redwoodsantana

[redwoodsantana]

A FLEXIBLE BIMBO’S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL RUIN, NAMASTEEE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. thousand for pilates and your expensive juice while your boyfriend is working his ass off. is it acceptable? obviously not that’s why they’ll help you streeeeech.

warning(s). non-sorcerer, modern AU, reader is a spoiled college brat, age gap relationship (31yo man / 23yo reader), possessive behavior, manhandling, leg-on-shoulder sex position, power play, rough sex, standing sex, impact play (spanking), overstimulation, internal ejaculation / cum leaking, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, pussy drunk characterization, full nelson position, handpinning, wall fucking, orgasm denial, delayed climax, size kink, wet and messy sex, nipple play (biting, sucking), overstretched pu$$y, cumplay, emotionally repressed men snapping sexually, physical restraint (arm pinning, leg holding), reader being folded like a pilates reformer machine, window fucking, public exposure risk (urban apartment), swearing / explicit language, casual misogyny with affection, mental breakdown via dick, all characters are consenting adults.

GOJO SATORU

you don’t even hear the front door slam. too busy lounging on the couch in his hoodie—oversized and smelling like his stupid expensive cologne, with your phone balanced against your knee, legs thrown up like a princess in exile. a cucumber mint smoothie sweating beside you. freshly blended. still cold. probably fourteen dollars.

you hear his footsteps instead. that deliberate, heavy stride of a man who’s either bringing you dinner or about to fuck up your entire life for sport.

you don’t look up.

but you feel it.

that vibration of a presence when gojo satoru walks into the room pissed and amused in equal measure. like he’s caught you stealing gold bars again. like he’s gonna make you beg for the next one. he tosses something. paper. it hits you in the chest and flutters down.

you blink.

“…did you just throw a receipt at me?”

his sunglasses are off. he never wears them at home unless he’s about to deliver bad news in a dramatic monologue. “that’s a pilates receipt,” he says. “for fifty-six thousand yen.” a beat. “for one month.”

you lift your eyes lazily. “that’s the introductory rate.”

his hands come to his hips. god. those fucking hips. “and what exactly are they teaching you in this luxury cult that justifies you spending my hard-earned salary on getting tied to a piece of wood and shoved around like a meat puzzle?”

you lick smoothie off your straw.

“they work my core. build length. alignment. it’s a holistic approach to mobility and flexibility.” he stares at you in silence for a full ten seconds. his nostrils flare. “…you think you’re flexible?” he says at last. you blink slowly. you can feel the grin starting before it curls into your mouth.

“i’ve seen what you do to me,” you say sweetly. “so yes. i think i’m very flexible. you’re lucky i don’t invoice you.”

a second passes. a long one.

then—he’s moving.

fast.

you let out a delighted yelp as he grabs you off the couch, your smoothie flying somewhere behind you like a casualty of war. your legs kick, flail, but his grip is iron. the hoodie rides up to your waist as he tosses you over his shoulder.

“satoru—satoru—”

“shut up,” he says, smacking your ass, “and show me how much i’m paying for.”

the first time he folds you in half, it’s on the kitchen counter.

his hand’s between your shoulders, pressing you flat to the cold marble. your knees are up beside your ears. your panties are gone. his sweats are halfway down his thighs. and his cock—god, his cock—is already inside you, thick and veiny and curved just enough to punch something inside you you’ve never had anyone reach before.

he’s not even moving. just holding you there. impaled.

your calves tremble. your toes curl.

“not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh. “but these pilates people… do they fold you like this, baby? get your knees touching your fucking shoulders like this?” you try to breathe but there’s no air. just the stretch. the deepness. the weight of him inside you, pulsing.

you nod, eyes fluttering.

“liar,” he breathes, and slams into you.

your scream echoes off tile. his thrusts are punishing. slow. like he’s testing your range of motion. pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in with a controlled, maddening precision that leaves you shaking.

“look at you. soaking all over my counter. and you have the audacity to use my card for yoga class when you’ve got me right here? i should break your fucking spine.” you whine. moan. shudder. he’s so deep—you feel like you’re going to come just from the position. from how your body is folded under him, stretched wide, vulnerable.

he grabs your ankle. lifts it higher. you nearly scream again.

“god, look at this. baby. you’re literally bent in half. you wanna waste my money? make it worth it.”

round two is on the floor.

your legs are straddling his shoulders. your arms are pinned under his knees. and your entire torso is rolled up like he’s about to pile-drive you through the floorboards. “this one’s called happy baby,” he murmurs, licking your clit slow and messy. “except i don’t think there’s anything holy about what i’m doing to you right now.”

you can’t speak.

your thighs are shaking. your pussy’s swollen, wet, overstimulated from the last orgasm and being edged through two more. he keeps licking. slow and relentless. circling that tender spot just enough to make your stomach curl and twist, like you’re being stretched from the inside out.

“fuck,” he whispers. “your little hole’s fluttering. you gonna come again? just from my tongue?” you try to wiggle, but he tightens his grip. makes a noise against your clit that vibrates through your spine.

you break. completely. shuddering against his mouth, gushing against his chin as you come again, full-body, screaming his name. he groans, hips grinding into the floor, hungry for it. like he gets off just from wrecking you.

by the time he’s finally inside you again, this time from behind, kneeling over you with your arms pulled back into a stretch that arches your chest off the bed—he’s panting.

you’re soaked.

his cock slides in easy. and he just holds you there. hips flush. dick fully buried. sweat dripping down his chest onto your back. “jesus christ,” he groans. “this pussy—this fucking pussy—baby, i think you broke me.”

you make a sound. a weak, ruined whimper.

he chuckles.

softly.

leans down. kisses your shoulder. cheek. presses his chest to your back and rocks into you with slow, loving strokes, fucking you now like he means it. “you win,” he whispers against your ear. “fuck the pilates. i’ll stretch you every morning.”

a pause.

“but i’m charging you for the smoothies now.”

GETO SUGURU

it starts in the kitchen.

you’re wearing that outfit. leggings that cling to your ass like a second skin, high waistband hugging the curve of your hips. cropped tank top, no bra, just the hint of nipple pressing against the fabric like a test of his restraint. hair twisted up messily, neck exposed.

you’re blending something. bright green and expensive-smelling.

he walks in from work and drops his keys with a low clink, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

then, “you’ve been at that place again.”

your spine straightens.

“what place?” you don’t even turn around. voice all air and innocence, like you’ve already decided you’re going to lie through your teeth. “don’t fucking play with me,” he says, tone level, low, a blade unsheathed. “i saw the charge. that pilates studio. twenty-four thousand yen. again.”

you sip. “they added advanced core conditioning.”

“did they add a private fucking chef too? you spent more on smoothies this month than on textbooks.” you don’t flinch. just smirk into the glass. “i’m investing in my longevity.”

and that’s it.

the silence that follows is deep and weighted and final.

because he doesn’t argue when he’s past the point of talking. he acts. the next thing you feel are his hands on your waist, dragging you away from the counter with no warning, smoothie glass thunking to the floor, half-spilled. he spins you, lifts you—lifts you—and slams your back into the cool surface behind. you yelp, arms catching the edge behind you as he shoves his thigh between your legs and presses. hard.

“you want flexibility?” he growls, mouth hot on your jaw. “mobility? deep core engagement?”

his hands grip your thighs and spread them wide, pushing them up and open until you’re practically doing a split across the marble. the stretch burns—but it’s not enough to distract from the thick press of his thigh grinding up against your pussy through the leggings, damp already. “i’ll give you a fucking full-body workout.”

“no one touches me,” you gasp.

you moan, but it’s cut off when he grabs your jaw—tight—and forces your face toward him. “you think this ass is yours to flaunt on some reformer bed? think they stretch you like i do?” he’s furious. but there’s something underneath it. darker. hotter.

you’re being owned. corrected. and you love it.

he snorts. low and sharp. “except when you beg for it.”

he strips you bare in the living room.

throws your top to the floor. tears the leggings down your legs like they offended him. you squirm, bare now, flushed from neck to thigh. he doesn’t even bother undressing fully—just shoves his slacks and boxers down enough to free his cock, hard and thick and already leaking.

“get on the floor,” he says, voice gravel.

you obey.

he grabs your ankle and drags you to him, and it’s not gentle. your skin scrapes on the carpet. your breath hitches. but you’re soaked. he folds your knees to your chest, pushes both legs back until you’re open and exposed and trembling. “you think this position is in your class?” he growls, staring down at your cunt, glistening under the light. “you think they stretch you like this?”

you’re so open you can’t breathe. your thighs tremble from the pressure. your cunt pulses with need.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow at first. just enough to stretch your entrance wide. then he rams forward with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust that punches a sound out of your throat you’ve never made before.

your eyes roll back. your hands claw at the carpet. you’re full, painfully, impossibly full. he’s so deep it aches. “feel that?” he hisses through his teeth, dragging his cock out slow, letting your walls grip every ridge of him. “this is the only stretch that matters.”

he fucks you like a hammer. like he’s working out every ounce of frustration with the way your body folds around him. he bends your legs back until your knees press into your chest and your ass lifts off the ground. your pussy squelches, loud, raw, soaking. the slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

he leans down, mouth to your ear.

“they stretch your pussy this deep?” he hisses.

“n—no,” you choke.

he grabs your throat—firm, not choking. just holding.

“say it again.”

“no one—no one does but you.”

he kisses you then—rough and filthy, tongue sliding into your mouth like it owns you. he doesn’t stop fucking you even as your moans catch in your throat. he wants it there. to feel it. to taste it. to make it real.

he flips you over onto your stomach without pulling out.

you gasp as your face hits the carpet, and then he’s grinding into you from behind, deeper now, weight heavy over your back, one hand fisted in your hair.

you sob into the floor.

“stay right there,” he growls. “arch your fucking back—good. that’s it. hold it.” he pistons into you from behind, his hand smacking your ass hard, again, again, until it burns. “legs shaking already?” he pants. “you’re such a spoiled little brat. wanna run your mouth, waste my money, act like your pussy isn’t mine.”

he pulls your head back by your hair and bites your neck—hard.

“say it.”

“it’s yours—fuck, suguru—i swear—”

he fucks you even harder.

and when you finally come—shaking, convulsing, sobbing into the carpet with your pussy gripping him like it’ll never let go—he groans, low and guttural, and spills inside you in thick, hot waves. he doesn’t pull out. he stays there. buried. deep. panting.

hours later—your face still mashed against the floor, limbs trembling, thighs bruised—he finally slides out. you feel the slow drip of his cum down your thigh. then his fingers. he pushes it back in with two of them. slow. possessive.

“no more pilates,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-slick hair off your temple. “you want to stretch, baby, you come to me.”

you blink up at him, broken and beaming.

“…can i still get the smoothies?”

he laughs once, low and sharp.

then grabs your ankle again.

“bend over the couch. you’re not done.”

NANAMI KENTO

you should’ve known something was wrong when he texted you at 4:41 p.m.

“i’ll be home by five. don’t go anywhere.”

no emoji. no dot dot dot. just those words. clean and dry like a corporate bullet.

you thought he was bluffing. he doesn’t leave the office early for anything. he eats his lunch standing up and answers emails with a frown so deep it might be surgical. but he walks through the door at 4:58 p.m. briefcase down. tie still on. and he doesn't kiss you. he sets a folded piece of paper on the counter. a receipt. you don’t even need to look at it.

you know what it is.

“you spent sixty-five thousand yen,” he says without looking at you, sliding off his watch. “in one week.” you chew your lip, standing in the kitchen like a caught rabbit in leggings that cling to your ass, sports bra sticking to your chest. “they had a stretch reformer bootcamp this week,” you offer weakly.

his brow twitches.

“that’s what you call it?” he asks, walking toward you, loosening his tie. “bootcamp? to lie on your back while some barely-trained teenager straps you into resistance bands and calls it exercise?”

“they do more than that—”

“i can see what they do. your little videos. those slow leg lifts. the air-humping. the stretching. you think that justifies the bill you sent me?” he’s standing close now. close enough that his cologne—clean cedar, leather, citrus undercut with heat—wraps around you like a noose. you smirk, defiant even as your heartbeat stutters. “i’m flexible now,” you say, voice light. “isn’t that worth something?”

he exhales slowly. closes his eyes.

and when he opens them again—

“strip.”

he doesn't let you undress yourself. he does it for you.

then his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive. he turns you. pushes your back against the cold wall of the hallway. one palm finds your throat. not choking—just there. heavy. dominant.

rips the waistband of your leggings down with one brutal tug, dragging them past your knees, your thighs, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something expensive he owns.

he peels your bra up, off, tossing it behind you with a flick of his wrist.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low as his other hand slips between your legs. “how flexible?” your breath catches. you’re soaked already. your thighs part on instinct, the pulse of need between them aching and slick. he pushes two fingers in. slow. precise. your body clenches.

his voice is a near-growl.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “you’re dripping just from me undressing you. and you spend my money so some stranger can put your legs in the air?” you moan. try to speak. he curls his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp, then pulls them out and shoves them into your mouth.

“taste it.”

you suck, eyes fluttering.

he grins, slow and mean.

“we’re doing this my way tonight.”

you don’t even understand what’s happening until you’re on the bed, face down, arms yanked back—hard—and your body is suddenly off the mattress. lifted. bent.

“nanami—?”

his hands are under your knees. your arms are over his, bent back. your entire body is suspended in the air, your back arched, your thighs spread wide. his chest is to your back. and you’re held in place by the cage of his arms and the brutal grip of his thighs against yours.

he growls into your neck, “you want flexibility? i’ll show you full extension.”

then he pushes into you.

you scream.

he’s thick. hard. ruthless. your pussy stretches around him so tight you think you might tear. he buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust, cock carving into you like he’s claiming space. you can’t even move. your legs are pinned wide. your arms pulled back. your back arched so deeply that your chest is jutting forward, helpless and trembling.

and he starts to fuck you.

deep. measured. powerful.

his hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every brutal grind of cock against your swollen, aching cunt. your body bounces in his grip, caught, dangling, used. “this what they teach you?” he hisses into your ear. “this angle? this depth? you feel that, baby?”

you sob. nod. can’t speak.

“say it.”

you struggle, mouth open, words choked out with every thrust.

“they—don’t—fuck—me—like—you—do—”

he groans, fucking harder.

“they better not.”

he adjusts his grip, pulling your knees higher. deeper angle. you choke on a scream as he hits something so deep your vision goes white. his mouth is on your shoulder now, teeth dragging over skin, lips slick with sweat and spit and need. he doesn’t stop. not when your pussy spasms around him, clenching like a fist. not when your orgasm crashes into you like a scream trapped inside bone.

he fucks you through it. never slowing. never relenting.

“you want a stretch? i’ll keep you bent like this until your muscles seize.” he groans. pants. and then—he comes. deep inside you. cock pulsing. his hands locked on your body like a cage. he holds you there, suspended, filled.

like a lesson.

after, he lowers you onto the bed like something delicate. ruined. you’re trembling. twitching. your thighs won’t close. his cum leaks out of you in slow, thick drips. his hand brushes your hair back. “next time you want to stretch,” he murmurs, voice rough and dark, “you ask me.”

you nod.

he leans down. kisses your temple. “and if i see one more charge from that place—” his hand slips back between your thighs. “—i’ll fuck you in the lobby.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the door slams behind him with enough force to shake the floorboards.

you’re mid-pose. stretched out over a yoga ball in front of the TV, leggings practically painted onto your ass, some workout influencer with a honeyed voice instructing you to breathe through the sacral engagement.

you turn your head, a smirk curling at your mouth.

“hey, babe—home early?”

toji doesn’t answer. he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds something up between two fingers. a receipt. long. curled at the edge. “three sessions in one day?” he asks, voice flat. “you training to be a contortionist now?”

you blink, innocent.

“they had a flexibility workshop.”

“flexibility,” he repeats, stepping forward. “you need them to teach you that?”

you open your mouth to retort—but it dies in your throat when he closes the distance. one hand goes straight to your throat. the other to the back of your head. he grips you—hard—drags you up off the yoga ball, and before you can breathe, he’s got you slammed flat over the kitchen counter. "you think i pay for you to stretch out that tight little pussy in some fancy-ass studio with floor-length mirrors and soy candles? huh?"

your hips writhe, but his hand slaps down hard on your ass.

“answer me.”

“n-no, toji—fuck—i—”

he grabs the waistband of your leggings and rips them. not tugs. not slides. tears. the elastic pops. your panties with them. you’re bare now, bent over the cold counter, pussy slick and already dripping because of course you're soaked from this.

he slides his fingers between your legs. hums.

