sgojoenthusiast

[sgojoenthusiast]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[sgojoenthusiast]

you thought you’d get under his skin with a little flirting — too bad gojo’s got his reversed cursed technique ready to steal every orgasm and keep you begging for more. how far would you go to reclaim what’s yours?

<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , divider->@/cafekitsune

cw: feral unhinged gojo , orgasm denial using supernatural powers, rough revenge sex , overstimulation , size kink (implied) , oral sex (f. receiving) , emotional vulnerability including crying and begging , degradation , mention of naoya zenin .

not proofread , art by sakimenz on insta

you’d done it on purpose.

a gentle laugh, a hand on Naoya Zenin's arm, the way your voice softened — just a little — when you said his name.

Gojo had watched from across the room, eyes hidden behind his blindfold, a smile on his lips that didn’t reach his voice.

it was petty. you’d wanted to sting him. to get a reaction, but Gojo Satoru doesn’t do jealousy.

he does revenge.

which is why you’re here now — naked and trembling on his bed, your body wrung out from being dragged to the edge and back again, each high meticulously stolen by the brush of his cursed energy, each orgasm erased with the clinical precision of a man who could do this forever, his blindfold and clothes now discarded on the floor too.

but first — he’d made you feel it.

he had dragged your knees apart and spread you open with the reverence of a priest and the cruelty of a god.

his tongue was devastating. slow, languid strokes at first — deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of your folds with the flat of it, as if the taste of you was something to savor rather than devour.

his breath fanned out over your slick skin, humid and maddening. every pass of his tongue sent your hips twitching, but he didn’t let you move — not even a little.

he moaned against you, low and indulgent, as if your pussy fed something primal in him.

your hands fisted in his hair. your thighs tried to close around his head, trembling, but he shoved them back open — firm, unhurried, unbothered. one hand gripped your inner thigh tight enough to bruise, the other slid underneath you, palm pressing flat to your lower belly — pinning you down, anchoring you like he knew you were about to come undone.

his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking slow, torturous pulls that made you choke on your own breath. then the tip of his tongue flicked — quick and rhythmic, teasing the bundle of nerves with surgical precision.

he alternated between flattening his tongue and curling it against you, dragging the wet muscle over every swollen, sensitive spot like he was testing how far he could push you without letting you fall.

and when you began to shake — legs tensing, voice gone — he shifted slightly, lips slippery with your slick, then whispered against your cunt like a secret, “that’s it, baby… give it to me.”

you came... or tried to.

snap, gone.

the orgasm vanished like a phantom breath, ripped from your nerves before it could detonate. your mouth opened in a soundless cry, the pleasure caught in your chest like a sob that wouldn’t release.

that was the beginning of your unraveling.

now, an hour later, he kneels between your legs, sleeves rolled up, mouth glistening, fingers stroking idly at your folds. you twitch under his touch.

“still feeling flirty?” he hums, mock curious, tilting his head like he doesn’t already know. “or are we learning how to behave now?”

you glare at him, but it’s pathetic. you’re flushed and panting, thighs spread wide, unable to even close them with how sore you are. you’ve already cum — what, three times? four?

no. you haven’t. that’s the sick joke of it.

your body has. screamed and clenched and convulsed. but every single time, just as you came — he’d used reversed cursed technique on your nerves, wiping away the peak as if it never happened.

leaving you empty. ruined. needing.

he was never angry. never cold. just... calmly vindictive, “you’re insane,” you croak out.

he hums again, amused, like you’ve said something sweet. “you knew that when you chose me, you're just as bad.”

you try to sit up. he presses your hips back down instantly, one handed, with terrifying ease.

“toru—”

he leans in, licks a slow stripe up your inner thigh. “don’t say my name like that unless you mean it, baby.”

your whole body jerks. “i do,” you pant. “please—let me cum this time. i won’t flirt with him ever again.”

he smiles. but it’s not kindness — it’s confirmation. “there it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “took you long enough.”

the fourth orgasm hits like a freight train, or it would’ve.

you feel it build in your gut — tight, volcanic, desperate. his fingers are perfect, curling inside you, thumb circling your clit, his mouth whispering filth you can barely process. and just as your breath catches — just as your body tries to surrender again—

gone.

you scream into your own hand. he sighs, mock sympathetic. “awww. almost.” you writhe, tears slipping from your eyes.

he leans in close, licking one off your cheek, his voice silky. “you know how precise i have to be to catch it right as you tip over? it’s hard work.”

“sadist,” you whisper, “mmhmm,” he nods like you’ve complimented him. “try again?”

you shake your head. “no. i—I can’t.” he kisses your stomach, soft. “you will.”

by the time he’s undone your sixth orgasm, you’ve forgotten why you flirted with anyone in the first place.

you’re incoherent. your body is oversensitized to the point of pain, nerves frayed, thighs shaking every time he exhales near your cunt. your fists clench the sheets. you hate him. you need him so bad that it hurts.

he’s humming a tune. casual. barely sweaty, even though he’s been at this for over an hour.

“i’m honestly impressed,” he says, pressing two fingers back inside you. “i thought you’d safeword by now.”

you blink up at him, barely. “i want to cum.”

he smiles, slow. “you want that, but you also knew what you were doing, baby. you knew what would happen the moment you put your hands on him.”

your breath catches.

“you did it for this.” he kisses your inner thigh. “you wanted me to snap. to fuck you stupid. to ruin you.”

he bites, just enough to make you gasp, “i’m only obliging.” you sob — half laughter, half broken plea. “then fucking ruin me, gojo satoru.”

he freezes for a second.

then — something changes.

when he slides into you, with no warning. just heat and stretch and a low, animal growl torn from his throat.

your cunt, swollen and hypersensitive, welcomes him in with an obscene squelch. you’re soaked — slippery and pulsing — and yet the thickness of him still steals the breath from your lungs. he sinks in slowly, grinding deeper with every inch until his hips press flush to yours and his cock is nestled so far inside, you feel him in your ribs.

your walls spasm around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper, as if it’ll never be enough.

you cry out, legs instinctively hooking around his waist despite the ache. he grabs under your knees and bends them up and out — folding you open, exposing everything, letting you feel every inch of stretch and friction as he rocks his hips forward again.

“fuck—still this tight after all that?” he groans against your neck, voice rough and disbelieving.

you can’t answer. your brain is static.

he draws out slow — so slow — and your pussy clings to him, velvety and drenched, unwilling to let go. you feel everything: the ridge of his head, the drag along your walls, the pressure curling low in your gut again like a threat.

and then he slams back in.

you scream. your body jolts under his weight, the bed creaking beneath you. he does it again — snapping his hips with brutal accuracy, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over until your back arches and your fingers seize against his scalp.

his rhythm is devastating. perfectly cruel. he fucks you like he’s driving something out of you — like he wants to brand himself into your bones.

your chest drags against his with every thrust, your breasts bouncing between your bodies, slick skin slapping slick skin. every inhale tastes like him — his sweat, his breath, the faint trace of your arousal still slick on his lips, making them glossy and so fucking kissable.

your arms wrap around his shoulders as if on instinct, fingers trembling where they knot into his snowy hair. your chest presses flush to his, nipples stiff against him, and as he fucks you, you kiss him — anywhere you can reach. his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his collarbone — each frantic, sloppy kiss smeared with desperation, a string of saliva clinging to your parted lips every time you gasp against him.

