s’just that- I’ve never squirted before…”

His words are sure. Confident. He’s echoing them from not too long ago, “Lemme take a look at that.”

And apparently Toji’s definition of taking a look is to slide the curve of his thick thumb in-between your dribbling slit. Up and down until his lips curl in a smile, “Well she’s tellin’ me that she can-oh shit, look at that.” Those very same fingers wrapping around the hilt of his thick cock to nudge your folds apart. “So why don’t I fix that, hm?”

God, Toji is so much bigger than he looked - which was staggering considering his sheer bulge was enough to send your mind reeling.

The curve of his fat tip bathes in a few more of your syrupy drops before bullying inside-

“O-oh my god-” Your voice wavers, sweat simmering all down your body at how dizzyingly Toji was spearheading your cunt open. Wide. So much of him that you didn’t know whether to buck your hips away or down for more, more, more- “S’too big- shit, don’t even know if I can ngh- t-take it, Toji–!”

“Oh, say my name like that once more n’ you’re gonna ah- hafta take every inch.” he grunts out, snarling smile making your gummy walls flutter around him.

You’re being fed every solid inch, Toji’s girth making your tight circumference stutter. Gaping your sloppy hole wide open around his expanding cock- shit, just the slightest peak into your heavenly depths was enough to have his fat length swelling. Pushing into your tender sweet spots when he grows.

“Y-you got even bigger?” you gasp, and it makes him cackle.

Throwing his head back to laugh, “Of course I got f-fuckin’ bigger when you feel like this, ma.” And two of his roughened palms glide their greedy pathway downwards to spread your thighs even further. Using gravity to his lewd advantage to help you gulp down your every mindless grind to simply fit himself inside. “W-where have ya been all my life.”

And Toji sounded like he was genuinely distraught that he didn’t know.

He was genuinely so upset, lower lip wobbling with pure bliss once your overstuffed pussy was resting on his sharp hip bones. Giving an experimental little gyration of his hips to swirl his shaft around your walls, it makes you whine.

“Tha’s what m’fuckin’ talking about.”

And then in a split-second, you’re being slammed onto your back and wrangled into the meanest mating press you never thought possible.

It’s like Toji was out of control.

Feral.

A slight trickle of drool trailing down the edge of his growling lips, “Shit- take my fucking cock ngh- take it all, doll. Ya don’t know how long I’ve been d-dreaming of this.”

“Yes yes yes-” you sputter. Edging your uselessly limp thighs to lock around Toji’s straining neck - and if he was going easy on you before. Then oh, you weren’t ready for the way this makes him snap his flexing body down to fold you in half. His sweat-beaded forehead knocking gently into yours, “-been ah- been dreamin’ of this ever since I m-moved in-”

Shit.

The thick pudge of Toji’s relentless head careens into the bullseye of your g-spot easily. And Toji titters to himself about the pretty moans that drag from your shot throat - that is, if he had the self-control.

Because your previous words were still thundering in his pussydrunken mind, and it makes him gasp. It makes him shoot his eyes open almost comically, it makes him crash his lips into your with a sullen hiss. “Give a man a fuck- warning. You c-can’t just say- things- like- that-”

As if to prove his point, he’s planting a few more heated French kisses against your sweetest spots. How he mapped them out so quickly you had no idea.

His feverish breath hovers over your own mouth, gusts bounding out with every pound into your cunt. He’s bruising the circular branding of his sobbing tip down your spongy cervix, a tiny ah! of disappointment leaving Toji’s stern lips at the recoil that had him pushing back from the very bottom of your pussy.

He’s so filthy.

“Because what if–” It takes you a few seconds to realize that he’s still babbling drunkenly, flicking over a calloused thumb over your clit to get your delirious attention. “-are ya listening, woman? What- ah- what if I told ya I was the fuckin’ same. Wanted to f-fuck this cute cunt the moment I saw ya, wanted to ruin her- to breed her-”

And just when he’s heaving in such a sharp inhale. As if he’s spoken too much.

Yet, even through the way that Toji was fucking you stupid - you still manage to latch onto his words.

“Y-you wanted to ah- cum inside?” you’re blinking up at him innocently in a way that only made his hips jackhammer against yours harder. Teasing your sensitive clit with a pinch. “Tell me, Toji.”

God- you said his name.

Shit shit shit, didn’t he tell you not to-

“Yes!” Toji’s shuddering out, hefty balls twitching and thwacking their tight, cum-filled sacks against your ass. He’s fucking you so wildly. The mating press that he had you in let him glide a wet thrust down every single nook and cranny inside you. Every forbidden sweet spot. “Wanted- wanted it so badly- ah-”

Batting your teary lashes, “How badly?”

Two of Toji’s mean fingers come up to smush your cheeks together into an embarrassing pout, and he’s using that cutely ajar opening of your mouth to spit. A thick, honeyed wad of saliva that purposefully splatters along the edge of your lips - because Toji had perfect aim. He could’ve streamlined it all neatly between your lips.