“so wet just from me walking in. you like getting caught.” you gasp, biting your lip, and he shoves two fingers in. hard. fast. curls them until you cry out. "yeah. that’s what i thought. you fucking brat."

he takes you right there.

no prep. no warning.

one hand between your shoulders, the other pinning your wrists to the counter. he rips his belt open, pulls his cock out—already hard—and thrusts inside in one brutal, merciless motion.

you scream. your body bucks. your eyes roll back.

he’s thick. too big. stretching you wide with no time to adjust. it burns—but god, it’s good.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your ear. “wanted to see if those yoga freaks could get you as deep as me?” he slams into you again. again. your pussy’s clenching, spasming, trying to take him. failing. it’s too much. and you’re shaking already. his grip moves to your hair. yanks your head back. you’re drooling, eyes unfocused.

he laughs.

“you’re so fucking dumb when i fuck you like this. i should film it. send it to your instructor. ‘here’s your little star pupil—can’t even spell her name with a cock in her.’”

then he really gets mean.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing. tosses you onto the floor in the living room—next to the yoga mat, your smoothie still sweating on the side table—and grabs you. pulls you into his lap. traps your arms. lifts you up, and suddenly—your knees are over his thighs, your legs spread, and your arms are pinned up under his.

full nelson.

you’ve got no leverage. no control. your whole body is open, suspended, split wide.

and then—

he sinks into you again.

hard.

you scream. back arching. vision blurring.

his cock hits everything from this angle. it's like he's splitting you in half. you can't even fight it—your arms are trapped, your legs forced wide, and he’s using your own weight to fuck you down onto his cock over and over again, bouncing you like a toy. “there’s your stretch,” he snarls. “you feel that? you’re so fucking open, i can see my cock through your stomach.”

you sob. try to nod. can't speak.

he’s relentless.

fucking up into you, holding you like a ragdoll, your pussy wrapped tight around him, spasming with every thrust. he’s groaning now—raw, rough, sweat slicking his chest. “you earned this,” he pants. “all that money you spent—now you’re gonna pay it off.” he slams up again. your moan is wrecked.

“with your fucking cunt.”

when you come, it’s violent.

your body seizes, twitching hard in his grip. your pussy milks him. chokes on him. you’re sobbing—babbling nonsense—legs trembling around his waist.

toji groans.

and comes.

deep inside you. thick and hot. filling you up so much you feel it dripping before he even stops. he doesn’t let you go. he just holds you there. cock still buried. chest heaving. “there,” he mutters. “that’s a real full-body workout.”

a beat.

“and baby?” he leans in, voice low and dark against your ear. “next time you spend my fucking money without asking—i’ll fold you backwards.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you’d been running your mouth all day.

legs sore from class, tank top sweat-slicked, face flushed with that post-workout glow like you’d actually worked for something.

“my hamstrings are tight,” you’d whined, flopping onto the couch, pushing your ankle onto his thigh like you wanted him to touch you. “we did these deep lunge extensions—my instructor said i’m really flexible now.”

sukuna didn’t say anything then.

just looked at you—eyeing the curve of your ass in those fucking leggings, the way you stretched like you knew he was watching. the bratty smile you gave him when you took the last of his cigarette and didn’t say thank you.

he waited.

waited until now—late evening, when the lights are low and the room smells like smoke and sex and skin—and you’re backed against the wall, your tank top riding high, your panties hanging by a thread, and your leg thrown over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

like you’re just that flexible.

he’s inside you already.

deep.

fucking inches deep.

his cock stretches you wide, thick and brutal, the kind of stretch that burns in your thighs and pulses in your cunt, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his hands are gripping your hips hard—fingers bruising, rough, possessive—and your heel’s hooked over his shoulder, your other leg barely holding your weight as your back arches into the plaster.

and he just smiles. slow. dangerous.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, hand sliding up the inside of your raised thigh, gripping the meat of it, squeezing. “this how they stretch you in those little classes of yours?”

you try to speak. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

he chuckles.

“nah,” he says. “they don’t stretch you like this, do they?”

he thrusts. once. deep.

your breath shatters.

he’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. your pussy clenches. your hips jerk. your fingers claw at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps you right there, leg hoisted high, body bent and trembling.

“fuck, baby,” he grins, cock sliding out slow before slamming back in. “you’re opening up so easy. maybe those classes are working.”

you moan. broken. breathless.

his hand wraps around your throat.

“you like this, huh? standing here, pussy stretched open, one fucking leg in the air like a good little slut on display?”

“fuck—sukuna—please—”

he rolls his hips, angling his thrusts to grind against your g-spot, relentless and deep.

you sob. your thighs tremble.

he groans, filthy and low, lips brushing the curve of your jaw.

“you feel that stretch in your hips, sweetheart? in your cunt?”

he thrusts again—hard—makes your whole body bounce against the wall.

“this is real flexibility,” he growls. “this is what i pay for.”

his mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, your tits—teeth grazing, lips sucking, tongue trailing fire down your throat. and the whole time, his cock keeps slamming into you, dragging moans from your chest you didn’t know you could make.

you’re babbling now. drunk on him. on how deep he is. on the burn in your thighs and the slick squelch of your soaked cunt every time he pulls out and drives back in. “so fucking tight,” he pants. “and still taking it all. you feel how wide i’ve got you open?” his thumb drops to your clit. rubs circles—mean, precise, perfect.

you cry out. jerk.

“uh-uh,” he hisses, pinning your hips. “don’t move. hold the leg. keep it up. you want to be flexible, brat? show me.” your muscles scream. your body shakes. but you obey. because he’s so deep. so rough. so fucking good.

he kisses your throat.

“attagirl.”

and when he comes?

when you come—it’s violent. sudden. full-body.

your vision flares. you scream, cunt clenching around him so tight he groans, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck as he fucks you through it, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up.

it’s deep.

a growl ripped from his chest, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up with so much cum it leaks out around him even before he pulls out. you’re shaking. leg still hoisted. mouth open. whole body limp. he finally lowers your leg.

lets you collapse against him, his arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head like you’re breakable. then, low against your ear: “that’s the only stretch that matters.”

SHIU KONG

he doesn’t say a word when he gets home. not when he finds your receipt on the bathroom counter—fifty-two thousand yen for a reformer stretch package. not when he sees you on the couch, barefoot, bare-legged, sipping an iced matcha like it wasn’t paid for with his blood money.

just drops his phone. loosens his tie. and walks over to you with that expression—tight mouth, heavy brow. all controlled violence. you glance up. blink.

“what?”

he sits beside you.

silent.

and grabs your jaw.

not roughly. not yet. just enough to tilt your face to his. “get on the floor,” he says, calm. cool. deadly. “face down. knees wide.”

you pause.

“…what?”

his hand slides to your throat. squeezes, just a little. eyes dark.

“you heard me.”

he doesn’t strip you all the way. just yanks your panties down and pushes your little workout shorts to the side, your tank top rucked up above your hips. he wants you dressed for this. dressed like the spoiled little slut you are.

“this is called frog pose, right?” he murmurs, gripping your ankles and dragging them wide. “hips open, knees bent. cute little ass in the air.” your face burns. the stretch in your thighs is deep, your cunt already throbbing from being so exposed, so vulnerable. your chest is flat to the rug, back arched, legs splayed.

and then you feel it.

his cock.

thick. hard. dragging along your slit, teasing. mean.

“you want mobility?” he mutters. “i’ll give you mobility.”

he pushes in—slow. thick. stretching you until your mouth opens around a gasp and your fingers clutch at the carpet. your pussy sucks him in, inch by inch, until he’s deep, hips flush against the meat of your ass.

and then he stays there.

hands on your lower back. holding you open.

"fuck," he breathes. "look at how deep i am in this position. you feel that?" you try to move—try to rock back onto him—but his palm lands hard across your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “don’t move,” he growls. “just stay open. let me fuck you like this.”

and then he starts.

his hips snap forward. hard. again. again.

each thrust punches a cry out of your chest, muffled against the carpet, your body rocking from the force of it. he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind your back, pins them with one hand, and uses the other to shove your hips down, locking you in place. “this what you pay them for?” he growls. “to stretch your hips? your back?”

he slams into you, balls slapping, breath hot over your spine.

“they fuck you like this, sweetheart?”

you shake your head, sobbing.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“say it.”

“no—fuck—no one does but you—”

he groans. thrusts harder. his cock hits so deep it feels like your guts rearrange every time. your knees tremble. thighs ache. the stretch is insane—but you can’t stop coming, pussy clenching, walls fluttering, drooling around his cock with every filthy grind of his hips. "jesus," he pants, “this cunt was made to stay open like this.”

and when he comes?

he stays inside. grinds deep. dumps every drop into your spasming cunt and keeps it in you with a hard slap to your ass and a hand dragging down your spine.

after?

you’re still face-down, body limp, legs aching from the stretch. shiu pulls your panties back up. kisses your thigh. smooths your hair. and murmurs, low and serious: “next time you want to stretch—” his hand cups your sore, slick cunt. “—you ask.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it starts with the door clicking shut.

you’re home before him, sprawled on his couch in one of his button-down shirts—open, loose, your tank top tight underneath, your bare legs tucked up beneath you. the TV is on. you’re sipping kombucha like you pay for it.

he enters in silence.

shoes off. briefcase down. suit jacket hung neatly over the hook. tie loosened. he doesn’t speak. not until he stands in the doorway between living room and hall, holding a piece of paper like a verdict. long receipt. high total. you glance over. sip.

“…that from the studio?”

he lifts one brow. folds it. sets it on the table.

"forty-seven thousand,” he says calmly. “for one week.”

you blink. “it's—private sessions.”

“i can see that.” he steps closer. “what exactly do they do to you in these sessions?” you tilt your head, smirk already crawling to your mouth. “stretch me out.” he breathes in. slow. nostrils flare. you can feel the temperature shift.

“get up.”

he doesn’t speak again until you’re backed into the bedroom, his hand wrapped gently—too gently—around your wrist, and his voice low.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

he leans in. kisses your cheek. “slowly.”

you do. piece by piece. he watches. the shirt slides down your arms. your tank top peels over your head. your sports bra falls away—no noise, no rush. panties next. his eyes stay on you the entire time. and when you’re finally bare, standing quiet, naked and still in front of him—

he moves.

you don’t realize what he’s doing until your back hits the window. one hand cups your thigh, pulls it up. higher. higher—until your knee’s nearly pressed to your chest, the other foot flat on the floor, your heel hooked over his shoulder. he adjusts his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb brushing just under your breast.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow. deliberate. devastating.

your eyes roll. your mouth opens in a gasp you don’t finish, because he’s deep—so fucking deep in this angle, cock hitting every spot you didn’t know you had. your pussy flutters, clenching around him already. “you’re silent now,” he murmurs. you try to breathe. try to speak. “what happened to that mouth?” he rocks his hips forward. not fast. not brutal. just deep. intentional.

in control.

“they stretch you like this?” he says softly, tone clinical. “push your leg up here, keep your pussy open while they slide inside?” you whimper. shake your head.

his voice stays level. “answer.”

“n-no—fuck, hiromi—just you—only you—”

his mouth presses to your neck. he still doesn’t speed up. just keeps your body exactly where he wants it—your leg over his shoulder, your hips tilted perfectly, his cock dragging deep and slow inside your cunt, every motion pressing you harder against the glass.

you’re dripping.

he feels it.

your slick is painting his cock, soaking the front of his slacks, your inner thigh shining in the low light.

“flexible,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up to your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast again. “but not enough.” he pulls out—slow—until just the tip remains. and slams back in. your scream shatters the quiet. his fingers grip your throat—not tight, just there, grounding. a point of contact. “you’ll hold this position,” he says. “until i finish.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours. never too fast. never losing rhythm. just deep, hard strokes. your leg high. trembling. your foot still braced on the floor, trying to hold balance while he uses you against the window like a study in anatomy.

your orgasm comes without warning—tight, sharp, full-body. your cunt clenches, spasming, walls squeezing so tight he groans. but he doesn’t stop. just fucks you through it, even deeper. “you’ll give me another,” he murmurs. “legs this flexible, you can take two.”

you sob.

“three.”

his hand dips between your legs. finds your clit.

“four.”

he finishes inside you.

still holding your leg high, cock buried deep, cum leaking down your thigh. your head lolls against the window. the city lights blur. he lowers your leg slowly. kisses your forehead. adjusts your hair with one hand. straightens your back. then murmurs— “next time you want a stretch, you’ll do it here. for free.”

[redwoodsantana]

. ۫ᯓᡣ𐭩 you don't have to ship satosugu but also completely ignoring what suguru meant to satoru and vice versa, whether romantic, platonic, familial, however — is fucking wild. you do realise that literarily they are parallels, right? right?

[redwoodsantana]

0.7k, 18+ content ; afab!reader, hard fucking, hitting from the back/doggystyle, so many iterations of ‘fuck’, hints of dumbification, extreme dirty talk, one (1) use of slut, ‘good girl’, lots of ‘baby’s’, d/s dynamics, possessiveness, brat-taming(ish), just filth because your girl is OVULATING.

schlup. schlip. slap. schlurp—

it’s hot, it’s heavy, it’s messy, it’s desperate, it’s angry, it’s animalistic — it’s everything you ever fucking needed.

face smooshed into the mattress, ass up in the air, cheeks wet with tears, lips swollen and sore, skin raw and red from the tantalizing abuse inflicted upon it — and, finally, your achy cunt filled with the best fucking cock you’ve ever had the privilege of taking.

“such a fuckin’ slut, baby. look at you, so desperate and wet. ‘s’this what you needed, hm? just needed a good fuckin’ pounding?” his words are spat with aroused venom, anger from your previous antics still lingering beneath his skin.

between a mouthful of silk sheets and a brain fucked to jelly, you quite literally can’t respond — but you don’t need to. your cunt talks plenty, the wet slurps and squelches telling him everything he needs to know.

“yeah, you did. were bein’ such a fuckin’ brat all day — god, my babygirl jus’ wanted my dick, didn’t she?”

the mixture of degradation and adoration gives your fucked-out brain the most pleasant case of whiplash — he’s always been so good at saying the things that had your cunt clenching over him like a vice. you can faintly hear him hiss when your walls do just that in response to his statement.

and god, the whine you release only spurs him to handle you rougher, the hand tangled in your hair and the one gripping your waist both tightening as he uses the leverage to pull your sloppy cunt back onto his cock, the blunt head slamming into your cervix and pulling a yelp from your lips.

“jus’ don’t know how to fuckin’ ask, oh no. gotta piss me off instead. gotta piss me off so i fuck this pussy the way you really want, yeah? so i can put you in your fuckin’ place?”

your tongue seems to have a mind of its own when it lolls out past your lips, drool slipping down your chin and wetting your skin and the sheets.

your pussy aches, stuffed so full and fucked right into overstimulation, but it feels so fucking good — your head is empty, ravaged only by the sheer dominance he’s asserting over you. you can’t fucking think at all, can only sit there and take his cock over and over, like a limp doll built solely for him to fuck.

“are y’gonna answer me? or do i need to stop so you can actually fuckin’ think, doll?”

his hips slow, coming to a near complete stop and shooting pure misery up your spine. your fingers grapple against the bed and suddenly your hips have feeling in them again — you rock them back, desperate to feel the slide of his thick cock against your wet tender walls.

but he stops you! ugh, fuck him and his strength, fuck his attitude, fuck his glorious, mind-numbing, addicting fucking cock —

“you just have to use your words, baby. tell me; tell me how you want me to fuck you and i promise i’ll do it.” he soothes, as if he can hear your thoughts, or feel your desperate irritation crackling in the air. “c’mon, i know y’can do it.”

you whimper low and swallow hard; your brain feels scrambled, overrun by the desperation, horniness, and neediness in your body — that’s why you’re actually surprised when you manage to eek out a halfway coherent sentence.

“f-fuck me hard, please, hah — god, please, need it hard!”

a low, almost cavernous growl slips past his lips and his hand retreats from your hair; it’s placed around your other hip, and anticipation assaults your belly when he adjusts himself behind you slightly. fuck, you needed it so goddamn bad—

“that’s a good fuckin’ girl.” he croons, hips slapping into yours when he starts to fuck into your cunt with brutal thrusts. they jolt your entire body, steal your breath, and fuck, if he keeps going like this you’re going to cum all over the place —

“now fuckin’ take this dick,” he starts, fingers digging into your skin and pulling you back to fuck his cock in time with his thrusts. “and don’t go beggin’ me t’stop later — i won’t until i’ve fucked every last thought out of your pretty fuckin’ head… until all you can think about is how good my cock makes your little pussy feel.”

so i rewatched haikyuu recently and uh.. suna gripped my pussy again (i wrote this with him in mind but wanted to make it inclusive to other characters/fandoms because they’re all hot hello). thank you for reading!! <3

[redwoodsantana]

satoru "fake backshots" gojo who likes to sneak up on u when ur doing the most mundane tasks around the house and give you fake backshots.

yes, fake backshots.

washing dishes? the man is trying his hardest not to make any noise as he slips into the kitchen, watching u from behind, licking his lips at the sight of u in pajama shorts n' a lousy excuse for a tank top, tapping ur foot n' humming to a song playing in your earbuds. completely and blissfully unaware of the mischievous man lurking behind u. until u feel him, his hands sly n quick, his left getting a hold of ur hips while, his right pushes ur back into a arch. barely having time to react, all you could do was gasp, n try to push him away.

to no avail, satoru presses his pelvis into ur butt, before pulling back n thrusting his hips back n forth. satoru grinned eliciting small sighs and gasps from the same lips that complained "pervert! i can't even do the dishes in peace anymore!" . the man behind u leaned down to obnoxiously moan in ur ear in response "yea? yea? you like that, huh? like it when i take you like this?" u rolled ur eyes in annoyance, pushing his head away from your ear as he continued to thrust his bulge into ur ass. "satoru, ur so weird!"