“please,” you whisper into his throat, voice cracked and close to crying. “don’t take this one. please—please—”

he doesn’t answe, he just fucks you harder.

you’re close, closer than ever.

his hands are everywhere — one gripping your hip like a vice, the other cradling the back of your head as your face tucks against his neck. his cock drives into you with merciless intent, stroking deep, thick, hot. it’s too much, too perfect, too right.

your whole body tenses, the orgasm barreling toward you like an avalanche. every nerve is wired. every inch of you feels electric, ignited, seconds from collapse.

he feels it.

his pace quickens, rhythm ruthless, breath ragged in your ear, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt. doesn’t move to take it away.

his face is focused.

you break with a scream — loud, raw, wet —and for a moment, for a terrifying breathless second, you think he’s stolen it again.

but he doesn’t, you finally cum.

it explodes out of you, violent and endless — your back arching clean off the bed as your cunt clamps down around him, pulsing, spasming, flooding. the pleasure hits in brutal, dizzying waves, white hot and relentless, until your vision swims and your body bucks and jerks uncontrollably beneath him.

you’re crying. sobbing from the release, from the ache, from everything.

he fucks you through it, his hips stuttering at the way you squeeze him.

and then he groans — loud, hoarse, guttural — as he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you.

his cock twitches with every pump of cum he pours into your cunt. he shakes against you, his body trembling with the force of it, and finally — finally — he collapses onto your chest, gasping into your neck.

you both pant into the silence.

you lie there for a long time, twitching with aftershocks, muscles limp. he doesn’t move. just wraps his arms around you, face buried in your neck.

eventually, you manage, hoarsely, “you let me…” “mmhmm.”

“why?”

his voice is tired and smug and terribly fond.

he lifts his head from the crook of your neck, strands of white hair sticking to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath.

and when he looks at you — really looks at you — it’s with those piercing eyes: crystalline blue, glassy from the aftershocks of pleasure, half lidded but sharp, like they’re cutting straight through you.

he looks ruined, sweaty, glowing, a little unhinged, and still utterly in control, so fucling beautiful — you thought.

“you finally begged pretty.” you punch his shoulder. weakly.

he laughs. kisses your cheek. then cups your jaw and whispers, voice low and warm: “next time you touch someone else — I’m taking your memory of the orgasm too.”

you don't answer. just lie there, breathing him in, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist where it holds your jaw.

you’re too spent to speak.

too full of him to care.

and when he kisses your temple — gentle, almost apologetic — you think you might forgive him for everything.

a/n: wtf this is the first time i wrote smut i actually liked

[sgojoenthusiast]

[sgojoenthusiast]

Shoko doesn’t exactly say you’re dating.

She doesn’t really do labels, thinks they’re kind of pointless, honestly. Why complicate things with definitions and conversations that only make people weird and nervous? She knows what she wants, and if she’s letting someone sleep over in her bed, steal her clothes, and hog all the snacks in her apartment, then clearly, that’s her person.

She’s busy. Her schedule is shit. Why waste what little free time she has sleeping with someone she doesn’t intend to keep?

Still… somehow, your little brain hasn’t quite caught onto that yet.

She notices it when you’re curled up on her patio one night, wrapped up in a sweater, hers, obviously. She’s standing a few feet away, shoulder leaned against the railing, cigarette burning lazily between two fingers. Her long hair is half-up in a claw clip, loose strands catching in the breeze as she exhales a slow puff of smoke, angled away from where you sit.

“You should go inside,” she mutters. “Secondhand smoke’s just as bad, you know.”

You don’t move. Don’t whine or pout like usual. Just stay quiet, and that’s what makes her glance over.

You’re chewing your lip. Hugging your knees. Your voice is soft, barely more than a whisper when you speak.

“I just… I don’t want this to be a situationship.”

Shoko stills and blinks for a moment. Once. Twice. Tilts her head a little, brows pinched together as she's trying to figure out if she heard you right.

A situationship?

There’s a long pause before she sighs through her nose, stubs out the cigarette on the balcony rail, and turns to you fully. Her expression is unreadable, but she’s mentally running the list: how many weeks it’s been since your toothbrush showed up in her bathroom, how many times you’ve dozed off in her bed, and she’s pulled the blanket up to your chin before crawling in next to you. She’s already memorized your coffee order. She knows which days your cramps hit worst. Your shoes are by the door. Your charger’s always plugged in by the bed.

She walks over slowly, crouches in front of your chair, and lifts your face with two fingers under your chin.

“There, there,” she murmurs, tone so soft it almost makes you cry harder, until she smirks. “You’re almost as dramatic as Utahime.”

You sniffle, cheeks burning. “You’re making fun of me.”

Shoko hums, brushing her thumb along your cheek. “Babe. I’m letting you drool on my pillow five nights a week. Who else do you think I’m doing that with, Satoru?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Shoko watches your brain short-circuit and presses a quick kiss to the corner of your lips, all smug and warm and lightly amused by your ongoing stupidity.

“What made you think we weren’t dating, hmm?” she drawls, pulling you into her lap with practiced ease. “Didn’t I ask you to be my emergency contact? You think I give that spot to just anyone?”

You try to protest, something about assumptions and mixed signals and wanting to be clear, and she just rolls her eyes and plops backwards onto the patio couch, dragging you with her until you’re tucked under her chin, limbs tangled and noses brushing. Only the stars watching you both from above, the sounds of cars from the Tokyo streets from below.

“God, you’re exhausting,” she says fondly. “So needy. It’s cute.”

You sniff again, rubbing your face against her shirt. “You could’ve told me.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “You could’ve asked.”

You open your mouth to argue - try to argue - but it’s hard to hold onto indignation when her fingers are stroking slowly up and down your spine, warm and rhythmic. You melt against her chest, cheek pressed just under her collarbone, your body giving up the fight before your brain does.

Your eyes are already fluttering shut when she presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and final, like the punctuation on a decision she made weeks ago.

“We’re dating,” she murmurs against your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely.

“Good,” she says, a little smug again. “Now stop being a brat and let me take care of you.”

[sgojoenthusiast]

Cake or Fake - G.S.

Synopsis. The only birthday gift your brother’s best friend wants? You. And not just for fake-dating…

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, brother’s best friend! Gojo, annoyances to lovers, fake dating, PINING, jealousy (Gojo’s side), past Sukuna x Reader, matíng presses, vírgínity loss (Gojo), oraI (fem rec.), PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, size kínk, cervíx kíssing, he’s such a tease, cúmplay, p talking, making him WHÍMPER, spítting, pánty-steaIing, slight chokíng, reader is Geto’s sister, matchmaking, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.1k

A/N. In honor of my hubby’s birthday!!

“Wait, who’s coming to your party?”

“It’s not just a ‘party’, it’s my surprise party-” 

“Satoru, it’s not a surprise party if you’re the one organizing the surp-” You’re cutting yourself off with a heaving sigh, massaging your throbbing temples. “Anyway- continue.”

Growing up, you didn’t suffer through years of endless torment from Gojo Satoru to hope that he’d ever use logic. No, of course not. 

Instead, he’s brandishing the oversized birthday banner he’d bought himself, softly smacking the top of your head. “Besides- it’s not like everyone’s going to be there. Just our group, Nanami’s troupe, some Kyoto people, I invited Yaga but he kicked me out of his office- oh- and Sukuna.”

Ah, there it was. 

The one person you didn’t want to see just as much as you didn’t want to be roped into your brother’s best friend’s “surprise” party planning for his own birthday. But, alas, here you were. 

And here tumbled the next few words that would likely haunt you for the rest of your life. 

“I need you to date me.”

“Oh? Okay.”

“Listen I know it’s stupid and I know-” Wait…what? Cutting yourself off with a choked-up wheeze- for the first time since he’d barged into your life, Gojo had truly and absolutely stumped you. “Wait- you agreed?”