But you looked and tasted so sweet this way.

When he could just kiss it away filthily with a drag of his tongue, “Shit- what a filthy fuckin’ mouth. Ya really know how to m-make me lose my mind, hm?” Splaying out one large palm about halfway down your stomach, he’s exploring for a lewd cylindrical nudge. A throb when his thickened head was smashing into your g-spot. “If ya i-insist- m’gonna fill ya up until I can feel it-” Pressing down. Hard. “Here.” And now he’s running his mouth a mile a minute, he’s dazed where his cadence grows sloppy. “Until you’re overspilling. Until yer all r-round and hngh- glowing and shit-”

God, he was flying too close to the sun.

Egging him on, he was fucking you into the bed like he was furious at you. Lurching out rickety creaks from the bedframe at his riotous slams! Teasing, “S-s’that it?”

“Is that it? I-is that it?” he’s repeating. Over and over like a humorless mantra. “No tha’s not- ah- fucking ‘it’. M’gonna shit- make you mine. Gonna fuck a b-baby or two into ya.” Shockwaves of electric white flashing down his spine when your gripping walls cling around him like a velvety channel. Stumbling through words, “So they’re gonna know- ah- th-they’re all gonna know what I did. Hah- how I ruined ya…”

You can only sob, “Toji– m’gonna-”

Stimulating tears gather up beside Toji’s eyelids with every pressurized ram, and he finds it in himself to rasp a drunken giggle. “G-gonna give Megumi a lil’ sibling, ma?”

He doesn’t have to hear your response, he doesn’t think he can. Because no sooner are you crashing into your orgasm that Toji is as well.

He realizes before you - far, far before you at how you were squirting.

Drizzling your juices in a coating gloss down his cock, his abs, some spattering up to Toji’s lips. He took a look into it alright.

Your bolting waves of bliss intruded by his rummaging cock. Twitching once. Twice. Before struggling out thick gushes of sweltering hot seed.

It’s splattering onto the very back of your bruised and battered cervix in a wet thwack! Oozing out the sides of your silt, you feel your gummy walls being inflated. The tug of ribbons upon ribbons of cum being fucked into sloshes inside and coats your melty walls like a second, sticky skin.

THUD!

Toji collapses onto his wearied forearms, caging you in with his big beefy biceps. Hips slowing down to tiny, subconscious ruts wrenching out the most obscene wet squelches. “Th-the heh- the fuckin’ bed.”

Only then are you batting your fatigued eyes open to realize that one side of the bed was sagging dangerously. “Toji did you b-break the bed?”

“Ah- so what?” And he’s scooping up your pliant body easily into his arms. Lifting you. Manhandling you. Pulling out of your split cunt for just a second to slam! you down onto your nearby work desk. The cool mahogany against your front makes you hiss, “I’ll jus’ t-take a ah- look at it.”

With this, he’s pressing down on the slightly bloated area near your cunt. Gaping. Gushing out thick remnants of his cum - it’s like he was playing around.

The sight so heavenly that with a dragged-out gasp he’s finding his weepy cock blast out a few more wispy strands of cum. Shit.

“Shit- marry me-” Toji’s throwing his head back with a whimper - a whimper - when his jolting cock veers dangerously into the territory of shooting overstimulated blanks. “Marry me I-I swear. Gonna ah- put a pretty ring on ya, my doll.”

Which is why he’s swirling around his greedy pointer around your gaping entrance. Toying with the creamy ring of seed that’d painted its way around his thick base. Toji pools a few creamy dredges on his fingers and shoves them into your babbling mouth. “Ngh- Toji–!”

“Nowww, let’s see ngh- already finished off th-the bed-” he’s rattling off. Counting on a few fingers of his, “-we have the ohhh fuck- don’t squeeze m-me like that, ma, m’still sensitive- this desk, the floor- the dryer.”

“The dryer?” you mewl. “But you j-jus’ fixed that-”

“Ah, consider it a lil’ payment…along with those panties of yours, of course.”

And it’s only later.

Hours and hours later, with your bed frame broken on one leg, your desk absolutely shattered, and your carpet soiled with a few whiteish rivulets that you’re finding yourself seated into a tight full nelson on top of the dryer. Toji still splitting you apart inside, shooting blanks before the front door rattles with a sudden knock! knock! knock!

A deep voice resounding from outside, “Anybody home? It’s Shiu Kong. Higuruma sent me here to fix the dryer.”

“Fuckin’ Shiu…wanna let him in?”

---

“Hello, Shiu? How did the fixing go?” It’s by the next day that Higuruma gets a call in the middle of his important business meeting. One that would probably stay with him for a long, long time. “What do you mean the dryer is broken beyond repair?!”

A/N. Hope you all have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

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