"ohhh you love it, huh? feel good? yea? you gonna cum for me, baby? don't worry im right here with y-you- fuckkkkk!! nghhhhhh !!!!" satoru threw his head back n' at this point you couldn't tell if he was being serious or overly obnoxious like he always is. that is until he slows his movements and you look back at him. ready to scold him, but then ur eyes shift to his navy blue sweatpants, an obvious darker hue over his bulge.

"whoops" he shrugged stepping closer to u

the weirdo came in his pants

ur fully facing him as he towers over u, caging u in with the sink behind u,

"wanna do it for real now?" he lazily grinned at ur perplexed expression.

a/n: here damn 🙄.

© arminslovurr 2023-25 , do not copy, translate, make ai chat bots or alter my work in any way.

[redwoodsantana]

[redwoodsantana]

a little sweet treat ! ( ft jjk men )

synopsis : surprising your bf by wearing a panty with his name on it <3

content warnings : NSFW 18+ ( viewer discretion advised ), fingering, pussy eating, dirty talking, teasing, praise, pet names, slight dom / sub (ft toji), spanking, penetration, doggy style and riding, dominant Sukuna <3

nanami

he wouldn’t notice at first, only notice you are wearing one of his shirts that covers most of you, and when you are kissing him a hello, whispering sweet suggestive nothings is when he’ll dig into the cloth of the shirt raising it up to your waist and see the soft blue panty with the letters “nanami’s” on it.

the lettering would be in a glittery silver and god would the sight of it make him go crazy. he’d tease you about it at first watching you fluster against him. but the teasing never lasts long with your husband for he’ll have you spread on the couch, not even to the bedroom because he needs to be between your legs immediately.

“F-fuck…” you whimpered, your fingers caress the back of Kento’s neck and your legs that sit on his shoulders shake. the way his tongue laps at your pussy, as if he’s been starved all his life makes your eyes roll back and your mind foggy. “I-I’m close.”

You attempt to push his head away to avoid cumming on his face, but he grabs your wrist and remains in place. “Let me taste you, darling.”

toji

the second he sees you enter the kitchen with nothing but panties (which was not uncommon) with his names on the back of it in velvet lettering, he immediately pounces on you. he teases you for a while, gently rubbing his fingers at the cloth knowing it’s what will get you started.

“dirty girl” he’ll call you, biting your ear lobe, and push the panties to the side to tease your soaked entrance. he would be so cocky talking about how your cunt was his and will only be his, as you whimper into his shoulder grinding yourself onto his fingers.

“a-ahh, toji” you whimpered his fingers thrusting deep inside of you. you keep pressing your body into his hand, his fingers stretching you open and despite the immense pleasure you crave for his cock. “p-please…”

“two isn’t enough for you princess?” he asks, before slipping a third finger unexpectedly and you jolt at the presence. you begin moaning incoherent words and he makes your neck with his teeth and tongue. it was going to be a very long morning for the two of you.

sukuna

at first there is no initial reaction and you feel as though you embarrassed yourself until it takes two minutes to get you from the first floor and up into the second floor into the bedroom you two share, with you on all fours; panties pushed to the side so that he can still see his name on the cloth, while his hands are glued to your waist and pounding deep into you.

your face is deep into a pillow, breasts hard and needy, and you are gripping tight onto the sheets as the pleasure is all so intense you can’t even think straight. moaning was out of question for you were screaming his name, and the sounds of his balls smacking against your clit.

“whose pussy is this?” you can hear him growl from behind you and your let out a pleasuring scream.

“yours, yours, yours!” you moan, and another moan falls loose as he slightly adjusts you so that his cock hits deeper and deeper. his nails are digging into your waist, the way his cock is hitting every spot and beyond, you swear all you can see is galaxies now. your pussy has never felt such grand pleasure and you tell yourself nothing will ever compete to this.

choso

your boyfriend almost looses it when he sees that you sit on his lap, in nothing but red panty that reads his name in gold. his face turns into a red shade as his hands shaking, grab at your waist. at first the two you grind into one another but that doesn’t compete ro the direction and satisfaction either of you will have when he is in you.

the panty rests on one of the chair and you are now bouncing on your boyfriends cock. your breasts are flying in every direction and he watches with such romance, nibbling softly at your neck as you yelp his name.

“fuck choso” you whimper and he moans in response as you continue to ride his dick. the way every inch of him satisfies you makes you want to lose your mind and stay doing this forever.

by how many times the two of you fuck you feel as though your pussy grew accustomed to him and only him. anytime you got tired he would take control and slam himself deep inside of you until you were ready for control again and god the gesture alone would make you squirt.

[redwoodsantana]

“stay still,” kento murmurs as he adjusts his tie, phone already pressed to his ear. you’re in his lap, skirt hiked up, panties pushed aside, his cock buried deep inside you, stretching you full as he answers the call. “yes, go ahead,” he says, professional, calm, like you’re not warming his cock.

you try to obey, hands gripping his shoulders, but it’s torture feeling his thickness pulsing inside. your hips twitch, a tiny grind, chasing friction, and a soft whine slips out. nanami’s free hand clamps onto your thigh, warning, his gaze flicking to you. “i said still,” he whispers, barely audible, but the edge in his voice makes you shiver.

you can’t help it. another grind, slower, needier, and you whimper, louder this time. his jaw tightens, and he sets the phone on speaker, muting it briefly. “you’re testing me,” he growls, yanking his tie off in one swift motion. “open.” you do, and he stuffs the silk into your mouth, muffling you. “quiet, or they’ll hear.”

he unmutes the call, resuming like nothing’s wrong, discussing reports while you squirm. the tie tastes faintly of him, and you’re soaking, the urge to move overwhelming. you rock your hips, just a little, and he grunts softly, hand gripping your ass, guiding you to grind slow, controlled, enough to tease but not satisfy. “good,” he mutters under his breath, half to you, half to the call.

the call drags, and you’re trembling, muffled whines barely contained. when it ends, he tosses the phone aside, ripping the tie from your mouth to kiss you hard. “fucking brat,” he pants, lifting you to thrust up, deep and rough. “now you’ll get what you want.”

[redwoodsantana]

Looking Out for You

Modern AU!

Pairing: Teenage!Satoru Gojo x Black!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Y/n is awkward and painfully unaware of her crush on Gojo, Gojo is SMUG, mentions of grief, miscommunication, Gojo is pining so bad lol, Black cat x Golden retriever trope, SUPER CLICHE, found family trope, ANGST

Plot: Yn is grappling with the humbling experience of being gifted kid burnout, burdened by family turmoil, and the weight of her inner demons. Just before her senior year of high school, she's reluctantly roped into volunteering as a counselor and teacher at a winter camp. There, she formally meets Gojo Satoru—an aggravatingly handsome hockey player with an ego to match his skill, all charm, smirks, and know-it-all energy. Y/n doesn’t realize that beneath Gojo’s confident exterior lies a storm of his own—wounds he’s hidden just as deeply as she has.

Chapter Synopsis: Y/n’s resolve is slowly but surely shifting. What started as a reluctant stay at a winter camp she never wanted to be part of has begun to spark something deeper. After a hidden moment on the ice where old instincts awaken and memories blur into motion, she remembers why she’s really here. Not for the camp. Certainly not for the kids. And definitely not because of the irritatingly charming, white-haired boy who watches her like he knows a version of her she hasn’t met yet. Y/n is determined to uncover the truth about her father—piece by piece, story by story. And if that means stepping into a role she never asked for, then so be it.

The week leading up to the kids’ arrival had been more or less a big blob of events and activities. For someone who spent their time and energy avoiding people and making connections like it was the plague, to say the past few days for Y/n had been hell on earth would be a total understatement. She was exhausted—and just when she thought she was finished with one task, another would pop up like some cruel game of emotional whack-a-mole. Yet, amidst the madness, something unexpected had begun to take root. Choso.

Y/n wasn’t sure how it had happened—if it was the way he always seemed to be nearby without forcing his presence, or the quiet way he spoke to her like he wasn’t expecting anything in return. But somehow, in the slivers of downtime carved between mandatory bonding sessions and endless counselor prep, she found herself drifting toward him. And he never made her feel like she had to earn her space. It was nice... calming even.

Choso, with his low voice and warm, slow blinks, talked to her about small things: how he wanted to be a tattoo artist, the best snacks to sneak from the pantry when Shoko wasn’t watching, or how the moon looked best when reflected over the frozen lake. He listened to her without pushing, and spoke like silence didn’t bother him. For a girl whose walls were always up, Y/n found herself resting easier when he was nearby. It surprised her how fast it became natural—this quiet friendship with the boy who felt more like a shadow in the best way possible.

And still, even with that fragile connection forming, she couldn’t shake the pressure of the coming storm—of kids arriving with expectations, of being called “Counselor” like she had earned it, of skating lessons she still felt unworthy of giving. That gnawing anxiety drove her to the ice rink every night after lights out, hoodie zipped up and skates slung over her shoulder.

The first few nights were painful. She fell. A lot. The sting of cold against her skin became familiar, the bruises blooming across her knees like angry warnings. But she kept going. She practiced turns and footwork in clumsy, crooked lines, and every time she got it wrong, she took a breath, cursed like a sailor, and tried again. What she didn’t know—what she never would have guessed—was that someone else was watching.

Satoru Gojo leaned quietly against the edge of the dark viewing platform, his silhouette lost in shadow. He never said anything, never moved to make himself known. Not once. But he was there. Every night. At first, it had started as pure coincidence. He’d gone to check on the rink out of habit, bored and curious. Then it became routine. He told himself it was just for amusement. Watching the same girl who rolled her eyes at every camp tradition stumble and curse her way through pirouettes and backward glides was admittedly entertaining. But the more he watched, the more the humor slipped away.

There was something about her on the ice, it was so different from the usual 'i can't be bothered to care' attitude she walked around camp with. She came alive out here. Her movements, once clunky, were becoming fluid. Confident. And when she skated just right, with the wind catching the loose strands of her hair and the moonlight carving out soft curves across her focused face, she looked... pretty free.

Her usual aura was nothing other than dim, withdrawn, heavy with some invisible burden, flared into something radiant and infectious, like a spark too long buried finally meeting air. Gojo, against his better judgment, slipped on his prescription glasses, the ones he rarely wore unless he wanted to really see something. And he did. Every sharp turn, every gentle landing. The furrow in her brow as she concentrated. The way she’d laugh softly and cheer to herself when she got something right, like she didn’t even know she was doing it.

All he could think was wow. He didn’t understand it, not fully. Not yet. But something about the messy, dry, and perpetually indifferent girl with bruised knees and a too-small hoodie was starting to take root somewhere in the back of his mind.

That morning, as the camp woke to the smell of breakfast and the distant crunch of frost outside, Y/n sat at a corner table in the mess hall, toying with her spoon as her thoughts spiraled. Today was the test. The skating evaluation that would decide if she was fit to instruct children on the ice. Choso sat across from her, already halfway through his miso soup. He didn’t speak at first, letting the silence stretch until it no longer felt suffocating. He simply watched her, the way her brows drew tight with worry, the subtle way her leg bounced beneath the table.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said finally, voice low but clear.

Y/n blinked, looking up like she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.

“I’m... just nervous,” she admitted, her voice barely above a murmur. “It’s one thing to skate. It’s another to be responsible for teaching it.”

Choso tilted his head slightly, as if studying her. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and reached out—his silver decorated fingers brushing gently against her temple as he tucked a stray strand of her thick hair behind her ear. The gesture was soft. Intimate. Y/n stiffened for a fraction of a second, caught between the comfort of it and the unfamiliar warmth it stirred in her chest.

But Choso’s expression didn’t waver. He simply said, “You’ve been practicing literally every night. You’re ready. You just need to remember to breathe and you'll be fine.”

Y/n swallowed hard, unsure what to say. Her throat felt tight.

At the counselor table across the room, Gojo’s chopsticks paused mid-lift. His eyes were locked on the quiet interaction, a look of something sharp flickering beneath his usually playful gaze. His usually bright azure eyes narrowed into a steely, cold blue as he glared at the unknowing pair.

“Someone’s getting real cozy,” Shoko murmured around a sip of coffee, following his line of sight without missing a beat.

“Mm,” Geto hummed thoughtfully. “Didn’t know Choso had it in him.”

Gojo scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a scoff that was too casual to be real. “It’s breakfast. He’s brushing hair, not proposing.”

Shoko arched a brow. “You jealous?”

Gojo didn’t answer. He just popped a piece of tamagoyaki into his mouth and chewed slowly, eyes never leaving the pair by the window. Back at the table, Y/n gave a small nod and finally took a bite of her toast.

The mess hall emptied, but Y/n remained for a moment longer, staring into the remnants of her now-cold tea. Choso’s words lingered like warmth in her chest—You’ll do great. Simple. Steady. Exactly what she needed. She muttered a quiet goodbye to him as he stood, watching him disappear through the doors like a calm tide rolling back out to sea. Alone again, she exhaled through her nose, clenched her fists for a second, then rose from her seat and headed toward her cabin. Each step felt like she was walking further into something she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

By the time she got to her room, her hands were shaking. Pull it together, Y/n. The door clicked behind her, sealing her off from the outside world filled with uncertainty. She paused, eyes scanning the quiet, dim space before slowly walking toward the mirror. Her reflection stared back—puffy-eyed, tired, curls flattened beneath the hood she hadn’t taken off since the night before.

She swallowed hard. If you’re gonna do this, do it right; go big or go home. Right? Dragging her stool over, Y/n sat in front of the mirror and stared herself. Her fingers hovered over the drawer before finally yanking it open and pulling out every neglected hair product that had been provided. They really had thought of everything. Leave-in. Curl cream. Oil. Denman brush. The holy grail lineup of hair maintenance that she hadn’t bothered with in too long to admit.

The routine took time; a really long fucking painful time. She spritzed water section by section, working the moisture in gently with her fingers. As the knots gave way to soft spirals, her frustration melted with them. One curl at a time, the image in the mirror softened. The brush glided through her hair with a satisfying rhythm. She worked in the curl cream and sealed it with a bit of oil, watching as each strand began to bounce, come alive, frame her face. By the end, her arms were sore. But her hair was pulled into a high ponytail that sat like a crown on her head, rich coils springing from the band and falling in elegant rebellion around her face and neck. Loose curls kissed the tops of her cheekbones and the base of her neck, escaping the slicked-back sides.

Next came her outfit: the black flare leggings she trusted to hug everything in place, paired with an oversized off-the-shoulder olive green sweatshirt. It teased just enough—a peek of her black bra strap at her shoulder—to remind her she was still her, still sharp under the softness. She checked herself once more in the mirror. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Y/n actually looked like someone who gave a damn.

Y/n laced up her skates and slung them over her shoulder. With one last breath, she stepped outside, letting the door click behind her as she made her way to the rink. The walk was muscle memory for her at this point. As she neared the open-air rink, the familiar burn of nerves returned, climbing up her spine like a second heartbeat.

She saw them before they saw her—Nanami standing stiffly, clipboard in hand; Utahime and Shoko chatting beside the equipment table; Suguru adjusting the edge of a barrier. Mr. Soraoka stood tall at the center, his arms folded, face unreadable. But one face stood out. Satoru Gojo. He leaned casually against the railing, messy white hair ruffled by the wind, that damn grin already on his lips as she stepped closer. His eyes caught hers—hidden behind prescription glasses today (the glasses only amplied his charm somehow)—and the smallest flicker of something unreadable passed over his face.

Before she could pass by, he pushed off the railing and fell into step beside her. His long legs taking single digit strides to close the gap between them.

“You clean up nice,” he teased, voice low enough not to carry. "I'm a little shocked by how much I actually miss the fresh out of bed look you love to rock.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but didn’t answer, too focused on the ice and the people waiting for her to let herself be fully baited. Satoru didn’t seem to mind. He leaned in slightly, walking backwards now, effortlessly keeping pace with her.

“Hey.” His tone shifted slightly—still playful, but with an edge of sincerity. “Don’t let the stares rattle you. You’ve got this.”