He’s shrugging one broad deltoid, tinted glasses that you’d bought for his last birthday sliding down that high nose bridge of his. And the grin you’re graced with is blinding. “Well, I knew it was about time before you fell for my charms~” Before one strong arm swings its way around your shoulders, manhandling you against the thin black t-shirt wrapped around his sculpted body. He wiggles his cloudy brows, “What was it- the hair? The eyes? The body? Y’know I’ve been hitting the gym more-”

“Gojo Satoru.” you’re gritting out through tight lips. “I need you to date me- just for one night.”

“So it was the body-” he’s gasping dramatically, beefy arms frantically wrapping around your middle. You could feel the curves of his washboard abs against your palm. Purring voice pitching up into what almost sounded like a whine, “At least take me out to dinner first–! To think that you just want me for a one night stand-”

In a split-second, your palms slap over his nonsensical mouth - hard enough that you almost spy a stinging stamp of red on his skin. 

And yet, Gojo doesn’t complain. Doesn’t display anything but a brazen gleam in his gaze that practically screamed out kinky~! 

“Shut- up- my brother’s in the next room.” You’re hissing, eyes flickering behind Gojo’s toned figure and towards the kitchen door for any looming sign of Geto. “I need you to date me-” Your digits tighten over his mouth as soon as you feel it moving to prattle away once more. “-just for tonight- no, not as a one night stand, put that banner down- We just need to ah- pretend?”

Damn, it sounds more of a garbage idea out loud - and you didn’t even know that was possible. 

At the question in his summer blue eyes, your hopefully explanatory words spill out a mile a minute. “S-so Sukuna has been getting around since our little break-up a few months ago- if you can even call it that…”

Ah, melding into such a big group with your brother’s friends and your own in university had always meant that there would be a few bumps along the way. 

From explaining to an overeager Haibara that no, you and Gojo were definitely not dating, to making sure that your brother and his best friend didn’t make Nanami suffer from an aneurysm too early in life, to perhaps the biggest of them all - your fiery, yet short-lived fling with Ryomen Sukuna. 

The most dramatic bump, according to Shoko.

Sukuna wasn’t a close friend, but it’d taken work to get over the worst of the awkwardness after he’d dumped you without a moment’s notice. And you weren’t exactly dreaming up a wedding with him…sort of, but you certainly did skip out on a few invitations to hang out if you knew that he’d show his smug face.

And right now it left you ironically wishing you’d heeded Gojo’s words when he’d first warned you that Sukuna “wasn’t right for you.” 

Though, you think part of it came from his own unexplainable love-hate animosity with the man.

“-but I’ve still been painfully single since the last time I saw him, and you know how he is. I can’t face him like this.” You, in particular, knew too well. “You two still have that weird rivalry thing going on, right? So help me show him up just for tonight- then later we say it fizzled out and everything goes back to normal. It’s a win-win really if- eugh!”

You snatch your hand back as far as it would go the very second you feel the sodden drag of something against your palm. Staring in horror at your clammy skin…he licked you.

And Gojo almost winces at the loss of your touch - he almost drags your hand back himself. 

But oh, it was worth it just to see the way your gorgeous features get scrunched up into an even more gorgeous glare - one that said if looks could kill, then he’d already be six feet under and having his surprise party thrown on his grave already. 

Truly the way to a man’s heart, he swoons internally. 

“Fine.”

And when has that particular tone from Gojo ever boded well for you?

“Fine?”

You find yourself gulping at the slight bob of his smooth Adam’s apple, the flex of his back muscles when he hunches downwards to crowd your space. Mere inches away. Somehow, he seemed too close and too far away at the same time. Too intoxicating with his cold, pinewood scent.

“Fine I’ll let you- heh, use me for my body.” Tone intentionally dipping into a low, rumbling territory. Gojo’s batting his long snowy lashes in a way you’d almost deem innocent - if it wasn’t for the next few words that tumble urgently from his mouth. “-only if you give me something back. A kiss.”

You jolt, “What?”

“I’m the birthday boy, and I say-”

Cutting him off with a thoroughly practiced scoff, “Well, I have common sense. And I say I should just ask Nanami instead-”

“Is the common sense in my five-star getaway cabin with us right now?”

“Okay! You two!” Geto’s roughened hands clap down on your shoulders with a little more force than necessary. His voice is patient - used to this. “Please try not to make this a funeral before we can make it a birthday party, Satoru’s decorations are non-refundable.”

Oh, shit.

How long had he been standing there?

Judging by Geto’s slight shake of your shoulders as if scrambling the practical part of your brain back into functionality - and the way he wasn’t lecturing your ear off just yet - you guessed that the two of you had been lucky this time. 

Face burning, you pray you didn’t look as guilty as you were. Swatting your older brother’s well-meaning hands away. “Speaking of, for a busybody hosting his own surprise party, I’m shocked you didn’t want any gifts.” Quirking a brow, “Is there even anything you want? Anything else?” 

Gojo knew what you meant - you weren’t just talking about the party anymore. 

And, well…he avoids your eyes. Yes. Yes, there is .

You. 

But, woe, even the utterly shameless Gojo Satoru couldn’t possibly say that out loud - especially in front of his best friend, and your brother - so he settles on an obnoxiously dragged-out, “Awww- Trynna make my birthday special f’me, sweetheart~?”

And even that was toeing the line.

He can’t help the way his rosy lips curl smugly at the edges when you’re hissing out a heated, “S-see if I try and have a civil conversation with you ever again, Gojo.”

“Ouch!” Gojo’s clutching dramatically at his heart with a willowy faint that leaves him hanging off of Geto’s shoulders - and it wasn’t too hard to fake with the way his heart lurches uncomfortably at the sound of his last name on your pretty tongue. “Right for the jugular- is this your way of throwing the towel on our truce?”

Truce…is that what he’s calling it?

You catch your own brother - that traitor - stifling a bout of laughter behind his hand when his towering best friend seems to cower in your mere presence. Because, really, who was Gojo Satoru against you? 

Sighing with that slightly infuriated pout you haven’t lost since you were a whiny, teary-eyed brat meeting him at his Digimon-themed birthday party many, many years ago. 

Gojo takes the moment to truly appreciate how you’ve grown since.

He hadn’t technically invited you back then - but what else was there to do when your older brother was off making friends in kindergarten already and being invited by his “new best friend”?

You’d been pouty the entire evening at that, he remembers, and his mother had gotten a ton of photos just of your bickering duo. A year younger and just barely an inch shorter than him, but to a freshly six-year-old Gojo that made all the superiority - enough to tease you badly enough that you’d left him with a tiny, throbbing pink handprint across his cheek, and his poor heart in your palm.

“No.” Your voice rips him out of his reverie, as it always seems to do these days. “So you better k-keep up your end of the truce, too.”

With you stomping your way back to your cabin suite, Gojo finds his twinkling eyes straying right after. Hot on your heels. Unable to tear away. You really have changed since then, all grown up - as is he - and yet-

“That’s after a truce?” Geto wonders out loud for the both of you.

Well, he’s eyeing his best friend. And Gojo was nothing if not a good- well, he was good at everything, quite frankly. Everything except for when it came to you. “Suguru, we might have to plan a surprise engagement party tonight instead of a surprise birthday party.”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

Because he still feels as much the bumbling six-year-old with his first-ever crush as he was back then.

---

“Matching colors?”

You sigh, “Check.”

“Matching backstories?”

“Check.”

“Kiss me?”

“Ch- wait not yet-” you’re managing to shrill out, fingers curling even tighter around where Gojo had insisted you latch onto his bicep. And you feel him flex boastfully under his velvety button-up, “And do we really need to make some grand entrance? You literally planned the entire party.”

He’s flicking your forehead - softly, you’ve seen Gojo roughhousing with your brother before and he didn’t use even half his strength on you. “Surprise party- the birthday boy has to make a dramatic entrance with his girlfriend. How else will we make a statement?” 