She paused, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“What makes you so sure?”

He smirked, eyes glinting behind the lenses of his glasses. “Let’s just say I’ve got a good eye for talent. Especially the kind that sneaks out every night to practice like no one’s watching.”

Y/n blinked, a rush of heat hitting her cheeks before she could stop it.

“You—? Were you watching me?”

Gojo just turned with a wink, hands in his pockets as he strolled away toward the others.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere. I'm called Six Eyes for a reason, short-pint.”

The rink loomed in front of her like a frozen stage. Y/n stood at the edge, the cold air biting at her nose and ears, her skates already laced but her knees wobbling in quiet rebellion. Just breathe. You’ve been practicing all week for this. The others watched from the sidelines: Shoko leaned back on her elbows beside Utahime, Geto stood with his arms crossed, and Nanami scribbled something on a clipboard with his usual meticulous attention. Mr. Soraoka stood near the center, waiting. And a few feet back, almost half-hidden in shadow, Satoru stood—hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy cargo shorts (did he ever wear pants??), ever-still, ever-watching.

Y/n stepped onto the ice… and immediately slipped forward with a sharp intake of breath. Her leg flailed before she barely caught herself, gripping the barrier with both hands. Laughter erupted from somewhere to the side—probably Geto, his mean ass—and Utahime hissed something sharp at him. She didn’t have to look to know Gojo was already grinning.

“I—sorry,” she muttered.

Mr. Soraoka raised a hand calmly. “No need to apologize. Happens to the best of us. Take a moment.”

He cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice carrying clearly across the ice. “This evaluation is not about perfection. We’re not asking you to perform professionally. What we’re looking for is confidence, balance, and your ability to command the ice. The children will need a teacher who is steady, engaging, and most of all, patient—with themselves and others. Understood?”

Y/n nodded slowly. Confidence. Steady. Right. But she couldn’t find her footing. Her body felt stiff, like her limbs didn’t belong to her. She’d done this every night for the past week, hadn’t she? So why did the pressure now make her want to melt into the ice and disappear?

Mr. Soraoka stepped forward just slightly, his voice softer this time. “Don’t think too hard. Feel it. Let the ice meet you halfway.”

Y/n stared ahead. The world had gone too quiet. She closed her eyes. And then… she moved. One foot pushed off, and the other followed, gliding her forward. Slowly. Cautiously. But with a familiarity she hadn’t expected to return so easily. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but with each push and turn, her limbs loosened. Her arms moved with her torso, gently shifting to maintain balance. The sound of blades cutting into ice was her only companion—until it wasn’t. Because suddenly, there was something else. A memory.

Her father’s voice spoke clearly in her head “You lead with your heart, not your feet.”

His laugh echoing from behind her. “Come on, sweetheart, you got it. Just like that.”

And his hand, steady, warm, guiding her lower back, pressing with the gentlest of touches. She felt it again now, like a ghost trailing her spine. Y/n’s form shifted, blossoming into something elegant. She bent one knee, twirled outward, and spun once—twice—landing smoothly into a backward glide. The cold danced against her neck as her arms extended, catching the wind with an instinctive grace. She weaved across the rink in arcs and ribbons, her breath syncing to the rhythm of her motion.

A deep spiral. A toe loop. A clean spin with her head tilted back, curls flying out behind her like fire unraveling in the air; her hair band had snapped from the sheer force and speed of her movements. So much for a secure ponytail. Curls bounced freely against her face as she continued to move. Suddenly, she was that girl again. Not the tired, irritable, indifferent Y/n everyone had met. But the version her father once believed in. The girl who could fly when her feet were on the ice. To her right now, nothing else existed. She didn’t hear the murmurs from the edge. Or see the wide eyes. Or notice Utahime frozen mid-sip of hot cocoa. Or Geto’s mouth hanging open. Or Nanami lowering his clipboard, stunned. She didn’t even see Mr. Soraoka, who had stood up halfway through and was now clapping—no, applauding—like a proud father who couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

Only one person didn’t look surprised. Gojo. His glasses had been pulled down to the bridge of his nose, his crystalline eyes following every motion. His grin was softer now, curved with something that felt like reverence.

“...Amazing, isn’t she?” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.

Y/n’s skates slowed gradually, one leg extended behind her as she coasted to a stop at the center of the rink. And for a moment, she stood still—chest rising and falling, curls sticking to her sweat-damp forehead, arms relaxed at her sides. She hadn’t realized she was finished. She hadn’t heard the clapping. Or noticed the echo of stunned silence following the applause. She blinked, finally meeting the wide, teary-eyed gaze of Mr. Soraoka.

He nodded, still clapping. “Absolutely incredible.”

Y/n’s lips parted, confused. “...I-I did okay?”

Mr. Soraoka laughed. “You did far more than okay, young lady.”

From the sidelines, Geto finally spoke, breaking the stunned silence.

“Dude,” he whispered. “What the hell was that?”

Shoko, arms crossed and smirking, added dryly, “Ice skating this year is about to be interesting; that's for damn sure..”

And Gojo? He just smiled, watching her as if he’d seen it all coming from the very beginning.

The moment Y/n stepped off the rink and unlatched her skate guards, a wave of counselors swarmed her.

“Yo, that was insane,” Geto said, his usual aloof composure completely cracked. “You’ve been hiding Olympic-level skills from us this whole time?”

Utahime gave her a once-over before smirking. “I thought you hated this place. You looked like you were born out there.”

“I… didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” Y/n muttered, cheeks flushing from the barrage of praise. Her hands fidgeted with the sleeves of her sweatshirt, pulling them down over her palms. “It was just muscle memory or something…”

“Don’t be modest,” Nanami cut in, sliding his clipboard under one arm. “You executed three different mid-level competitive tricks. I’ve only ever seen that during actual competitions.”

Shoko sauntered up beside her, nudging her with an elbow. “Guess all those late-night vanishing acts paid off.”

Y/n blinked, eyes darting. “You knew I was sneaking off?”

Shoko snorted. “You think any of us don’t notice when someone’s creeping through the cabin halls at 2 a.m. with skates over their shoulder?”

Y/n pressed her lips into a tight line, looking at the floor. Compliments never sat right with her. It was like trying to wear a dress that didn’t fit, awkward and uncomfortable, no matter how well-intentioned. She felt exposed.

Mr. Soraoka clapped his hands together, regathering the group. “Alright everyone, now that we’ve had our moment of awe—let’s refocus. Monday, the kids arrive. That gives us three days to finalize preparations. You’ll each receive your assigned task lists by tomorrow morning. For now, enjoy what little freedom you have left. Sleep in. Relax. Because once those little demons—I mean angels—show up, it’s over.”

Laughter rippled through the group before they all started to shuffle out in pairs and clusters, leaving the cold rink behind with the warm chatter of voices echoing down the corridor. All except Satoru. Y/n stood frozen for a second, her heartbeat finally slowing, the adrenaline finally ebbing. He leaned against the wall just near the rink’s edge, arms folded, the faintest smirk on his lips. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Gonna pretend I haven’t been watching you practice every night?” he asked, his voice light and teasing.

She rolled her eyes and groaned, “God, you would be the type to spy on people skating alone like a damn cryptid.”

“Hey,” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest, “I wasn’t spying. I was appreciating. It’s different. Classier, y'know?”

Y/n gave him a slow side-eye. “Appreciating? That’s what we’re calling peeping now?”

“You’re the one sneaking around the rink like it’s a forbidden temple. I was merely protecting camp property from potential trespassers.”

Y/n barked a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But I’m not wrong,” he grinned. “Besides, I finally saw you drop the whole ‘leave me alone or I’ll set you on fire’ act today. And I gotta say—kinda adorable.”

She narrowed her eyes but couldn’t fight the twitch of a smile on her lips. “Don’t get used to it.”

“No promises.”

They slipped into a rare, quiet pause. The kind that didn’t need filling. The silence stretched comfortably between them, like shared breath.

Gojo glanced sideways at her, his voice softer now. “Seriously though, that was... amazing. You’re a completely different person out there.”

Y/n looked down at her skates, suddenly shy again. “It’s easier on the ice. I don’t have to talk, or think. I just... remember. I used to skate with my dad, back when things weren’t a mess. It’s like he’s still with me, guiding me.”

Gojo studied her, his teasing smirk fading into something thoughtful. But before the silence turned heavy, she nudged him playfully with her elbow.

“So,” she said, shifting gears, “what’s this I hear about you being a hockey hotshot?”

“Oh?” Gojo perked up again immediately, eyes twinkling. “Thinking about switching teams already?”

“I’m thinking,” she said, tone dry, “you owe me a crash course. If I’m gonna be the Ice Queen, I might as well know how to play with sticks too.”

He laughed. “Careful, Y/n. That almost sounded like a flirt.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Gojo.”

“Oh no, you teasing me is already more than I ever thought I’d get from you. I’m gonna savor this. Might even write it down later.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite behind it.

“Fine,” she said with a mock sigh, “I’ll show you a few of my tricks. But only if you can keep up.”

He arched a white brow. “Challenge accepted. But just so you know, I’ve been skating since I was six, and I never go easy on beginners.”

She gave him a wicked grin. “Perfect. Neither do I.”

They stood there for another minute, the cold forgotten, the empty rink behind them echoing with the faint ghost of blades on ice.

The next day Y/n had found herself taking Gojo up on his offer regarding hockey. It was only because she was curious about the sport.. no other reason. AT ALL. The air still held the soft hum of applause from the previous day as Y/n and Gojo stood at the rink entrance. The other staff had cleared out, their chatter fading into the distance, but the quiet between the two wasn’t awkward—it was anticipatory.

“So," Gojo said, leaning over to snag a pair of sticks from the rack, twirling one like a baton before tossing the other to her. "Ready to learn from the best?"

Y/n caught it with a skeptical look. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

He grinned. “Impossible when you have a voice this sexy. But lucky for you, I'm also devastatingly skilled.”

They stepped onto the ice together, gliding with mismatched grace. Y/n, though better on figure skates, still wobbled slightly in her new borrowed pair. Gojo, smug and sure-footed, looped around her with ease.

“Alright, Ice Queen,” he called teasingly. “First rule of hockey: stance. You gotta look like you mean business. Bend your knees. Stick down. Don’t make that face.”

“This is my concentrating face.”

“It looks like you’re trying to calculate taxes in your head, short-pint.”

Y/n huffed and tried again, but the stick wobbled in her grip. Gojo skated up behind her before she could protest.

“Here,” he murmured, voice lower now, wrapping his arms around her to adjust her hold on the stick.

Y/n froze. His chest brushed her back, the warmth of his body bleeding through their layers. The scent of his cologne—cool mint, something slightly spicy, like cedar and clean linen—washed over her. It shouldn’t have made her nervous. But it did. Her brain blanked.

“Relax,” he said softly. “You’re holding it like a sword. This is finesse, not battle.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re not the one being hovered over like a damn hawk.”

He chuckled, the sound soft near her ear. “Maybe I like hovering over you.”

Y/n tried to ignore the flutter that stirred in her chest. She tried harder to ignore the feel of his large hand sliding down from her forearm to settle on her waist. A gentle, firm touch that guided her stance as he slowly moved them forward.

“Okay,” he whispered, their steps in sync, “now glide. Small push. That’s it.”

She nodded mutely, hyperaware of every place their bodies touched. Gojo, meanwhile, was grinning like a fool. He wasn’t sure when teasing the grumpy girl with sharp eyes and sharper wit became the highlight of his day—but being this close to her? It made his pulse skip. Her hair, which was styled into two low puffs, smelled like something sweet and soft. Her tanned skin was warm beneath his gloves. It didn’t make any sense. She was chaos personified. Always biting, always sarcastic. And yet—

He barely realized she was slipping until her skate twisted.

“SHIT—!”

He caught her in one fluid motion, one arm braced around her lower back, the other still holding her wrist. She blinked up at him, lips parted, breath caught in her throat. They were too close. She could count every silver lash framing his pale eyes. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs. If Gojo stared long enough, he could make out the beauty marks on her face and how the placements of each one combined could appear to look like a constellation. Neither of them moved.

Until Gojo tilted his head and whispered, grinning, “You fall for me already?”

Y/n groaned and shoved at his chest, nearly slipping again. “You’re impossible.”

He laughed and let her go, skating backward. “So I've been told.”

Y/n’s breathing was finally starting to steady, her limbs no longer trembling from the rush of skating under pressure. But now? Now she was in Gojo’s world.

He backed away a few paces, twirling the hockey stick effortlessly between his gloved fingers before lowering his tinted goggles over his eyes. His trademark smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Alright, now that you’ve shown me how pretty you are on the ice,” he drawled, “let’s see how tough you are.”

Y/n raised a brow. “Tough?”

Gojo’s grin widened. “First to five. You win, I’ll be your assistant for ice skating classes. I win…” he paused, tapping the blade of his stick against the ice as if thinking, “you owe me hot chocolate duty for a week.”

Y/n snorted, “That’s it? Sounds like you’re going easy on me.”

“I figured I’d save the real stakes for when you actually win something,” he teased, gliding backward effortlessly. “Game on, hotshot.”

And then—just like that—he was gone, a blur of white and navy as he bolted toward the puck.

Y/n blinked and scrambled after him.

For someone who avoided attention like it was contagious, there was something exhilarating about trying to keep up with him—like chasing a spark that kept darting just out of reach. Gojo was in his element: eyes sharp, reflexes perfect, every turn smooth and confident. His tall figure weaved across the ice like it was second nature, and Y/n found herself staring more than once, nearly crashing into the boards because of it.

But she was a fast learner. Her legs burned, lungs heaved—but damn it, she was determined. Maybe to win. Maybe to impress him. Maybe both.

They clashed over the puck, sticks meeting with a sharp clack that echoed in the empty rink. Gojo easily stole the first point, gliding past her like wind. “That’s one,” he called over his shoulder, smirking. “You blinked.”

“Oh, you’re so annoying.”

She came back with surprising force, faking him out with a turn and scoring. Her triumphant cheer echoed through the rink. Gojo gave a slow clap, skating lazily toward her. “That was almost convincing.”

Almost. The way he said it made her cheeks flush beneath the cold sweat. Y/n was drenched in sweat. The grey cropped sweatshirt she wore, now clung to her like a second skin, and her two low ponytails had all but fallen apart—curls bouncing wild around her flushed face. She was gasping for breath, legs burning, lungs on fire… but she wasn’t backing down. Gojo, on the other hand, barely looked winded.

He skated backwards lazily in front of her, twirling the hockey stick in one hand and flashing that infuriating grin. “What’s the score again?” he asked, all faux innocence.

“Four to two,” she growled.

“Right, right. My bad.” He gave a long, dramatic sigh. “Only one more point and I win.”

Y/n’s fingers tightened around the stick. She was fast, but Gojo was something else. Watching him move was like watching poetry in motion—lean, fluid, unshakably confident. She hated how easily he made it all look. Even more, she hated the giddy little thrill crawling up her spine every time his hand brushed her back or when his too-pretty mouth curved around a cocky tease.

“You ready?” he called out, puck already at his feet.

“Drop dead.”

He lunged forward. Their blades clacked. She pushed harder than she thought she could, nearly knocking into him—but he barely flinched. He stole the puck, only to skate slow circles around her.

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “You’re stalling.”

Gojo glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Am I?”

“You are. You could’ve scored five minutes ago.”

He pivoted smoothly, skating backwards in front of her again, lowering his goggles with one finger so she could see the glint in his cerulean eyes. “Maybe I’m enjoying myself.”

Y/n flushed and looked away.

“Or maybe,” he leaned in closer, the words brushing her ear, “I just like watching you try so hard.”

That did it. She growled, barreled toward him with everything she had—but he dipped low, spun around her, and gently bumped her hip with his own. She stumbled slightly, and his large hand instinctively shot out to catch her by the waist, steadying her with infuriating ease. The heat of his palm burned through her layers. Y/n froze. So did he. Their faces were close. Too close. His breath ghosted over her cheek, warm despite the rink’s chill. Her hands were gripping the front of his hoodie, and neither of them moved. For a second, the world was silent, just the hum of the rink lights and the pounding in her ears. Then Gojo let out a breathless chuckle and straightened up, smoothing a gloved hand through his messy white hair.

“Well,” he said, tone light, “if you wanted to fall for me, you could’ve just said so.”

Y/n shoved him with a groan. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he pointed his stick toward the puck, “you keep showing up.”

She skated past him, grabbing the puck with a quick pivot, and before he could react, she actually got within scoring distance—but he caught up fast, laughing as he stole it right back.

“Alright,” he sighed dramatically, “let’s wrap this up. I’ve got hot chocolate to claim.”

He moved, swift and lethal, and tapped the puck into the goal with a flick of his wrist. The sound echoed.

“Five.”

Y/n let out a sound between a groan and a growl. “You toyed with me.”

Gojo slung an arm lazily across her shoulders. “What can I say? You’re fun to mess with, short-pint”

“You’re evil.”

“But handsome.”

“Debatable.”

He laughed—full and genuine—and Y/n tried not to smile. She really did. She failed. She felt like a mess, standing beside him, flushed and sweaty. Gojo, in contrast, looked like he hadn’t even broken a sweat. His hair was perfectly tousled, his hoodie clinging just enough to hint at the body beneath, and his grin—smug, bright, and infuriating permanently fixed in place.

“You’ll get better,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Especially if I’m your coach.”

Y/n tilted her head. “You offering private lessons now?”

Gojo winked. “Only for you.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, ignoring that flutter in her chest that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the trees, casting the trail in long, golden streaks that filtered through bare branches and made everything glow with winter’s hush. The cold air bit gently at their cheeks, their breaths curling in soft clouds as Gojo and Y/n walked side by side along the winding path skirting the edge of the camp.

Gojo had insisted on the walk as a “cool down,” but if anyone had been watching, they would’ve thought it was a casual stroll between two longtime friends—except, maybe, for the way their hands kept brushing unintentionally. Or the way Gojo’s eyes flicked to her face every so often, like he didn’t want to miss a single expression.

He talked the whole time. Animated, expressive, teasing—Gojo filled the silence with tales of past camp years, of prank wars between counselors, of kitchen disasters and winter bonfire mishaps. Every person they passed on the trail: staff, counselors, even shy teenage volunteers—was greeted by name and with a radiant grin, some of which came with high-fives, a ruffle of someone’s hair, or a fist bump.

“Yo, Aiko!” he called out to a petite girl dragging salt bags toward the cabin steps. “Don’t forget to stretch after that or you’ll end up walking like Nanami.”

The girl giggled and waved, cheeks flushed. “Thanks, Gojo-senpai!”

Y/n watched from the corner of her eye as Gojo moved through the camp like a star in orbit, drawing others in effortlessly. Every kid seemed to adore him. Every counselor seemed to either admire him… or want to be him. And Y/n—messy, quiet, guarded Y/n—couldn’t help but feel the knot of something unfamiliar twist in her chest. Jealousy? No. Envy. Not of the attention he received, but of how easy it all was for him. How natural it seemed to connect with people.

“People love you,” she said, not quite realizing the words had left her mouth.

Gojo turned to her, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Do they?” he asked innocently.

She shot him a dry look. Now you know damn well..

“Okay, maybe they do,” he admitted with a dramatic sigh. “But I can’t help being ridiculously lovable. It’s a curse.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, hiding her smirk by tugging the collar of her sweatshirt up a little. Gojo chuckled but let the silence stretch for a beat as the trail curved around the back of the ice rink, the lake barely visible through the trees. It was quiet now—just the crunch of their boots on snow and the occasional chirp of a bird lingering for winter.

Then Gojo asked, far too casually, “So… you and Choso.”

Y/n blinked. “What about us?”

He kicked a chunk of ice off the trail. “You two seem close. Breakfast buddies. Hair-touching level of close.” His tone was light, but his eyes… sharp.

Y/n didn’t answer right away. She just stared straight ahead, then shrugged. “He’s… easy to be around.”

Gojo’s brows rose. “Easy, huh?”

“Not like that.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “He listens. Doesn’t push.”

“Sounds like a catch,” Gojo murmured.

Y/n stopped walking.

He turned back, surprised, as she looked at him, the wind brushing stray curls into her eyes. “Are you asking because you’re curious,” she said slowly, “or because you’re jealous?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for once, Gojo didn’t have a ready quip.

He took a step closer, smirking just enough to play it off. “I’m just making sure my hockey protégé isn’t gonna ditch me mid-season for a guy with darker eyeliner and moodier playlists.”

Y/n huffed, lips twitching at the corners as she kept walking. Gojo fell into step beside her again, hands shoved into his pockets.

“But hey,” he added, peeking over at her. “For what it’s worth, I like that you’re starting to let people in. Even if it’s not me.”

Her steps faltered just slightly, the compliment landing softer than it should have. She didn’t reply, but this time, it was Gojo who stayed quiet, watching her out of the corner of his eye, smile faded but gaze still warm.

They walked the rest of the trail in a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Y/n sat cross-legged on the floor of her cabin, a mountain of papers fanned around her like a storm had hit her clipboard. Her brows were knit tight, lips twisted to the side in concentration as she tried—and failed—to make sense of the week’s schedule. Behind her, Choso sat calmly on the edge of her bed, long legs stretched out, leaning back on his hands as he watched her silently unravel in real-time.

“Okay,” she muttered, flipping one sheet over and holding up another. “So, if I’m on ice-skating lessons in the morning, and Satoru’s running hockey drills right after, that means we need a break period between activities. But if I take lunch shift on Monday, I have to move the first-aid refresher to Tuesday morning. Unless—shit. Wait, no, I already have water safety Tuesday morning.”

Choso blinked slowly. “...Did you sleep last night?”

Y/n didn’t answer. She mindlessly twirled a loose strand around her finger and grabbed another paper. Her fading red curls were already frizzing at the edges, strands falling out to frame her stressed face.

“Y/n.”

“I’m fine.”

Choso didn’t argue. He never did. Instead, he sat up a little straighter, resting his forearms on his knees as his eyes followed her getting up and pacing around the tiny cabin. The air was thick with tension (hers— not his). He remained still, calm as a quiet lake, while Y/n muttered to herself about supply checklists, allergy forms, emergency contacts, and bunk arrangements.

“You know,” she said breathlessly, hands on her hips, “you’d think they wouldn’t just hand me a whole group of kids like I have the slightest idea how to do this. But no. Apparently if you can stand on ice and not die, you’re qualified.”

She flopped back onto the floor with a groan, landing in the middle of her paperwork. Choso’s lips twitched.

“Want me to take over ice safety briefing?” he offered softly.

She rolled her head to the side to look at him. “You’d do that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I already memorized the handouts. And you’re spiraling.”

She huffed a half-laugh, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I’m not spiraling. I’m just... underprepared.”

“You’ve gone through the schedule six times,” he said, voice patient and even. “You’ve got this.”

She peeked at him between her fingers. “You sure you’re not just saying that to calm me down?”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” Choso replied without missing a beat.

That silenced her for a moment. The stress still curled in her shoulders, tight and tense—but there was something grounding about his presence. Something solid in the way he didn’t rush her or try to fix everything. He just sat there. Existing in her space. Listening. Letting her panic quietly.

“You’re weirdly good at this whole support thing,” she murmured, sitting back up and scooping the mess of papers back into a semi-organized pile. “You’d make a great therapist.”

“Too much school,” Choso said simply, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Y/n chuckled and got to her feet again, papers clutched to her chest. She glanced around the cabin, eyes lingering briefly on the skates at the foot of her bed before refocusing. “I just… I don’t want to screw this up. Not when I finally feel like I’m doing something that matters.”

Choso nodded. “You won’t. Just breathe. You’ve already done more than most people would.”

Y/n turned to face him fully now, her expression a mix of gratitude and nerves.

“Thanks,” she said, and meant it.

He stood and moved toward the door, brushing past her lightly—barely a graze of their arms—and paused before stepping out. “Let me know if you need help setting up later.”

“I will,” she said, smiling faintly.

As he left, closing the door softly behind him, Y/n finally exhaled. Her eyes dropped back to the scattered papers. She was gonna be okay. This was fine.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the snowcapped treetops, casting long golden beams through the canopy and painting Camp Jujutsu in a warm, fleeting glow. The air buzzed with an odd cocktail of nerves and excitement—tomorrow the kids would arrive, and everything would change. The camp wouldn’t be theirs anymore. The quiet would be swallowed whole by laughter, screams, and chaos. But for now, it was still, and everyone was busy.

“Nanami, do we really need laminated chore lists in every single cabin?” Gojo called out from where he stood atop a wooden bench, hanging a directional sign pointing toward the mess hall. “We’re not running a military operation.”

“We are,” Nanami replied dryly, clipboard in hand. “And if you’d read your assignment sheet, you’d know you’re also late for inventory check.”

Gojo frowned slightly, before coughing into his hand murmuring something under his breath. “Killjoy.”

Utahime rolled her eyes as she hung fairy lights around the rec cabin with Suguru, the two of them forming an efficient, quiet team. Shoko strolled by with a cigarette in one hand and a bundle of name tags in the other, muttering under her breath about needing a drink stronger than coffee (Mr. Soraoka refused to bend his rules further for Shoko). Y/n was outside the main bunkhouse, kneeling in the snow with a bin of sports equipment in front of her, organizing helmets and shin guards with growing intensity.

“Hey,” Choso’s voice cut through her hyperfocus. “You’re doing it again.”

She blinked, looking up. “Doing what?”

“Organizing like your life depends on it.”

She sighed, brushing a curl away from her face. “It feels like it does.”

Before Choso could respond, a loud whistle pierced the air. Nanami, standing near the staff bulletin board, lifted his hand.

“Everyone—gather up,” he called, voice firm but calm. The counselors slowly drifted into a loose circle, all of them dusted with snow, paint, or glitter depending on their assigned prep task.

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Nanami began, “and we’re as ready as we’re going to get. Good work today. We’ve done what we can. If anything explodes after this point…” He glanced sideways at Gojo. “...it’s probably not worth trying to prevent.”

“That’s the spirit,” Gojo grinned, resting his chin on Shoko’s shoulder. She elbowed him off.

“To celebrate our final night of peace,” Geto spoke up, voice smooth and relaxed, “we’re hosting a bonfire tonight. Hot cocoa, marshmallows, music. You know, all that classic cheesy camp stuff.”

“It starts in two hours,” Utahime added. “Dress warm, don’t be late.”

“Mandatory?” Shoko asked, speaking for everyone.

“No,” Nanami said, “but if you don’t show, we assume you’re dead and send a search party.”

Y/n bit back a grin, tucking her frozen fingers into her jacket sleeves. Around her, the group started to buzz with renewed energy—plans were made, side glances exchanged, a few people already deciding who was on cocoa duty.As the crowd began to break apart, Gojo fell into step beside Y/n, hands tucked lazily into his coat pockets. Cold enough for a jacket but still not cold enough for him to wear pants... what a weirdo.

“You coming to the bonfire?” he asked, voice casual.

“I mean… yeah. I guess,” she replied, still thinking of the to-do list she hadn’t finished. “Kinda seems like I have to or risk being declared legally dead.”

“I’d mourn you,” Gojo teased. “A little. Maybe. Depends on who inherits your skates.”

Y/n gave him a sideways look, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’re a menace.”

He gasped, mock offended. “You wound me. That’s the second time today.”

“Guess you’re not as universally adored as you think.”

“Oh, I am,” he grinned. “But your approval? That one’s just more fun to earn.”

Before she could come up with a reply, Gojo winked and veered off, calling something to Suguru across the field. Y/n stood in place a moment longer, watching as the camp glowed under the late evening sun, flickers of excitement starting to burn through the stress in her chest. A bonfire; the final night of quiet before the storm of tiny humans descended. She could handle that, probably?

The camp looked like something out of a postcard. The bonfire blazed tall at the center of the open clearing near the lake, its golden glow licking at the falling night and casting warm, flickering shadows across bundled-up teens and counselors scattered around its radius. Smoke curled into the sky, mixing with the crisp bite of the winter air, and the scent of toasted marshmallows, pine, and something vaguely alcoholic from the “punch” filled the space like an invisible fog.

Y/n stood at the edge of it all. Her bleach-faded, baggy jeans sagged just enough at the hip to look intentional, the ends fraying where they met her well-worn boots. The navy and black quarter-sleeve shirt clung to her just enough to reveal the curve of her waist beneath the number 67 emblazoned across the front, a sliver of her stomach exposed when she shifted too much. The layered grey vest and black zip-up hoodie gave her a bulky warmth she appreciated, and the navy blue beanie over her head completed the look. Her curls were parted into two sleek low ponytails, and silver clips adorned the sides of her head like little snowflakes, holding the shortest pieces out of her face.

Shoko and Utahime had practically dragged her into their cabin, forcing her to sit while they plucked, brushed, and styled her like two chaotic fairy godmothers. And while Y/n had protested at first—loudly—she couldn’t deny how… good she felt when she finally saw herself in the mirror. Presentable. Warm. Her fingers curled around the red cup in her hand, the liquid inside suspiciously fizzy and tart. She grimaced after taking a sip, unsure if it was a fruit cocktail or just cleverly disguised jet fuel.

As she scanned the bonfire crowd, her eyes landed on him. Gojo. Satoru stood near the fire, practically glowing under the firelight with his usual magnetic charm turned up to eleven. A girl stood next to him—tall, pretty, maybe older than her—with long lashes and flirty confidence in every move. She laughed at something he said, hand trailing too comfortably down his arm, lingering near his wrist before rising to smooth nonexistent lint from his sleeve. Again. And again. Y/n tried not to stare. Tried harder not to care. But that sour taste in her mouth had nothing to do with the drink.

She didn’t want to be annoyed. She barely knew him. Still—something about the casual, intimate way that girl touched him, leaned in close like he was hers to touch—it made her grip the cup tighter. She tore her eyes away before the ugly jealousy curdled into something visible on her face. No. Not tonight. She had made so much progress especially with how much she had learned regarding her father. So why did she feel like lashing out? She needed to get it together. She needed.. Choso. Where was—

Ah. There he was. Further off, his usual calm posture softening ever so slightly as he stood beside her. Yuki. His longtime crush, the one he only ever mentioned when his voice dropped half an octave and he pretended not to care. She was radiant in the firelight, smiling warmly, her body angled toward him in a way that made Y/n’s heart soar in happiness for her friend(?). She took a slow sip of the suspicious punch. Nope. She wasn't interrupting that.

Head down, Y/n weaved her way back through the crackling warmth and idle conversation until she spotted two familiar faces lounging near the firepit’s edge—Shoko, puffing on a vape pen she snuck in under her coat, and Utahime, wrapped in a scarf and aggressively roasting a marshmallow with laser focus.

“There she is,” Shoko drawled, exhaling a thin plume of vapor. “Finally decided to rejoin the rest of us humans?”

“Was that jealousy I saw brewing on your face earlier?” Utahime asked without looking up, her tone innocent but her grin sharp.

Y/n flopped down beside them, arms crossed over her chest, doing her best to look indifferent. “I was just looking for somewhere not drenched in hormones and desperate flirting.”

“That sounds like jealousy,” Shoko said around a smirk, eyes half-lidded. “We should take your temperature.”

“Don’t start,” Y/n muttered, tipping her drink back.

But she couldn’t lie to herself. Not really. Because despite the fire, despite the music, despite the girls by her side, her gaze flicked back to Gojo. And it burned her more than the flames ever could.

The fire crackled lazily, painting everything in a soft amber hue. The buzz of teen voices and distant laughter floated through the night air, carried on the scent of roasted marshmallows and pine. Y/n sat cross-legged on a log between Shoko and Utahime, hands wrapped tightly around her half-empty cup of overly sweet, suspiciously spiked punch.

She watched the flames dance, her face blank but her eyes flickering restlessly. Her lips were drawn in a thoughtful line—like she was chewing on words she didn’t plan to say aloud.

Utahime passed her a freshly toasted marshmallow sandwiched between two chocolate squares. “You okay?” she asked casually, but there was a note of curiosity beneath it.

“Hm? Yeah. Just thinking,” Y/n replied, voice flat, distracted. She didn't look at them, but they saw the way her gaze kept drifting across the fire—toward the noisy group where Gojo stood, holding court like usual.

Specifically, where she stood beside him. The girl. With her hand on his arm again. Y/n’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

Shoko raised a brow, following her gaze. “Lot of touching going on over there,” she murmured, tone light.

Utahime leaned forward, trying to peek discreetly. “What, her?” She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, she seems like the type to laugh too hard at his bad jokes.”

Y/n didn’t respond, choosing instead to sip from her cup like it had something deep and philosophical to offer.

Utahime nudged her gently. “You’re not mad, are you?”

Y/n blinked. “About what?”

Shoko hummed lazily. “Nothing specific. Just wondering if a certain ice queen might be feeling a little... warm?”

Y/n furrowed her brows. “You two are so weird.”

“We’re weird?” Utahime echoed with a grin. “You’ve been zoning out ever since you got here.”

“I’m just tired,” Y/n said, brushing a curl behind her ear. “And the punch is disgusting.”

Shoko let the silence sit for a beat before she tilted her head. “Mm. Maybe. Or maybe someone’s realizing they do enjoy company after all.”

Y/n side-eyed her, suspicion blooming. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Utahime said, drawing out her words with a teasing lilt, “you might want to admit that you're not as unaffected by tall, loud, white-haired men as you pretend to be.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but the tips of her ears were a traitor.