You’re grumbling to yourself about why you needed to make a statement at all - but you can’t argue, this was your idea after all.

And Gojo seemed well and fully intent to excel in his role…perhaps too intent. 

Now, you always knew that his family was disgustingly wealthy; but Gojo practically dragged you to the nearest high-end mall this morning. Insisting on the latest twinkling bracelets and bejewelled necklaces to match his fitted shirt. Cooing that you looked “absolutely gorgeous” in every single one. 

Was this official girlfriend treatment from Gojo Satoru himself? You’ve never known him to have had a long-term relationship in all the years he’s been your brother’s friend but…but it was all so much for just one night of acting. 

And when you’re twirling that flowy silken fabric of your dress around your fingers, you wonder if that’s all he was thinking. 

“Hey?” The rounded pads of his fingers skim over your cheeks, “Nervous?”

“A little.” you admit, trying oh-so-desperately to escape from his blazing sapphire gaze. 

And Gojo crushes you close to his body, one massive palm resting firmly on your hips, hardened front pressing up against yours. Warm. Steady. Voice so close now that you could catch every slight crack towards the end, the heat of Gojo’s feverish breath - practically burning - against your ear. 

You wanted to feel his hands more - everywhere. 

Woah. You’re shaking your head, thankful it simply looked like you were gathering your wits. Maybe you were more tired than you thought.

“We’ll be alright. Trust me, it’ll go smoothly.” Was- was Gojo Satoru comforting you? He’s cracking a smile, like the thought just occurred to him, too. “And if it doesn’t then I can beat up that b-”

SLAM!

“Why are you taking so lo- What. The. Fuck.”

Your first instinct is to wrench away from Gojo’s hold - but unluckily for you, his first instinct is the exact opposite. And you find his firm digits tensing to dig into the plush of your hips, both of your heads snapping towards that gravelly new voice. 

Catching a jaw-dropped Shoko with her half-burnt cigarette dropped to the floor, she looked nowhere near even thinking of picking it back up. You could practically see the gears curdling around in her head.

“Ah-” You’re gasping out in what you hoped was believable scandal, fingers latching around Gojo’s own cold ones. Not to remove - no, Gojo almost has a heart attack when you intertwine them with yours. “Hope we’re not too late, Sa- Toru here wanted to go shopping.”

“Wait-” Shoko runs her hands through her silky locks like she was pleading to the skies above. “Wait wait wait- wait- when did this happen no-” She’s baring you with her most aghast look, “Why did this happen?”

Gojo comes to your rescue, face falling into the crook of your neck with a grin. “Told ya she would fall for my charms eventually~”

“Yes, but I didn’t think she was that stupid-”

Yes! You have to fight to hide your smile, despite the blatant insult. One down - if you could get everyone at this party to believe in your little act, then Sukuna would have to. 

“Still here–” You’re deadpanning, hoping that your friends didn’t catch the slight tremors in your voice. Damn- why did Gojo have to be so warm. “-and uh- maybe we should head inside? After it is a certain someone’s-”

“Shhh! You’ll ruin my surprise.”

It all goes according to script - well, your entrance with Gojo and his entrance into the party. 

As soon as your duo steps in, the dim lights flicker on and you’re deafened with the cheery yell of surprise! Blinking your startled gaze to adjust to the blinding decorations upon decorations that Gojo himself had put up, you can’t help but let out a chuckle at the smiling faces that meet you. 

Geto and Haibara holding exploded party poppers, the rest of the group from Kyoto standing around a brightly lit cake you’d baked, Nanami the one turning on the lights - the farthest away from the birthday boy. Purposefully so, you imagine.

And there - in the center of it all - Sukuna. 

Arms crossed, a pink brow raised as he drinks in the sight of you - all of you. 

As was the rest of the room, eyes widening in true surprise. 

Gojo’s clutching the front of his shirt with almost-frightening theatrics. “You guys- You did this all for me? You’re the absolute best-”

“Eugh.”

“What did you blackmail her with?”

“Congratulations on your relationship!”

Your eyes latch onto Geto - who only takes a long look at you and cackles. 

Gojo’s huffing ever-so-slightly as he gets cut off, and that’s what it takes for you to realize that you still had his fingers looped undeniably with yours. In fact, he’s tugging you even close to wrap one heavy arm over your shoulder, the very picture of sappy devotion when he nuzzles his cheek into your own. “They’re bullying me~”

He was laying it on thick.

He’d barely steered you into the living room before you catch a flash of white and two firm arms curled around your neck - away from your supposed boyfriend. 

“My lovely!” Utahime cries, cocktail abandoned somewhere to wrangle you free from Gojo’s treacherous grasp. She’s cupping your face with visible concern, “Is your head okay? Did you knock it somewhere? I know a good doctor that can help with-”

“Hey! She’s my lovely-”

“I’m fine, Utahime.” You’re subtly stepping on Gojo’s toes before things can escalate any further. Eyes meeting red ones from across the room, “-I promise. We’re just ah- giving it a go. It’s very new and we didn’t want to make such a big deal out of it, honestly.”

Lies. The entire point is to make a big deal out of it. 

Shoko crosses over in a flash, droopy eyes flickering between you and a sheepish Gojo. “Giving it a-” Slicing their way over to the decorative blush on his cheeks, “-go…huh.” 

And as you’re surrounded by the tittering crowd, you’ve never felt more like one of those cell samples that Shoko would dissect in medical school and proudly show your reluctant self pictures of. 

Ogling everything from the weight of Gojo’s hand on your shoulders to that soppy smile on his face when he smushes his cheek into yours like some overgrown cat. And you can’t help but wear a grin of your own.

Can’t help but feel relief when she cracks a wicked smile, “Fucking finally.”

Haibara gathers your hands in his own, “I-I’m so proud of you two! Nanami and I have been hoping for this for the past five years-” Flitting his strangely wet eyes to a Nanami who couldn’t have looked more disinterested if he tried. “-isn’t that right Nanami?”

“No it’s not.” he’s rolling his eyes, but you catch the slightest hint of a twitch at the corners of his lips. And it hits you that he’s happy for you. 

Really, truly happy.

“Right right!” Haibara plows on, and you have half the mind to wonder if the obliviousness was a skill. “It’s been more like the past seven years-”

Geto slaps! his hand on Gojo’s shoulder, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “So he finally grew the balls, huh?”

“Eh? I mean-” you’re strangling out at your brother’s sudden comment. “-I mean of course. Had to practically force it out of him though, y’know?”

Shoko nods, eyes far away like she’s remembering something you can’t. “Of course, you did- pining fool.” And in the corner of your eye, you sneak a glimpse at the way Gojo’s sharp jaw clenches. Grinding ever-so-lightly as she calls out, “Well, I was almost at my wit’s end with your horrible taste in men. No offense, Sukuna, not that this one’s any better- let me know if you ever need his balls chopped off in his sleep–”

Utahime’s narrowed glare stays locked on Gojo, “Hurt her and it’ll be more than your balls.”

Sukuna, notably, says nothing.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru was a liar. 

The guestlist for his birthday wasn’t simply your friends - it was damn near the entire campus by the time the cake had been cut and you’d all settled into your usual conversations. 

Body after body filtering in through those towering mahogany doors of his. Invitation or not. Rapidly and steadily, it was growing into another one of Gojo’s famed parties. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if you’d actually bumped into Professor Yaga somewhere in there. 

“Eheh- whoops.” His apologetic words hit hotly against your ear over the thumping music. Your body jostling precariously where you were sat all prettily in his lap on the overpriced living room couch. “I don’t even know half these people.” 

And, yet, more than half the people seemed to know you - or, at least, your relationship with Gojo. 