“He’s just…” She paused. “He’s a lot. And kind of obnoxious.”

“But funny,” Shoko offered. “And sweet when he’s not being a menace.”

Utahime nodded. “Plus, you’ve been stuck to his side every chance he gives you.”

Y/n scoffed. “That’s not true.”

Shoko smirked. “You sure about that?”

Y/n opened her mouth to argue—but instead sighed and looked back toward the fire, where Gojo was laughing about something, all teeth and charm. She didn’t watch long. Just enough to frown and turn away again. Utahime gave her a knowing look but said nothing more.

Y/n bit her lip, then mumbled, “I don’t know what you guys are trying to say.”

Shoko leaned over and bumped her shoulder gently. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know. We’re just watching the story unfold.”

Y/n blinked. “What story?”

“Yours,” Utahime said, smiling into her cup. “Whether you realize it yet or not.”

They fell into a quiet moment after that, letting the warmth of the fire speak for them. Laughter swirled in the air, and the music picked up in the background. Y/n stared at the orange glow, her features unreadable, but her fingers tapped restlessly against her cup. She didn’t look again—not at him, not at her, not at anything but the fire. But Shoko and Utahime just exchanged a glance over her head, the kind two friends share when someone is still a few steps behind their own feelings. And they didn’t press her. They just stayed with her. Letting her catch up in her own time.

The bonfire blazed brighter as the night deepened, casting a warm glow over flushed faces and echoing laughter. Music pulsed low in the background, blending with the sounds of crackling wood and the occasional pop of pine sap in the flames. Y/n had somehow wandered from her quiet spot with Shoko and Utahime, the cup in her hand refilled once... twice… maybe three times. The punch had gone from "questionably sweet" to suspiciously smooth, and now the warmth in her chest had spread to her limbs and made her brain feel like it was wrapped in cotton. She found herself beside Geto, who sat comfortably on a log near the fire, legs stretched out and cup lazily dangling in one hand. Y/n leaned into him with surprising ease, her head wobbling slightly as she spoke more freely than usual.

“I just think,” she said with a soft slur, “that squirrels aren’t real. Like—think about it. They're too fast. You never see baby ones. And they look like spies.”

Geto, always the picture of calm, blinked at her before letting out a soft chuckle. “That’s a new conspiracy.”

“I’m just saying,” she mumbled, turning her bleary gaze to the fire. “If a squirrel ever looked me in the eye I think I’d die. Like spiritually.”

From across the fire, Shoko and Utahime burst into giggles. Utahime had her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking, while Shoko openly laughed, clearly enjoying this rare glimpse at unfiltered Y/n.

Geto raised a brow and turned to them. “Okay, seriously. What the hell is in this punch?”

Neither answered. Shoko just waved her hand innocently, still laughing.

Y/n sighed and tilted her head against his shoulder, blinking slowly. “You smell like... incense. And sandalwood. That’s weirdly comforting.”

Geto looked down at her, surprised. He wasn’t used to Y/n talking this much—let alone offering observations that sounded suspiciously like compliments.

“You're way more talkative like this,” he noted with a small smile.

“I never talk,” she agreed proudly, pointing to herself. “Very mysterious. I’m like... an enigma.”

“An enigma that just gave a five-minute rant about undercover rodents.”

Y/n snorted. She wobbled again, and this time Geto instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. She sagged into him without protest, warm and loose-limbed, her cheeks tinted from the heat or the alcohol or both.

“You’re not gonna throw up on me, are you?” Geto teased lightly.

“Noooo,” she slurred. “I’m good. I’m just... bonfire drunk. I think that’s legal.”

“Debatable.”

Y/n turned her head lazily toward him, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “You ever feel like... like everyone else just gets it? And you’re just kind of watching everything happen around you?”

That, more than anything, caught Geto off guard. He stared at her for a moment, surprised by the sudden depth in her tone.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “More often than you'd think.”

Y/n nodded solemnly, as if he’d just confirmed a great universal truth.

“Don’t tell Gojo,” she added in a whisper. “He’ll make a joke. He always makes jokes.”

Geto chuckled again, softer this time. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

From across the fire, Shoko leaned toward Utahime and whispered, “He’s gonna have to carry her back to her cabin at this rate.”

Utahime giggled. “She’s going to die of embarrassment tomorrow.”

They both smiled fondly as Geto kept his arm around Y/n, steady and patient, letting her talk until her words slowed into silence, the warmth of the fire and the buzz of the night lulling her into drowsy quiet.

Gojo's laugh was half-hearted at best as the mystery girl continued clinging to his arm, her hand sliding down to lightly graze his. Her fingers toyed with the silver rings that adorned his hand, but he barely noticed. Because across the fire, he finally spotted her. Y/n. Tucked into the crook of Geto's side like she’d been there a thousand times. Her head rested low against his shoulder, face hidden in the hollow of his neck. She wasn’t just tipsy—she looked completely at ease. Comfortable. Soft in a way Gojo had never seen firsthand. The kind of softness that made his pulse throb in his ears. His brows knit briefly before smoothing out into a practiced expression of amusement. His eyes didn’t leave the sight in front of him. Geto's hand was at her waist, fingers splayed against the hem of her hoodie like they belonged there. That hand should not look that natural there. Gojo’s teeth clicked together behind the stretch of his smile. His fingers twitched at his side, and the laugh that passed his lips was strained and hollow. His chest burned with something unnameable, bitter and hot.

The girl beside him tugged gently at his sleeve. “Satoru?” she asked, watching his profile.

Without glancing at her, he suddenly grinned—sharp and bright.

“Hey, wanna get out of here?” he said smoothly, finally looking at her with a tilt of his head.

Her eyes lit up. “Like… now?”

His smirk deepened, and he leaned closer, letting his voice dip into something lower, more playful—but unmistakably suggestive.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, watching her expression carefully. “I know a place… a little quieter.”

She nodded eagerly, flustered, and Gojo looped an arm around her shoulders like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. Because when he led her away from the firelight, his eyes flicked back—one last time—to Geto and Y/n. She hadn’t even noticed him. Didn’t see how his gaze lingered on her. Didn’t see how he tightened his jaw the moment she laughed at something Geto said. She didn’t see any of it. But maybe that was better… because even Gojo wasn’t sure he wanted to understand what this feeling was. All he knew was this: if he saw her in someone else’s arms again, he might not be able to keep pretending it didn’t matter.

Geto chuckled lowly, one brow raised in amusement as Y/n tried to wiggle from beneath the weight of his arm. “Whoa, where are you going?” he asked, his tone gentle, his grip attempting to anchor her in place.

Y/n huffed and half-laughed, cheeks flushed from the fire—or maybe the punch. “More juice,” she muttered, determined, brows furrowed in a mix of concentration and rebellion.

“Y/n—” Geto began, clearly unconvinced that she needed more of whatever was in that infernal bowl. But she’d already slipped from under his arm with a surprising burst of resolve. She stumbled a little as her boots met the uneven ground, but her focus didn’t waver.

Her solo cup dangled from her fingers, the last few drops swishing near the bottom as she made her way across the fire-lit clearing. It was only once she got to the table, however, that she noticed. Gojo was gone. She blinked at the empty space by the edge of the fire where he’d been not ten minutes ago, still hearing the echo of his too-loud voice and the way he’d cupped his hands to shout something at the DJ. Now? Vanished. And so was that girl. Y/n’s eyes swept the crowd, scanning the dancing silhouettes, the half-drunk counselors swaying to the beat, laughter rising like smoke. No sign of his stark white hair, his ridiculously long limbs, or that cocky grin.

Something buzzed in her chest—low and instinctual. Unsettled. Clutching her cup, she wandered further past the ring of firelight, steps guided by something that felt more than just tipsy curiosity. Her boots crunched softly over the pine-needle-strewn ground as she veered off the main path and into the shadows beyond. That’s when she heard it. A low, breathy laugh. A soft moan muffled into someone’s jacket. Y/n froze just as the clearing came into view. There—on a wide tree stump, nestled between two half-fallen logs—was Gojo. His arms were wrapped lazily around the girl from earlier, her fingers twisted in his hair, their mouths pressed together with the kind of ease that only came from practice… or too much punch.

Y/n couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t meant to find them. She hadn’t even known where she was going. But now, standing just within the tree line, half in shadow, she couldn’t look away. Her fingers tightened around her cup, the plastic creaking beneath her grip. It felt like her stomach had been scraped clean. The haze of alcohol cleared in an instant, replaced by a cold clarity that hurt worse than any hangover ever could. She stared a moment too long. Long enough to see the way Gojo’s hand slid down to the girl’s hip, how he whispered something in her ear that made her giggle and tug him closer. Y/n stepped back. Her foot crunched a dry branch beneath her boot, and the sound jolted her enough to finally drop the cup. It landed with a soft thud, rolling into the dirt, forgotten. She didn’t wait to see if they noticed. She turned on her heel and walked back the way she came, head down, hands in the pocket of her hoodie. Her heart thudded against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. The bonfire was still glowing in the distance behind her, laughter and music still echoing through the trees like nothing had changed.

The walk back to her cabin felt longer than it ever had. Maybe it was the way the music from the bonfire grew quieter with every step she took, swallowed by the hush of the forest. Or maybe it was the ache in her chest—dull, but spreading like wildfire. She didn’t cry. Y/n didn’t cry.

Her hands stayed shoved deep in her hoodie pocket, fingers curled into trembling fists. Her boots thudded dully against the worn path, the cool night air biting at her cheeks as she kept her gaze locked forward. When she reached her cabin, she didn’t bother turning on the lights. The darkness felt safer. The door closed behind her with a soft click. That was the only sound. She stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, eyes slowly adjusting to the familiar shapes around her—her unmade bed, the mess of clothes by the dresser, the skates still drying by the heater.

Then she moved. Her hoodie came off first, followed by her vest. She peeled her clothes off with robotic precision, tossing them aside carelessly before collapsing onto the edge of the bed in nothing but her tank top and sweats. She sat there, hunched over, elbows resting on her knees, fingers dragging through her hair—undoing the neat little ponytails that Shoko and Utahime had helped her with just hours ago. The clips clattered to the floor.

It hit her then. Not all at once—but slowly, like the way frost forms across glass. Cold, creeping realization. She had no right to be upset. She and Gojo weren’t anything. Not really. There’d been banter. Teasing. That stupid smirk he wore whenever she tried to act unimpressed. The way he stood too close, talked too loud, paid attention like she mattered in a way most people never did. But that was just… him. Right?

She let out a shaky breath and leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her thoughts a chaotic blur. It wasn’t just the kiss that hurt—it was how easily it happened. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like she was just another observer in the story he already knew how to write. Her hands found the blanket and clenched the fabric tightly. Why did it bother her so much? Why did it feel like something had been taken when nothing was ever hers to begin with? Y/n rolled over, burying her face into the pillow to stifle the soundless frustration clawing up her throat. The punch had worn off, but the haze it left behind was replaced by something worse. Clarity, and it hurt like a bitch.

Outside, laughter echoed like ghosts she couldn’t escape. But inside the cabin, Y/n laid still in the dark—wondering why it was so much easier to push people away than admit how badly she wanted to be wanted.

[redwoodsantana]

higuruma nanami helpin you at work

[redwoodsantana]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . nanami kento is obsessed with you and has a big, fat breeding kink.

18+ MDNI

nanami kento likes to pretend he doesn't and he won’t ever verbally admit to it outside of the bedroom, but he’ll make you feel it—and you’ll feel it good. you’ll feel it in the soft kisses he places all over the skin of your belly, the pleasant graze of his teeth over your hardened nipples and you’ll certainly feel it in his raw and deep thrusts in the late hours of the night.

he’s just so loving. he wants all of you—every inch that he can get. 

nanami believes that you were made for him. every feature of yours crafted so delicately to both tempt and please him. you’re his, and nothing can take that away from him. so what better way to appreciate you than to pass on your precious genes?

“fuck—made for me baby, you were made just for me” kento growls into your ear possessively while slowly sheathing his thick length inside of your warm cunt. you fit him so well, plush walls molding so perfectly around his cock.

you moan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasant fullness sets in. you’ll never get sick of this feeling, you think. 

kento’s pace is slow and deep, pulling out fully before slamming back in with every single thrust. he wants you to feel it—to feel how much love he has for you. 

“ ‘ken mmm” you moan softly into his mouth, letting his greedy lips claim yours in a possessive kiss. he fucks you in missionary to ensure he has access to every part of you, and most importantly, access to your priceless expressions when he fucks into you. 

“yes my love? need it harder? faster? tell me what you want” his soft whisper falls against your lips. your breaths are in sync, rhythmically bound to one another by something so intimate, you couldn't even put into words if you tried.

“mhmmmm” you hum in response, struggling to keep your glossy eyes open. he’s just started and you’ve already been fucked through so good.

“gonna fuck a baby into you if you keep looking at me like that” kento groans at the sight of your fucked out expression, subconsciously quickening his pace inside of you when he sees it.

“d-do it then” you stutter softly, words almost sounding like a desperate plea. you're baiting him—waiting to see if he'll take it.

kento’s face hardens at your words, eyes darkening in a way that almost scares you. “fuck baby, don’t play with me like that or you'll end up with a baby inside you” he thrusts the message into you as if making a promise to do exactly what you asked—to fulfill any wish you may have.

you only moan and whimper in return, mind growing increasingly hazy—too hazy to string together a simple sentence. kento coats your walls in his cum one, two, three times that night, silently praying for your period to disappear for the next nine months :)

[redwoodsantana]

i miss his annoying ass

[redwoodsantana]

can’t rid the horrible thought of sitting on nanami’s lap, your backside pressed to his bare chest while that pretty, aching pussy just drools down the entire length of his cock. one big hand keeps your trembling thighs pried while the other is everywhere else—tracing delicious shapes onto your clit, greedily trailing up your writhing body, groping your bouncing tits, pinching your hardening nipples, choking you.

studiedly, he’s following the depraved arch of your back as you gasp out his beautiful name like it’s the only prayer you’ve ever known, gone with brimming pleasure and overstimulation. god, how he can hardly help the sinful drag of his palms as he feels you all the way up; nothing but thorough, ensuring not a seraphic inch of your body is left untouched.

“yeaaah, arch that back for me, pretty girl.” his lips settle just below your ear, kissing over the warm, thudding pulse that beats like a drum. “you like my hands all over you, huh?”

you’re delirious as you nod to him, sinking further into his embrace while he fucks you onto his big, fat cock no differently than a measly little toy. a breathless laugh escapes him when your head woozily lolls back, resting within the muscular divot of his shoulder. a warm hand is pulling at your face, deft fingers brushing your cheeks as he brings you close, kissing you deep.

the prettiest whine leaves your lips and he swallows it, along with every other moan and wince and gasp and cry. and it’s just so fucking sloppy—teeth clashing, tongues lapping, breaths heaving. nanami lets off a thick groan, his big fingers hot and steady, rubbing at your poor, twitching clit with intention.

“more,” it’s greedy, mumbled into your honeyed mouth while his lips remain pressed to yours. he’s spreading you wider, hooking an indulgent hand beneath the crook of one your wobbly knees, forcing you to slump further against his searing body. “give me more, sweetheart… wanna feel that cumming pussy, yeah?”

“n— nanami,”

“i know,” he coos, shutting you up with a dizzying kiss. “i know how close you are… can feel you tightening up like you want it.” the soft pads of his fingers are slapping against your aching clit thrice, encouraging your looming orgasm. “cum for me,” a warm, openmouthed kiss to the shell of your ear. “cum on my cock like i know you’re about to.”

and god, do you. your pretty mouth stupidly gaped as you meet the desperate buck of his hips with shallow movements, chasing that cock like the prettiest whore. he watches as your face screws up, brows knitting in nothing but overwhelming pleasure as you choke on your own breath, sobbing. those wide eyes welling with tears as you whimper and whine and curse, all while creaming down the entirety of his shaft like you’re life depends on it.

“thaaat’s it, always cum so pretty for me,” he plants a sweet, loving kiss to your racing temple, allowing you to ride out your orgasm for as long as you need. “but i think you can give me more than that.”

oh.

[redwoodsantana]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ TOJI LOVES YOUR CUNT EVEN MORE AFTER YOU GAVED BIRTH

Tw- Pussy & ass eating, prone bone, daddy kink, heavy breeding. Lots of dirty talk tbh, praising. Toji lowkey goes crazy. Not proofread.

You don’t quite understand the obsession but you don’t mind it either. The moment you place your baby in his wooden crib and sink into the living room couch, savoring the precious little time you have before your baby boy wakes up again.

Toji’s kneeling behind you. Both of his broad hands gripping your soft cheeks, tantalizingly spreading them apart— desperately trying to gain the best access to your little holes as much as possible.