Sure, you were aware that your brother and his best friend were amongst some of the most popular students on campus, but this was ridiculous. You couldn’t pass two minutes without a few guests sauntering up to wish the two of you well and leaving Gojo with a “congratulations for finally growing the balls.”

“They sure know a lot about your balls, huh?” You’re raising a brow, back pressed up against the massaging ridges of his abs. And some part of you felt guilty for deceiving all of these people - they really did look curiously happy for the two of you. 

Gojo’s bemoaning, “I can assure you that you are the only one allowed to talk about my b-”

“Ugh, couples.” Comes your brother’s voice to the side of you, the cushiony couch dips as he takes his seat. “Though, it is much better than having him mope around.”

“Suguru…” Gojo murmurs. Low. 

“What? Scared I’ll embarrass you in front of your girlfriend?” Geto was such a provocateur despite that serene expression he’d constantly wear on the outside. Taking a long swig of his beer before musing, “Remember, she’s my sister, Satoru. And I think she should know about that book of pick-up lines you bought for her. And that picture in your-”

Immediately, two engulfing hands find their place on either side of your head, covering your ears so blatantly. Gojo’s strained screech is only slightly muted when he drags out, “W-we haven’t gotten to that stage yet!”

“Oh, I see I see-” And Haibara - dear, sweet Haibara - always chooses the worst times to pop up from behind the two of you. Ringing voice commanding the attention of about half of the room nearby when he’s humming, “So you two are still in the honeymoon phase, then? How romantic!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

There’s such dangerous possessiveness in Gojo’s limbs when they tangle in a mess with yours. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other gliding its lecherous pathway up and down your exposed thigh. Slowly. Savoring. 

Gojo’s fingers twirl over the short hem of the dress he’d bought, lips pressed up against your throat as he mutters. “Aw, c’mon– no need to be shy, sweetheart.”

And you’re sure whatever strange little flip your heart did showed on your face - because immediately, you’re being showered with awww’s and squeals from all around you two- when did you even draw in a crowd?

“Then why dontcha give ‘er a pretty peck to prove it.”

But of course, Sukuna was in it, too.

“What?” 

You try not to let your true feelings bleed into your words when you take a long look at that unchanged smirk, the way he’s tilting his tattooed neck in defiance. Shrugging up sculpted shoulders, “M’just saying. If you were my girl, I’d want to prove it to everyone here.”

Damn.

Geto nudges his best friend, and you grit your teeth - because proving it was exactly what Sukuna did when you two were dating. Often these parties found you sneaking away if he felt generous, and Sukuna’s lips hot against yours right on the dance floor if he didn’t. 

All in front of a fuming Gojo.

And, hell, if he could be petty then so could you. 

You’re ignoring the boiling in your veins to run a few stray fingers through Gojo’s angelic hair. Soft. It drags his steely gaze from Sukuna over to you with a gulp, “S’that okay, Toru–” Oh god, that nickname has Gojo wondering whether he’s in heaven. “-wouldn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“Tch, are you kiddin’ me-” He recovers quickly, and you didn’t know whether the raw awe in his voice was part of the acting or simply just Gojo being himself. “-provin’ to losers than I’m yours is the best birthday gift I could get.”

The last thing you see is that tiny, curvaceous dimple at the end of Gojo’s grin before he’s smashing his lips onto yours. It’s messy. Disorganized. The very beginnings of a sodden French kiss. 

Sheer teeth and lips and need as he suckles lightly on your lower lip, pearly white canines sinking in ever-so-lightly until you keen. Lost into the wolf whistles erupting from the party-goers - it seems to knock some sense into you two.

And Gojo breaks the kiss with a panting pah! sugary sweet taste of his birthday cake lingering on your tongue - over as soon as it started. “Happy birthday to me.”

“You are so corny-” you’re croaking, more so because you didn’t know what to say than anything. Because all your mind was whirling with weren’t words - it was the feeling of wanting more more more-

Shit. Your eyes widen, peering down at Gojo’s half-drunken gaze - even though you’re sure his lightweight self hasn’t had a single drink tonight. You wanted to kiss him more. 

“I-I think I’m going to get a drink.” you’re mumbling out, hastily standing on two unsteady feet. Mere moments away from stepping into the kitchen - from making your escape - before long digits clasp around your wrist. With a plastered smile, you turn to Gojo, gaze flickering down between his begging eyes and that vice-like grip of his. “You need anything, babe?”

“Ah-” Gojo lets you go as if your skin scorched him - as if he didn’t even realize that he’d been holding onto you this way. “No no, nothing for me- don’t take too long, m’kay~”

Every step you take, Gojo’s watching after you like it couldn’t be fast enough.

Because after that? That kiss that had him feeling like a pathetically melty puddle of teenage hormones? Shit, he’s almost on the verge of getting out of his seat and running after you like a maiden himself-

“So…ugh- was that part of the truce?”

“Huh?”

“Was that- dammit, Satoru fuckin’ look at me- she’s not even in your line of sight!”

“Oh- what?” Gojo’s veering his eyes over to his best friend, gaze still trailing after you like a lost puppy even when he registers the other man talking to him. Your little audience had mostly dissipated by now, leaving him to act as much of a fool as his idol-like persona on campus didn’t allow. 

Geto lets him stew in the strobing silence of the party music for a little longer, before heaving out a sigh that was much too worldly for a young man of twenty-something. As a younger sister, you really did give him grief - and he finds himself almost wishing he hadn’t interrogated Gojo after overhearing your strange agreement earlier today. “Man, you really are stupid, huh?”

“I know.” 

“And this charade of yours is even stupider.”

“...I know.”

“And you realize that you might just be helping her back into the arms of that Sukuna all over again, right?”

“WHAT?” He’s so desperately loud that a few guests in the vicinity jump. But Gojo didn’t care - he didn’t give a shit about anything other than grasping onto Geto’s collar, shaking him stupid. “Have you lost your mind- I’m supposed to be the nonsensical one in our duo-”

“I-I’m just saying.” Geto’s putting his hands up as if a shield, “Getting an ex-boyfriend jealous using the same man he was threatened over when they were dating? Sounds like the textbook recipe for jealousy sex if you ask me.”

Oh, Gojo Satoru was going to kill someone. Brows marrying together, he only wobbles his best friend harder. “B-but no- that can’t be- they hate each other, don’t they?”

And, ah, he hated how Geto always knew what to say. 

Hated how he already knew by the devilish curve of Geto’s lips that nothing that was about to fall out of it was going to do his sanity any good. 

Gojo flails, “No wait-”

“Don’t you two claim you ‘hate each other’? And yet, here you are.” Geto’s patting his best friend on the back as if consoling him, shaking his head with the patience of a mother with a few problem children. “There there, you complete imbecile. Now you might want to stay here sulking with a singleton like me, or- you might want to go over there and avenge the honor of your fake relationship, because I see an ex-boyfriend coming in hot.”

“What?”

He’s jerking his head around so urgently that Gojo’s vision blacks out for a bit - and that’s exactly the excuse he’ll use for years to come when he shoots up to his full height. Snatching a glass of liquid courage from Geto-

“Satoru, that’s-”

Knocking it back within seconds before storming off to just where he could just peak your beautiful self in the kitchen being crowded by Sukuna. That adorable furrow in between your brows betraying your thoughts, lips moving furiously with a frown.

“Do you think he knows that what he drank was just water and not alcohol…” Geto tilts his now-empty cup at a lounging Nanami nearby, head bowed like he couldn’t give a single fuck if this party burned with him in it. 

“No.” 

“Do you think he realized the ‘jealous sex’ was a bluff?”

“No.”

Geto lets out a slight huff of laughter, “And do you think he realizes that more than one person in our group knows it’s pretend?”

“No.” Nanami didn’t care if he risked sounding like a broken recorder, after spending almost a decade with you two dancing around each other, he thinks he’s owed that privilege at the very least. “I don’t think he realizes that had your sister so much as looked his way, let alone date his sorry self, then the entire campus would have been hearing about it for the past month.” For the first time since he’d found himself accidentally dragged into Geto’s conversation with him, Nanami raises his head to catch the tail end of Gojo’s lanky legs disappearing into the kitchen. “After all, Sukuna did break up with her because they were in love with each other. Just too stupid to see.”

Now, you might not exactly be his yet like he’s wished on every single birthday candle since he was six - but Gojo Satoru was to be damned if was going to let any other bastard steal his fake girlfriend.

“Sukuna-”

“Awww…what happened to ‘Kuna’, baby?”

You snort, arms crossing over each other while you fixate your glare on Sukuna’s leering form. God, the kitchen just seemed too small for the two of you. “I think you lost that privilege when you dumped me.” Attempting- failing - to sidestep, “Now if you’d excuse me, my boyfriend is-”

Scoffing, “Girl- what boyfriend?”

Sukuna looked to be on the very verge of laughter, and you were on the verge of breaking into a nervous sweat. He’s rasping out a rumbling snicker at that look on your pretty face, “Oh come on, now- you can’t really expect me to believe that sorry excuse of a kiss came from the same man that’s been wantin’ you for years, right?”

Shit. 

Wait…years?

Your fingers curl tighter around the beer bottle, “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And you watch as Sukuna’s mouth drops - now fully laughing in your face. “Damn- not even a hint? You really did downgrade after me, ma. At least I was honest.”

“Honestly an asshole, that’s for sure.” 

But the rest of your fire swims down the drain as he inches closer. And closer. Heat radiating off the rippling muscles of his body when a big, beefy arm of his cages you against the polished marble counter. Head inclining slightly towards the door, “Well- why don’t you and I-”

“Take your fuckin’ hands off my girlfriend.”

“Satoru?”

But the sight you’re met with seems anything but - gone is that softly teasing demeanor, vanquished is Gojo’s easy smile. His pretty features are twisted into such a feral snarl; and where his tone was ice-cool, his eyes were blazing with raw fury.

Gojo looked like he didn’t even hear you as he echoes, “I won’t say it again.”

“Well alright then, Mr. Boyfriend.” Sukuna lets go of the cool counter surface with a knowing chuckle, walking horrifically towards a seething Gojo himself. The two stand eye-to-eye, glare-to-glare. “Are ya sure you and your third-rate acting wasn’t interrupting anything between myself and my girlfriend?”

“Satoru, ignore him–” You’re pleading, trembly voice jolting Gojo out of his hypnotized stupor, and making him drag his heavy legs around to you. Fuck, that was close. You didn’t know what-

“That’s right. Comfort your friend the only way you know how- s’not like you can do anything other than pine for decades until the next one comes around to steal her away, anyway.”

CRASH!

In a split-second, Gojo has Sukuna pinned against the wooden cabinets by his cotton shirt. Ego and desperation wafting from the two men as his feet dangle a few centimeters off the floor. Gojo had his teeth bared - eyes wild, looking like he was seconds from foaming at the very mouth. And Sukuna’s own lips quirked upwards into a grin. 

“You better watch your fucking mouth.” Gojo hisses. 

“You wanna tell her or should I-”

“What is happening here-” Shoko’s sharp voice snaps the three of you from your little bubble of violence, and it’s like all of a sudden the music and the party comes pouring back into the kitchen. Strangers and friends alike hot on your heels to watch the drama unfold, being pushed back by a frantic Haibara. “You’re acting like children.”

Sukuna shoves the other man off of him, and makes his way out. “Well, I know one of us hasn’t grown up.”

And Gojo is just about to stride forwards- until you catch him with a hand hooked around his elbow. Feeling the washing sense of deja vu from not too long ago. Hastily spitting out, “N-now- oh! Look at that, let me get that bruise cleaned up-” There was no bruise, and there was no reason for you to drag Gojo from the kitchen as fast as you did. Yet, you did anyway. “We’ll be upstairs–”

“Man…Sukuna.” Geto whistles lowly, watching you lug his 6’3 mess of a clingy best friend up the stairs and into what he assumes to be Gojo’s bedroom. “I know you wanted to set them up together badly but wasn’t that a little much?”

“Oh shut up- I don’t give a shit if they get together or- or if she’s happy or not.” he gruffs, stalking off. 

Yet, Geto guffaws at the angry rouge that colored the very tips of his ears, and the slight wobble in Sukuna’s lower lip when he stops to watch you two make your escape.

Yeah. “Didn’t give a shit” his ass. 

“Ugh.” Utahime rolls her eyes, signalling at the DJ to raise the volume on the music just a tad louder. She had a dreading feeling they’d strangely need it. “Men.”

.

.

.

Ugh, men. 

You roll your eyes, the soft pads of your fingers tracing over where Gojo’s knuckles were slightly reddening after knocking against the cabinets. You were only glad that it didn’t escalate into something even worse - damn this stupid idea. 

“I’m sorry.”

Gojo breaks the thickened silence between you two, his sullen voice echoing across all four wide corners of the master bedroom. But all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse when he blinks his eyes up at you, “I didn’t…didn’t think it would go this far.”

The two of you are sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, practically sinking into the plush mattress. And you can’t help but notice how much the room smells like him.

“Ah, well- y’know…” you’re trailing off, and the way you look at him - so soft and raw will forever be etched into his honeyed mind. You were comforting him…what a night. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. B-beside- it’s over now, isn’t it?” 

He can only nod.

And you feel your fingers twitch where they were cradled in his much larger ones. Fuck. Here goes nothing…

“So that means I have to hold up my end of the bargain now, doesn’t it?”

Oh. 

Gojo blinks.

Oh.

“Wait- so was it the body or the char-”

“Unless you finish that sentence right now. In that case I’m never speaking to you again.”

And shit, if you knew that this was the way to shut Gojo Satoru up then you’d have been wielding this power much, much sooner. Breath hitching when his plump, pinkish lips instantly zip shut, and he’s scrambling off the bed to kneel in front of you.

Kneel.

Gojo was kneeling in front of you, knees clacking to the floor so hard that you think it must hurt. But all that he wears on his expectant face is the rosiest of blushes, and the slight pucker of his lips when he leans in. “I-I’ll shut up- but can I have my kiss now?”

You couldn’t gift an answer even if your dizzy mind could somehow conjure up one.

Because with the slightest nod of your head - barely motioning even a few millimeters - Gojo’s crashing his lips onto yours like he was starved. 

Like he didn’t want to breathe - didn’t need to - when his mouth was meshing against yours. Addicted from that faux kiss downstairs. Keening out a low whine at the very back of his throat, he’s gulping in steady heavals of your essence. Greedy hands circling your body-

“O-oh shit.” he kisses, mouth parting from yours ever-so-slightly because fuck, he had to breathe. But he’s completely and utterly sure that he could die happy right here and right now, lips firmly pressed against yours. 

You’re half-heartedly sputtering, “We should– the party–”

“D-don’t talk to me about a fuckin’ party, pretty.” His teeth pull lewdly on your lower lip, “One more- that was a practice run. O-one m-”

This time, it’s you cutting him off. 

Swallowing up the rest of Gojo’s sentence and forcing his body to wreck with a sudden bolting of lightning. And Gojo swears he tastes heaven on your lips, thumbing open your jaw further to pry out your lolling tongue and suck. 

You moan out what sounds like a slurring string of his name over and over - praying that these walls were as soundproofed as they looked. 