You’re trying to relax into the warm fluffy pillows, trying to catch your breath but Toji doesn’t let up— he’s buried between your thighs, his lips and nose gliding over your dripping cunt and puckered hole, shamelessly coating his face in your slick and groaning like a fucking animal as if it’s the best thing in the world.

Toji swears your pussy’s been damn near addictive since you gave birth. He says it’s sweeter, messier— flooding the second he so much as brushes his fingers over you. He’d smirk and tells you he can smell it the moment you get horny, like your cunt’s dripping and calling for him before you even know it yourself.

His breath is hot against your skin, his deep groan sending vibrations straight to your core. “Told ya, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue up the slick seam of your folds, his nose bumping against your clit. “You’re so fucking sweeter now. Like this pussy was made just for me after I knocked ya up”.

You shudder, burying your face into the couch cushion as his hands grip your hips, pulling you closer to his eager mouth. You’re still sensitive—your body changed after giving birth and Toji has been nothing but obsessed with every little difference.

The way your thighs are softer, the way your belly has a gentle curve to it now, the way your cunt practically flutters for him the moment he gets his hands on you. “Fuck,” you whimper, hips jerking as his tongue dips into your entrance, lapping up the wetness that seems to never stop pooling for him.

He hums in satisfaction, the sounds downright filthy as he drinks you up like a man starved.

“You don’t even realize it, do ya?” His voice is husky, dripping with something dark and possessive. “How easy you open up for me now. How much hungrier this cute pussy is”.

He presses a kiss to your swollen clit, grinning against you when your body trembles. “Bet I could slip in right now without a fight. So damn wet for me”.

Your face burns but the heat pooling in your belly is undeniable. You don’t understand it— why he’s so obsessed, why his hunger for you has only intensified after you gave birth. But the way he devours you, the way he worships every inch of your body makes it too impossible to care.

“Toji,” you gasp, fingers gripping the couch as his tongue flicks against your clit in teasing little strokes, his pace deliberately slow. He wants to savor this, wants to draw it out and you know he won’t stop until you’re shaking from overstimulation.

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is muffled as he buries his face deeper between your thighs, groaning like he’s addicted to your taste. “Go on, tell me how much you love it when Daddy eats your pretty pussy”:

He presses a few affectionate kisses to your messy clit and leaky entrance, drawing cute little whimpers and hums from you before his hands spread you wider, thumbs digging into the plush of your ass as his tongue trails higher, circling the tight ring of muscle.

You stiffen, a shiver rolling down your spine as his hot breath fans against your most sensitive spot. “Daddy— mmph, m’sensitive there!”.

“Relax baby,” Toji rasps, pressing wet kisses along the curve of your ass. “Already know how much this tight little hole loves me”.

Your breath catches when he licks a slow, teasing stripe over your rim, his tongue warm and slick as he coats you in his spit. He groans deep in his chest like he’s savoring the taste like he’s getting off on knowing how vulnerable you are beneath him.

“You never used to let me touch you here,” he muses between wet licks, his fingers gripping your hips, digging into your skin, and keeping you exactly where he wants you. “Now look at you— spread open, and winking against my tongue”.

A whimper escapes you as he flicks the tip of his tongue over the tight ring, pressing just enough to make you clench. He chuckles at your reaction, his fingers kneading the flesh of your ass as he works his tongue in slow savoring circles.

“Fuck,” you whisper, trying not to make too much noise in fear of waking up your baby. You buried your face further into the couch cushions, your body betraying you as your hips arch into his hungry mouth.

Toji hums in satisfaction, his tongue pressing more insistently against you now, licking and prodding until your walls flutter. The sensation is foreign but toe-curling all the same. His spit drips down to your already-soaked cunt, mixing with your arousal as he devours you like he can’t get enough.

“Should’ve been doing this sooner,” he groans, pulling back just enough to admire the way your hole twitches, shiny with his spit. “So fucking pretty like this. All mine”.

His words send a rush of heat straight to your core and when he dives back in, lapping and sucking, making a filthy mess of you— you can’t do anything but take it, your body melting under his relentless tongue.

And if the two of you are lucky enough to get more time alone, he’s pinning you down and climbing on top of your helpless body, fucking you deep in a rough prone bone, your soaked pussy squelching loudly with every thrust.

While he’s gently stroking your hair, whispering the filthiest sweet nothings like he’s not currently stuffing you full and dragging more cum out of your messy, overstretched hole and leaking down his cock and coating his thighs.

He fucking loves the mess you make— thick cream smeared all over the base of his fat cock, dripping down and matting into his curly pubic hair. It’s so filthy and proof to him of just how good he makes you feel— how wrecked you are for him.

He grinds in slow, deep circles just to watch it spread more, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he mutters, “Look at that, baby… all fucking mine”. And with you laid out flat beneath his big, muscular figure, helpless in prone bone— there’s nowhere for you to run.

He’s got a palm pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you down like the fucktoy you are, grinding his cock deep into your used sloppy cunt.

“Fuckin’ tight cunt,” he growls, rutting into you harder and rougher now like he’s trying to mold his shape into your body all over again. “Fuckkk, You’d think one kid would be enough but this greedy cunt’s begging me for another”.

He presses his chest flush to your back, hips grinding in deep, letting you feel every inch as he rolls his hips just right— thick and mean like he’s made to breed. “Carried my baby once, didn’t you? Took every drop and swelled up all pretty. You were made for it. This pussy was made to take my seed”.

You whimper, trembling beneath him and he just laughs— low, dark, and possessive. “Already stretched you out once and you still get this fucking tight around me. You want another, don’t you? Want daddy to stuff you full again till this pussy swallows it all and you’re knocked up and waddling around with my next one?”.

He slams back in hard, groaning at the wet slap of your bodies. You can barely answer— your body is too overwhelmed by the pounding rhythm, your pussy so full, so stretched from the first fat load he gave you.

But he doesn’t care. He just wants more. Wants to feel you swell up again, wants to see you overflowing full of his seed, a reminder that you belong to him and only him.

He shifts his hips, pounding harder and deeper, grinding his cock around your sensitive, already abused walls. His heavy, cum-filled balls slap against your sloppy cunt as he groans. “Gonna fill you so full that you won't be able to walk straight after this”.

He grins wickedly as he feels the way your body twitches around him. He knows you’re close— he could expertly feel the tension building in your cunt, the way your body is ready to take everything he has to offer. “Say it,” he demands, his voice rough and dark. “Say you want another. Say you want me to fuck another cute little baby into you”.

You don’t need to be told twice. Your words are a broken plea, desperate and eager. “Mmm— Please, want another… p-please fill me up again, fuck wanna carry your baby again, daddy”.

That’s all he needs. He slams into you one last time, pushing deep and letting out a low growl as he empties into you, filling your cunt with his hot, thick cum. His grip tightened on your hips as he spills every last drop.

He fucks you through it, dragging out the orgasm and making sure you’re full. When he finally stops, he’s still breathing hard, sweat decorating his chest as he pulls out slowly, watching his cum spill from your hole before he plugs his tip back in.

“That’s right,” he breathes, his voice rough and husky. “Gonna keep you full. Gonna keep stuffing you until you carry every single one of my babies”.

After, with a tender kiss on your forehead, he slips out of bed, moving around to get you water, snacks and whatever you need. He lets you relax and recover while he takes care of the baby for the rest of the day.

It’s a quiet, peaceful moment— nothing but his soothing presence and the soft sounds of him playing with your baby boy in the next room. You can rest and do whatever you need to recharge, knowing he’s got everything handled while his next baby is in the process.

[redwoodsantana]

“shoko, teach me how to kiss?”

indulging: x reader, set in college, childhood friends, film major reader (she/her), awakenings.. they’re lesbians your honor

unfortunately: language, suggestive content, angst, smoking/drinking and parties, hookup culture — under 17 dni. please check individual chapter warnings before reading

status: ongoing

reply to this masterlist to be tagged (36/50)

to listen while you read

shoko art credits | moodboard | style guide

written parts marked with 📽️

intro: can a gay girl get an amen? + the housemates

chapter one: shyguy

chapter two: twink with audacity

chapter three: nerdjo? more like fumblejo

chapter four: make a movie 📽️

chapter five: bodies bodies bodies

chapter six: is that a glorilla song

chapter seven: scotty doesn’t know

chapter eight: in progress . . .

consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask to show some love. thank you for reading over my dead body ! ❤︎

© bowtiepasta: do not copy edit or repost anywhere

tags @cryoarm @luvvcho @stxrnity @2uyi @adoresugu @shokosbunny @skzhoiic @jinxiewritings @prettyboysunoo @kissunday @penguinotapioca @gojoluverrr @uzumakioden @linaaeatsfamilies @17020 @tlfafwhahhh @jelxqa @usbrous @90s-belladonna @uhhhhiwillthinkofsomethinginabit @hanamatopoeia @mischievouseal @craneballz @her-utahimee @chappelroanenjoyer @evilari111 @luffypedia @reblogwhoreowo @cup1dsh0t @dazaisfavgf @julesss110 @ma-cherie-lovely @idoliccrimes @reicyberia @chihironii @fab2twerk4u

[redwoodsantana]

fuckin problems. .° ༘🎧⋆🖇₊ toji fushiguro.

sum. toji’s prepping for a fight night match and his trainer was adamant that women would be a distraction. when he sees you in the gym late one night, obviously all of that changes.

wc. 4.8k

tags. boxer!tojixcollege student!reader, (it isn’t mentioned in the fic.) toji and reader are mid-twenties, reader is fem and black. modern au, unprotected, pússy eating, shower sèx, toji’s a bit of a hoe, dacryphilia, praise kink (lots of pet names!!) set in a gym, some workout terms used.

an. i’m back . . . did you guys miss me? 🥹 i worked really hard on this. i hope you enjoy it.

i love bad bitches, that’s my fuckin problem . . . and yeah, i like to fuck, i got a fuckin’ problem.

loud music blaring through his black airpod maxes drowns out the harsh clang of the weighted barbell making contact with sleek, black hardwood beneath him. chest heaving, toji wipes his sweaty forehead with the hem of his compression shirt. he’d just finished his last set of heavy romanian deadlifts, the last exercise of five—and he doesn’t know if it was through discipline or pure willpower. he’s internally cursing his trainer. he’s a boxer, not training to be a part of the fucking avengers.

and with being a professional boxer, being physically fit comes with the territory. toji knows that. it was recommended he switch from his last gym to this one. virtually unknown and far from paparazzi and groupies. lowkey. he can deal with that. this new regimen his mentor had implemented, though? it would be his undoing.

aside from working out six days a week with a new grueling routine, there were now rules toji had to abide by—upon breaking them, he’d be ineligible for the upcoming heavyweight championship match in a few weeks. there were only four temptations he was to avoid: liquor, greasy food, staying up late . . . and this last one toji dreads, no women. no sexual intercourse of any kind.

that was a fucking problem.

no conceited shit, toji knows he is attractive. he’s built. tall, tatted from the neck down with sculpted abs that could’ve been crafted by god himself. he can’t even go to the grocery store without being approached by women. and whether these women were drawn to his fame or brawn, toji didn’t care either way—what sane man would turn down pussy without any attachments?

halle berry, hallelujah. holla back, ima do ya, beast!

taking a seat on the rubber bench behind him, toji stares at his reflection in the mirror. dim hex lights that hang from above cast dark shadows over his bulky figure, highlighting the definition in his biceps and glinting micro cuban link dangling from his neck. veined, inked hands reach for the nike water bottle on the floor, tipping his head back as he shoots a stream of cold water into his open mouth. as much as he hates this new routine, he’d be lying if he said the results weren’t rewarding.

toji has no intentions of abstaining from sex completely. sure he could do a few days, he wasn’t an addict . . . but two weeks? fuck no. there’s too many beautiful women out here that deserve his dick and undivided attention . . . and when his tired eyes land on you, setting up on a smith machine across the room in this navy matching set that molds on your body like a second skin? toji’s never been more sure that he’d break a rule in his life. not like he’s ever been much of a rule follower anyway.

he watches you, shamelessly. upon doing so, he realizes this wasn’t the first time he’s seen you. you always stick to the smith machines and free weights right next to them, minding your business in your own little world. he doesn’t think you’ve spared him a glance since he’s joined. with interest now piqued, steel eyes observe you mid-workout with newfound curiosity.

you’re pretty. glossed lips pouted in exertion, sweat glistening on exposed skin like diamonds. chocolate brown eyes glued to your reflection. the navy blue crop top and legging set compliments your brown skin, accentuating the curves toji can tell you’ve worked hard for. he almost catches himself drooling . . . but the longer toji watches through your set of squats, there’s something glaring at him that he can’t quite ignore.

your form is fucking terrible.

maybe it’s fatigue or the weight being too heavy for you to handle—but years of training makes it easy for him to spot the mistakes being made. rounded shoulders, anterior tilt, and poor foot placement. your back will be sore as fuck once you’re finished, he’s sure of it . . .

. . . it’d be wrong to not help fix your problem, right?

locking the bar into the safety hook, you plop yourself down onto the nearest bench, completely out of breath. this workout had you fighting for your life. it’s been a while since you’ve been to the gym, but damn, you didn’t realize you fell off this badly.

this is why you always come to this gym late at night: free to make a fool of yourself without having to worry about stares from nosy strangers. motivation’s been low but with discipline, you’ve made so much progress towards your body goals—you can’t tap out now.

you look down at your apple watch. 1:35 am. if you lock in for this last set, you can pack up and be out of here by 2. leaning forward, you tighten the laces of your grey new balances. cockiness by rihanna blaring in your ears, you nod your head along to the beat, mentally psyching yourself up to push through this shit. you almost don’t notice the person standing in front of you, their black nikes in your peripheral vision.

almost.

what the fuck? you straighten up, blood rushing to your ears from the quick movement. angling your beats off your ear, the words come out before you get a good look at this person who decided to rudely disturb you, “can i help you?”

the person, a man, chuckles in response. “nah . . . i was thinking maybe i could help you, though.”

oh? you have to crane your neck to really see him, he towers over you. shit, you don’t think it’d make a difference if you were standing. grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, sharp v-line peeking over black calvin klein. he’s got a white towel slung over broad shoulders, contrasting the vibrant hues of ink on his neck. he looks . . . familiar. his cool steel eyes and scarred lip are ringing bells in your head but he looks so fucking good, you aren’t really thinking about a damn thing.

he doesn’t wait for your answer, noting the way you’re ogling him. “i’m toji and you are . . . ?”

yes, toji. you remember who he is now. your best friend had shown you a reel of him boxing just the other day. you didn’t know much about boxing but toji is finer in person. finer than the pictures you’d seen when scrolling on his instagram. (how was that even possible?)

shit, you’re staring hard as fuck. “( 🫶🏾 ).” you say with a sheepish smile. he returns it with one of his own. you extend your hand for him to shake, “i know you, i’ve seen you before.”

“beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he muses, lifting your hand into his much bigger one, kissing the back of it. you roll your eyes. the compliment was corny, predictable even . . . so why does it have your heart beating in your chest and between your thighs?

“you said you’ve seen me before. you don’t look like much of a boxing fan . . .” he probes with a brow raised. he isn’t surprised when you shake your head no, nothing about you gives avid sports watcher. he doesn’t press on it, opting to get straight to the point. “mhm. i don’t want this to sound weird but i was watching when you were doing squats and i noticed that your form could use some . . . work.”

damn, was it that obvious?

heat prickles up your neck, flushing your face in embarrassment. you can’t believe he saw you … had he been watching the whole time? you’re mortified at the possibility. you attempt to hide your face in your hands but it does little to ease the self-consciousness twisting your insides. with your words muffled, the only thing toji can make out is you muttering i feel so stupid.

“hey, hey. don’t say that. you’re not stupid.”

he crouches down, his touch gentle as he coaxes your hands away from your face and into his again. you’re avoiding his gaze, thick brows furrowed and glossy lips pouted. so cute. “it happens to the best of us, don’t overthink it.” he stands to his full height, tugging you up with him. “i can help you correct it and you’ll never have to worry about fucking up again . . . sound good, doll?”

his reassurance makes your heart flutter. he seems genuine so why would you decline his offer? just like that, any lingering feelings of embarrassment are gone. you give a quick nod, biting back a smile. “mhm, sounds good.”

he leads you over to the smith machine, bright pink neck pad on the bar a clear indicator it was the one you’d been using. you bend below it, eyes following his form in the mirror as he swaps out current weight plates with lighter ones, you presume. it’s hard not to watch him. veins bulge through the colored ink on his forearms, beefy muscles flexing with each plate he lifts. he has this aura about him . . . masculine. mysterious. it turns you on. everything about this man makes you horny and you just met him.

his eyes catch yours in the mirror, smirking at the way you quickly avert them. “is it okay if i . . . ?” he stands directly behind you, thick fingers hovering over your hips. you nod consent, breath hitching at the way they shape on your curves. you swear you feel them through your leggings. (or maybe that’s just what you want to happen instead.)

he’s keeping a respectable distance between your bodies but he’s close enough that the scent of his expensive cologne lingers in the air. it’s making you dizzy. he leans down, lips brushing your earlobe as he directs you. “tilt your hips forward, baby.” his thumbs lightly press on your lower back for emphasis. he hums in approval when it feels right. “that should help your back . . . and feet should be parallel, doll. you’ve got em too far.”

after a few more adjustments, he does a onceover, taking in your form. you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on your ass longer than they should. not that you minded. you fight the urge to bite the tip of your acrylic. you know you’ve gotten thick, he can barely handle it!