Fingers nimbling their way over to the first few open buttons of his shirt - the very graze of your skin down his burning one sends shots of electricity down Gojo’s body. It makes him jolt. It makes him drag in a heaving lungful. It makes his heavy palm drop its way to the curve of your ass and squeeze. 

“Wait-” he’s drunken. Seething. Silvery strings of rope snapping in the heady lack of space between you two when Gojo pulls away. “-what’s it that they say- one more for luck?”

One more. And another. Another. Another and another and it’s still not enough even when Gojo’s mouth was throbbingly red and raw from crashing against yours, whimpering at the slightest wet glide of your candied lips across his.

Meshing in a sodden pucker he’s trailing his plumpened lips down the splatters of dribble that’d made its way down the corner of your mouth. 

As lazy as his hands were, long digits drawing circular massages up, up, up your thigh. You’re gasping when the fat curve of his thumb nudges in through your drenched panties, drawing a sopping wet line down your teary slit. 

“I think…” Cutting himself off to let his tongue slide out and lick a languid stripe down your drivel. “...think I needa hah- kiss those other lips of yours for good measure, sweetheart.”

Oh.

Fuck.

He looked like he was seconds from drooling at the very thought. Nervous energy bleeding into his words, making them sound almost like a whimper. Gojo Satoru wasn’t asking - he was begging on his knees right before you to eat out your pretty cunt.

Sharp inhales being sucked through his drunkenly parted lips when you slide your fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and pull. “Th-then you better make it worth all the trouble, Toru.”

Oh, his head tumbles backwards at the sound of that nickname on your lips once more.

Chuckling - chuckling - all humorless and crazed. Bleary eyes locked on you and only you, he doesn’t move them a singular inch once all the while dipping his fingerpads into the hem of your panties and pulling. Dragging out the drenched excuse of your panties, they’re splotching a glistening coating of your sweet, sweet juices down your thighs. 

And Gojo only turns to look once he brings them eye-level - up to his face and-

“Toru, you’re so nasty–”

“Ya think?” Gojo huffs out through the slicked-up fabric of your underwear, breathing in your essence like it was his favorite scent. And you swear you catch him sneaking in a few droplets of your syrupy juices that splatter onto his mouth. Groaning, “Oh, sweetheart- m’gonna make you realize just how nasty I really am.”

Without any apologies, without any warning, your thoroughly hypnotized self is being shoved down roughly onto the mattress. You bounce a few times against the navy sheets, legs hiking up on autopilot - exactly the way that Gojo wanted them. 

You really were made for him. 

Mewling, “Wh-what-”

“Shhh sh sh-” he’s whispering out in ragged rasps, still pressing a few pretty pecks against the mound of your translucently glossed panties. It was taking everything in him to part- to set them down…Well, perhaps not that far. Gojo stuffs your panties mindlessly into the back pocket of his pants, tongue swiping a moisturized coating over his lips when he takes back in the sight of you. “M’talking to her.”

All splayed out on the bed for him - it was like all his dreams materialized into real life. 

Literally. 

“Oh, look how wet she is–” His creamy fingertips push up your dress to make such a slurring mess all over your pursed lips. On purpose. Swirling the edge of his manicured thumb over and over in the tiniest of circles over your pulsing clit. And Gojo snickers at how greedy she was for his attention…how cute. “-whaddaya think she’s ngh- tellin’ me, pretty?”

Rubbing your fists over your eyes, you’re seeing stars when Gojo’s rude digits give your clit a sudden pinch. “I-I don’t know–”

“Awww- are you sure?” You’re being showcased the most innocent pout you’ve seen him plaster on his entire life, lower lip jutting out and looming so dangerously close to kiss the drizzling trail at your puffy folds. “Because she’s so talkative to me- might jus’ be nicer than you.”

You wish you could snap back as you usually would - oh, how you wish. 

But you’re sure that any and every noise that showers out from your dazed mouth wouldn’t even be heard. Because for one infuriating time in your life, Gojo was right. 

Those sugar-coated squelches from your dripping cunt replayed in your ears over and over. Every teasing pattern of Gojo’s fingertips has you rambling in a saturated song that sticks to your ears like cotton. And Gojo couldn’t get enough.

He couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t falter no matter how much he wanted to keep up this ever-cracking facade of being suave. Heeding to practically every word from your pretty pussy when his heated mouth gruffs closer and kisses you.

Slow. Filthy.

“T-Toru–” you’re whining, your fingers entangling with his snowy locks. And no matter how hard you tug, Gojo doesn’t move even an inch. “-make sure you ngh- b-breathe- fuck-”

“Don’t need to..don’t- don’t need it…” Gojo’s slurring out into your saccharine pussy lips, intentionally dragging out his words so that they vibrate all down your spine. 

Button nose massaging against your ample clit, the decadent room rings! with a sultry squelch. And you’re peeking down at that sinful sight of Gojo’s tongue smearing your puffed-up pussy lips agape. Swiping around and around the circular hole of your entrance before plunging in-

Oh.

Gojo looked like he was so in bliss. 

Eyes sliding all the way to the back of his head with one taste of your bawling cunt on his tongue- shit. Shit.

Shit shit shit. He’s out of control when he gasps, two hands curling under and around your thighs to haul you down the bed. Maw hanging ferally open when he’s gashing your poor pussy with the most sodden French kisses - Gojo’s never kissed a person like this before. And he doesn’t think he ever will - other than you. 

Doesn’t think he’ll ever feel as feverish as he does right now when he’s craning his deft fingers into his mouth. Sucking. Tasting. Each and every one with a messy pop! pop! pop! 

He really was nasty.

You gape at the way your slick hangs all down his lips and coats a sparkling glaze that drips down his chin and forms a little pool at his neck. His collarbones. Trickling down with pearly beads of sweat that sift between his perky pecs so mouthwateringly.

“F-fuuuuck-” Gojo’s hissing, brows scrunching together like he couldn’t even believe what he was seeing. “You jus’ got ngh- wetter. S-so much wetter…”

It’s said like a prayer. 

Like a plea because your cunt was driving Gojo crazy.

“It’s all because of ah- you–” You squirm at the way that these were the words tumbling from your mouth. And you already know that Gojo was about to tease you for this for the next few years - if he even remembered, that is. 

Because just about the only thing that he can do right now is twirl the edges of his fingers over your winking hole. Once. Twice. Before feeding you inch by long inch of his middle finger - in your lusty haze you think you manage to count about six inches from his staggering size. 

And it only had you imagining his size down below. 

“Don’t squeeze around m-me- fuck who am I kidding-” Gojo’s sleazy pumps of his hand has your cunt slobbering all down to his working wrist. Adding in one more, two. “-drool all over me- make a mess- hah- fuckin’ ruin me.” Mouth bumbling a mile a minute when his drives build up sloppily, swiveling around your gummy walls to nudge over all your tenderized sweet spots. “Yeah- heh- yeah suck me up like that. S-such a slutty girl, aren’t ya?”

“S-stop being so-”

So what?

Talkative with your cunt? So greedy when he shovels his face back in between your tottering thighs? So heated when he utters. Like a death sentence. All that he could. “I-I can’t stop- do you know how long I’ve ah- imagined this? Dreamt of this?”

Your palm constrict on his silky strands and Gojo’s so pliant when he lets himself be rummaged even deeper against your pussy. So ready to be used. “Th-think I like you better when you ngh- shut up–”

And even through it all, Gojo finds it in himself to roll his eyes - though, you think it’s a way to disguise the way he’s agonizingly swimming in euphoria more than anything. Chuckling out wetly, “Th-think I like it better when you’re ah- actually on m’tongue and n-not jus’ in my fuck- dreams when I have my cock in hand.”

Shit.

He’s so shameless. 