“mhm, you’re ready.” he says, lifting the bar off the safety hook and lowering it onto your shoulders. you wrap your fingers around the cool steel, preparing yourself for what’s to come. “you’re gonna push this set to failure for me, baby.”

“what?” you weren’t prepared for that. does this man want you to die? you’ve been through enough tonight. you shake your head with your face scrunched up in disapproval, “i can’t do that shit—“

“you can.” he reiterates, cutting your train of thought short. his hands gently rub up your hips, settling at your waist. “you can and you will.” the dominant edge in his voice makes the hairs on your nape stand on end, next words caught in your throat as your eyes meet again in the mirror.

his glare is smoldering, dark with such raw intensity that you can feel the lust exuding off him. god, it’s intimidating. he’s intimidating but you can’t look away, your own arousal pooling in your panties. he commands your attention without saying a single word. it’d be embarrassing if you weren’t utterly and completely enamored with this man. you’re ready to fold and let him have his way with you.

he maintains that eye contact as he leans down, tilting his head to ensure his words meet your ears. his voice drops to a husky whisper, raspy with a hunger that threatens to consume him. “i got somethin’ for you when you’re done. so be a good girl and finish up for me, hm?”

goosebumps raise on your soft skin like wildfire, audibly swallowing once his words completely settle in. “oh . . . o-okay.”

you’re not sure if that was a threat or a promise. either way, the implications of what he said sent a shock of nervous excitement coursing through your body. it serves as the motivation you need to push you through the rest of your workout, and there’s one thought plaguing your mind while you’re doing it:

what exactly is he going to do to you?

ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

toji knows eating it from the back in the gym shower when he just met you less than two hours ago is crazy. does he give a fuck? absolutely not.

you’re pressed up against the shower wall and toji’s kneeling behind you, his big hands trailing up the back of your thighs. you thought the warm stream of water on your skin would ease the anxiety bubbling in your belly. but it only serves to heighten your sensitivity even more—each graze of toji’s fingertips sends spikes of heat up your spine, breath hitching the closer he gets to your most sensitive parts. the steam envelopes the two of you in the small space, and it’s like it clouds your vision and common sense.

“toji, c’mon—need you, hurry up.” you whine, looking back at him over your shoulder with needy eyes, impatience growing by the minute. it’s obvious he’s dragging this out to tease you and you’re over it. you need his mouth—his tongue— on you now.

toji chuckles; the desperation in your voice makes his dick pulse against his thigh. unbeknownst to you, the feeling is mutual and he’s about to show you how real it is. “i told you i got you, didn’t i? just relax baby, lemme take care of you.”

he spreads your asscheeks with his palms, using his thumbs to part your lower lips at the same time. your pussy is so pretty, gleaming with slick, swollen clit peeking out your folds. he groans low in his throat as your hole clenches around nothing, the urge to devour you whole overwhelming him. usually, he wouldn’t eat a stranger out, but something tells him it’d be a disservice to himself to fuck without tasting you first.

fuck it. he leans in, plump lips latching onto your lower ones before dipping his tongue into your hole, lapping up all your juices that have accumulated there. he’s so into it, he doesn’t even fight the moan that slips out when your pussy is sweeter than he thought it’d be. and you’re gasping at the vibrations that ripple through your body like shockwaves, your hand reaching behind to grab onto his damp locks. the tugs on his scalp urge him on, and he lays his tongue flat, dragging up your slit until he reaches your clit, sealing his mouth around the bud.

your jaw goes slack, unable to contain the whimpers and moans that fall out your mouth as your hips jerk back onto his tongue, your hand buried in his hair, pulling him deeper into your cunt. “ahhn toji, oh f-fuck, feel s’goodd.”

“mhm, pussy tastes so good, baby. ride my fuckin face, c’mon—” his words are muffled within your heat, but you get the idea when his strong arms wrap around your thighs, ensuring you won’t slide on the slippery tile beneath you. water cascades off the curve of your back as you arch up into his mouth, using the grip you have on his locks and your other hand bracing the wall to fuck his face with precision.

instead of keeping his head still, toji moves in tandem with your hips—up and down, side to side, licking and slurping anywhere his tongue can reach. he’s eating you like a man starved, sucking your pussy into his mouth greedily, nose bumping your perineum as he fucks you with his tongue, meeting each grind of your hips halfway like he’s fucking you for real. moving both hands to cup and smack on the globes of your ass, he pulls and tugs on your throbbing clit with his lips, producing sounds so sloppy and nasty, louder than the water rushing between your bodies—and your cries reach beautiful crescendos that have his ears ringing delightfully and dick throbbing, painfully hard and oozing precum on his toned stomach.

(the thought of dropping a hand between his legs doesn’t even cross his mind, not when he’s so focused on making you cum.)

all that’s coming out your mouth are praises, curses and his name. “t-toji, toji! baby, oooh shit. don’t stop, don’t stop!” you can barely think, let alone breathe—he’s taking your soul, and you can’t keep up, legs trembling and stomach caving in as you succumb to the pleasure overloading your body, “m’closee, gonna cum!”

toji keeps his movements consistent, staying right where you need him, tongue heavy and long on your aching cunt. his voice is hoarse as he encourages what’s to come, rough and demanding, “yeeeah, gimme that shit, mama. cum for me.”

his words are the final thread that makes you snap. that invisible knot in your stomach unravels and you’re cumming hard, his lower face drenched as you bless him with your essence. toji works you through your orgasm, not stopping until you weakly attempt to push his head away, body shuddering in the blissful aftershocks. begrudgingly, toji parts from your pussy, dick jumping as he watches the mix of his saliva and your own cum drooling out of you before standing up, turning all his attention to your slumped form.

you’re a mess, the prettiest mess toji thinks he’s ever seen—his arm slung around your waist is the only thing keeping you upright. disheveled curls stick to your hot skin, chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath, head lolling back onto his broad shoulder. he has to laugh. you’re so fucked out and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

“already tired, mama? m’just gettin’ started.” he murmurs teasingly, licking a stripe of the column of your neck. he leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, stopping the moment his lips hover over yours, contemplating what he should do—he really wants to kiss you. and he can tell by that doe-eyed look you’re giving him that you want to kiss him, too. so you make the decision for him, curling a hand into his hair and tugging him down so your lips can meet his halfway in a passionate kiss.

you moan into his mouth as he slips his fat tongue in yours, water beating on his back as he bends down to deepen the kiss. tasting yourself on his tongue feels so sinful, but you can’t get enough of it—clinging onto him to ensure your lips stay connected. his hands grip at your ass roughly, and you gasp when you feel his dick prodding between your thighs, hips rolling as he slides his length against your cunt, polishing it with all the juices there.

“so fuckin’ wet for me,” he mumbles against your lips, separating them with a lewd schlick. he wraps his fist around the base of his cock, tapping his swollen tip on your clit, bottom lip caged under his teeth as he watches you twitch and whine from his teasing, a hot rush of blood shooting straight to his dick. he knows your pussy will feel as heavenly as you taste—he’s itching to be proven right. “gonna be a good girl and take all this dick?”

his question is rhetorical—because he knows you will—but you answer it anyway, nodding as you look up to him with lidded, lust-filled eyes, hips arching back with desire, “mhm, i will. give it to me, toji.”

he feels his balls tighten at your erotic profession. damn, he thinks as he tilts his head to the ceiling. when you talk like that, how could he not fold? who would he be to deny you of what you need?

. . . he’s so cooked. he’s certain that out of all the woman he’s fucked in his life, he doesn’t think he’s wanted of them half as bad as he wants you right now.

with his free hand on your hip, he eases himself into your cunt, the both of you letting out sighs of pleasure as your folds latch onto his length immediately, sucking him in—greedy for every inch he’s gifting you. he has to take deep, slow breathes once he finally bottoms out—you feel so fucking good and he hasn’t even started moving yet.

his hand around your waist slides upward, cupping around the fullness of your breast, rolling a pert nipple between index and thumb fingers. he seals his mouth over yours again, nibbling and biting at your kiss-bitten lips. you’re melting into his touch, you’re so gone—you don’t even realize that he’s distracting you until he draws his hips back, pulling out until only his fat tip is left inside to drill his dick right back in, balls slapping against your throbbing clit from the sudden movement.

it catches you completely off guard, nearly choking on your spit as his pace picks up. your lips separate from his abruptly, saliva stretching between your mouths as your head tilts back, crying out, “t-tojiii, ohmygod!“

the pace he sets isn’t too fast nor too slow—but the force of his thrusts are enough to have your whole body jolting each time his hips connect with the swell of your ass. you’re clawing at his forearm, searching for something to ground you as he handles you like a doll. your mind is going hazy, and the sound of your asscheeks clapping on his pelvis intensifies your lust-induced trance tenfold.

“shit girl,” toji grunts through gritted teeth. he’s looking down, damp bangs clinging to his forehead as he watches where your bodies connect—his dick is glossy with your essence. your lips drag and clamp down on his shaft tightly with every grind of his hips, forming a ring of cream around his base. it’s hard to focus with the squelching of your pussy ringing in his ears, and combined with your moans echoing on the walls like a broken symphony, toji feels his restraint slipping too. his jaw slackens, allowing all his expletives and praise to flow freely, “fuck back on me, baby—mmm, just like that—feels so fuckin’ good.”

“you’re so b-big,” you whine pathetically, stuttering when his cock nudges that sweet spot along your gummy walls. your thighs tremble and burn with exertion as you obey, meeting his powerful thrusts in earnest. he’s too big, too thick—too much. the weight of his dick stretches your puffy lips to their capacity, bullying in deeper and deeper every time your pussy clenches in protest. so deep, you think you feel him in your stomach. too much, too much!

you grip his arm tighter, acrylic scraping veins as a broken cry rips from your mouth. god, your own voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to you anymore, “nghh, too much! i c-can’t, i can’t!”

toji laughs. a deep, sexy sound that only amplifies the white heat searing through your bloodstream. you can’t see him, but you know he’s got that disgustingly handsome smirk on his scarred lips. you yelp when he lands a heavy hand on your ass, soothing the blow with his palm. “you can’t? but you’re takin’ it. i’m watchin you take it, just like you said you would. good girl, good fuckin’ girl.”

his nasty words are punctuated with every thrust, sending waves of euphoria right to the pit of your belly. you feel a familiar pressure building there, a tight knot forming that has every nerve in your body going haywire. you feel delirious, completely weak in this man’s hold as he’s fucking you dumb. it’s as if toji can sense what’s coming because his arm is on your waist again, tugging you back onto his chest—but this time, his other hand snakes over your throat and squeezes, momentarily cutting your access to oxygen and reality, drawing your head back to meet his piercing steel eyes.

oh god. he has to stop himself from pumping you full of nut as he studies the dazed, fucked-out expression contorting your pretty features. it fucks with his train of thought, sends all the nerves in his brain into overdrive. he’s losing the last semblance of control he’d been desperately trying to hold onto, all thanks to you. or maybe, he was never really in control in the first place. maybe it doesn’t even matter as long as—

“gonna cum for me again? gonna cum all on this dick, baby?” he’s slurring over his words, keeping that firm pressure on your throat to elicit what he wants to hear. your chest caves in, little hiccups caught in the back of your throat, fighting for the air needed to speak.

“yesss,” you hiss, struggling to maintain eye contact with him as he pounds into your g-spot, over and over and over with no intentions of relenting. you’re seeing white. “s’close, s’closee. please please please—nghh yes, right there!“

“where? right here?“

he snaps his hips forward mercilessly, groaning carnally at the way your velvety walls lock down on his dick with pure desperation—for your release or his? toji’s not sure, nor does he care; all he knows is he’s falling in love with your pussy and how good it feels on his cock, his own orgasm approaching fast. “fuuuck, squeezing me so tight. ugh—tryna milk me, pretty girl? want me to fill you up? talk to me.”

“yes, yes, ooohh shiittt.” your high-pitched cries and gasps of ecstasy echo off the tile walls, fat tears brimming at your lashline. toji’s assault on your poor pussy is brutal and unrelenting, he won’t let up—and the moment his swollen tip grazes a sweet spot, deeper than he’s ever reached before? that tight knot in your belly forcibly unravels and explodes, your release gushing out of you before you can properly announce the flood incoming, “nghhh ah, m’cumming!”

“m-mhm, let it go baby, lemme feel it.”

with a shrill cry of his name, you do as told and cum hard. entire body quivering, shaking like a leaf, eyes scrolling back into the depths of your skull with tears streaking down your cheeks. you can feel your soul transcending onto another spiritual plane as the flow between your legs just won’t stop, and toji’s drowning in it—the tight contraction of your sopping walls and creamy squirt flowing out your cunt like a waterfall, pushing him out and sucking him in at the same time—it’s a battle that he’s bound to lose.

he doesn’t bother fighting it.

his thrusts come to an abrupt halt and with heavy, panting breaths, he’s cumming right with you—body shuddering as he paints every inch of your pussy with his nut, plugging his dick in deep to keep his seed from spilling out, though it seeps from the corners of your sore lips, a combination of both of your cum trailing down your trembling thighs in a nasty, sticky trail. it’s vulgar, obscene and he’s a whore, a true slut. of course it makes his softening dick twitch inside you at the sight. you whine in overstimulation, pushing at his chest for reprieve and he pulls out slow, compensating for the soreness he knows is imminent.

the small space is silent besides the sounds of rushing water and heavy breathing. coming down from that glorious high, post-nut clarity begins settling in and toji finds that it doesn’t push him to clean up and disappear, forget you, find another body to replace yours like it usually would.

no, it makes him want to . . . stay?

he’s been around the world, had women in positions you couldn’t even imagine and it’s never been a problem for him to move onto the next, no feelings or strings attached that’s just how he operates. so what makes you different? what is this weird feeling festering in his fucking chest? and why are you looking at him like you could be thinking the same exact thing?

he doesn’t even remember when you turned around or why your hands are caressing his face so gently, but he’s watching your plump lips move and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

“toji? you okay?”

he never thought he’d ever want to be tied down but how could he let you slip out his grasp? he’s ready to do the unthinkable, fuck what his coaches and pr team says. when toji has his eyes on something he wants, he gets it. it’s his world and he’s willing to give you a glimpse of what it’s like to be a part of that.

“if i told you i wanted to fly you out to vegas for fight night in a week, would you come?”

your eyes grow to the size of saucers, brows raising so high they almost disappear into your hairline. is he being serious?

“don’t play with me, toji. that’s not funny.”

he cocks his head to the side, thick brows furrowed. “why would i be playing? you think i do shit like this often?”

you suck your teeth. “of course you do, i know you got hoes, boy. i hope you don’t think i’m not tryna be a part of your little harem—“

you squeal as he swats your ass, holding your cheeks in his palms to pull you close. he lets your hoe accusations slide for now, but he’s waiting for your answer. “stop stalling. answer the question, girl.”

a free trip to vegas doesn’t sound too bad. you’re not too sure of what toji’s intentions are, but with the way he’s looking at you right now, biting his lips like he’s nervous about what you’ll say next? you don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about.

you wrap your arms around his shoulders, a wide smile etched on your lips. “of course i’ll come.”

@screampied @sunasbon @sugultt @preciousamethyst

steal my work and you die.

[redwoodsantana]

loved this badddd

HOTLINE BL☆NG!

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

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

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

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

god, you do.

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

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

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

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

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

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

girlhood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

they don’t need to know all that though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s no fucking way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

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

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

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

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

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

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

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

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

“wait—”

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

it’s a match.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ping!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

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

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

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

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

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

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

decisions, decisions, decisions.

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

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

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

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

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

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

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

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

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

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

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

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

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

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

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

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

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

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

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

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

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

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

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

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

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

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

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

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

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

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hey.”

he’s thick.

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

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

as if he still stood a chance or not.

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

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

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

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

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

god, you had questionable morals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he hadn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so, you kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sex was an easy way to do that.

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

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

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

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

bingo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you couldn’t agree more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and that’d been your final mistake.

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

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

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

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

god, you do.

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

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

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

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

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t.

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

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

tinder: 1, you: 0.

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

[redwoodsantana]

out of curiosity, how do you feel about Eraserjoke? Because your insane Aizawa art has me simping

lol every interaction between them is a game of chicken hehe 😉

🗣️ cluck cluck 🐓🐓🐓