Fingers jackhammering in and out in and out in and out- 

“Where is it-” he’s spitting out into your squirming pussy, the lower half of your body being pinned to the mattress with one of his strong arms. You’re feeling the way his biceps bulge against your skin. Getting faster. Faster. “-where is it where is it where-” 

“What are you even ngh- looking for, Toru?” you’re crying out - it was all so much now. So close. 

But the only answer you get are your ankles being tugged to wrap around Gojo’s fervent head, pinned with one hand behind his back. “Lock it.” Keeping you held there until the ends of your feet knot as vice-like as possible to mash his face into your drooling cunt. 

Gojo wraps his rose pink lips around your weepy clit and sucks through furrowed brows when his thorough digits surge upwards at a bruising pace into a bulbous magical spot. That spot. 

“Found it.”

And you find yourself cumming with such a loud yelp of Gojo’s name - throat rubbing sore with every peak of your high. Your orgasm crashes into you over and over as he laps up every bead, every splatter, every drop that you’re giving. 

And he’s still parched. 

Spitting out a wet slew of saliva into your quavering hole, Gojo’s making such a mess of you. Absolutely ruined when he sucks up every wet smear that waterfalls from your cute cunt - so thirsty. 

It’s only when your high has died down to a few tingles, when your limbs twitch with overstimulation, that Gojo finds himself pulling away. His lips stinging rawly, nose slicked and dripping with your sweet, sweet juices - you’re hearing the most pained grunt from between your legs as he pulls away.

It hurt him to.

“Oh, w-would ya look at that—”

You weren’t sure if you trusted him enough to look - already knowing that whatever it was would have your mind reeling.

But how could you not when Gojo’s fat fingertips squeeze your cheeks together into a pathetic pout, opening your glazed mouth just wide enough for him to salivate. A thick wad of spit hitting your lolling tastebuds, his thumb swipes over the stray slops that’d made their home on the corner of your slack jaw. 

He grins, “I said look, sweetheart…”

Groaning, your eyes blink downwards - and you weren’t even sure what you were witnessing at first. Not even sure if you were daydreaming - because Gojo had his black dress pants unbuttoned. Shoved down until his thick, milky thighs just enough for you to witness his massive length.

Yeah, his fingers were definitely an indicator of something.

Because Gojo was so big that you felt nervous. His length swollen and thickened to an incredible girth. All pretty with a red, rotund ruby tip that blushes a cute strawberry pink all the way down, down, down until neatly trimmed tufts of white at his base. Saddling his tight, hefty balls that looked much too heavy.

He made your mouth water. 

But that wasn’t all - no, what really catches your eye and snaps you from your orgasmic haze and into a half-lucid state were the creamy rings upon rings that laminated his shaft. Frosting-like dredges of cum sliding lazily down his angry cock, spurting out a few more from his weepy divot at the very end at your unwavering attention. Did he-

“Yes.” Gojo gasps out in a condensed puff, his voice sugary and embarrassed. Shit, did you just say that out loud? “I-I came just from…you’re just so-” 

Damn, he curses his stupidly babbling mouth. So drunk on you that he can’t voice all the sinful thoughts sprinting through his melty head right now - all the thoughts that have been already for years now. 

It was impossible - even for his big fat mouth.

So without another word, Gojo tuts as he’s rolling his shoulders as if on instinct to pop a few joints; in one, fluid motion your body is being sidled into such an easy princess carry. 

Patting you down right into the cushiony middle of the bed, he looms over you - stalks over to you. And you can’t deny that the absolutely feral smile twisting his features makes your cunt twitch. 

“Too many clothes.” Gojo tugs on your dress - that darkened glint in his eyes not boding well for you or-

RIP!

-for this dress.

At the sight of your jaw dropping in adorable surprise, he chuckles out a rough, “Don’t worry- I’ll buy ya that again. I’ll buy ya the ngh- whole fuckin’ store jus–” And oh with a few masterful flicks of his fingers on your bra, you’re left in nothing underneath him. Nothing to hide your perfect body away from the way he was fucking you with his half-lidded eyes. “-just let me f-fuck this cute cunt, please?”

It takes you a few sloppy seconds of Gojo nibbling down your neck for you to realize that he’s waiting for you. For anything. 

Huffing, your shaky fingers clench around the glaringly open lapels of his button-up. “S’unfair th-that you’re the only one in clothes-”

And, well, who was Gojo Satoru against you?

You’re demandingly helping him shrug off that branded shirt, buttons hitting the ground, his pants hitting the floor-

“Whoops.” Gojo grins sheepishly when his pants and those tight boxers collapse onto the floor in a tatter of fabric and your panties. “Jus’ consider it a uh- birthday gift, pretty–”

No longer having his flaps of fabric to reel him in by, your fingernails dig neat little patterns of crescents on his heated skin as you drag him down to you. Heady breaths mingling with one another, “You said no gifts, remember? If you ngh- really want those panties- y-you’re gonna hafta earn it, Toru.”

And earn it he will. 

Because as soon as the bulging spherical shape of his fat head swipes a sopping kiss down your pussy lips, you feel yourself already moan. He was so hot. 

Already so pussydrunken when he says, “Hope ya don’t mind–” Teeth sinking into your tender earlobe, “-this is my first time.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

You barely even have the mindpower to register those words before you’re being split apart - gasping at the almost-unnatural feeling of being so thoroughly full. Of having our steamingly hot insides being fucked open with just the simple tip of Gojo’s staggering cock. 

“C’mon- c’mon–” He’s lunging up in slow, mindless gyrations trying to force his thick length inside. Powerful arms keeping your wrangling legs spanned wide open for him, they barely even let you budge. Biting down on his lip in frustration, “F-fit inside- shit, your pussy’s so tight, sweetheart– s’it too big for you?”

Stubbornly, “No-”

And Gojo only has to glissade the curves of his palm down to that inflationary nudge of where he was drilling into your cunt. “No?” 

“...no.”

Pressing down. Hard. “No?”

“Fuck- yes- you’re just too big-” And you meant it as a complaint - you really did. But those words only have every ounce of blood remaining in Gojo’s shivering body galloping down to his gluttonous cock. Pushing at the seams to make him expand even fatter, bigger- “Why are you getting bigger?”

Shit, you really needed to watch that mouth of yours. 

Because it has Gojo’s hulking body falling onto two elbows on either side of your head, like a heavenly cage you didn’t ever want to get out of. 

Sweat-simmered forehead bumping into yours, you feel his large fingers interlace dangerously on top of your head. “You need to-” He’s crashing his lips against yours in such a filthy open-mouthed kiss. “-s-stop talkin’ outta ya ngh- pussy. Leave that to her.”

Her. 

And you’re so utterly distracted by all his little ministrations that you didn’t even realize the way he was snugly fitting himself into your cunt. 

The stretch is impeccable when it hits you like a train at full speed, feeling the tiny nooks and crannies of your magical spots being brushed up against the thrumming upright curve of Gojo’s cock. He’s leaving no millimeter of your elastic walls unturned, unstretched. Untainted. 

Gushing out a sweltering hot wave of buttery pre that sloshes all the way against your womb. “Oh- oh what the fuck-” Gojo hisses, chest heaving. And if you didn’t know any better you’d have wondered if he was in pain. “-what the fuck- th-this is what you feel like?”

Right - shit. In all the chaos, you’d forgotten those words he’d confessed just earlier - Gojo Satoru was a virgin. Because of course, he was. Don’t make him laugh, who else would he have ever wanted to see him like this other than you? 

A virgin that was currently pacing his slender hips back and forth to instrument the most syrupy squelches from the very gooey bottom of your cunt. His drooling mouth spreading wider and wider with every sultry half-thrust. 

You mewl, “H-how does it feel, Satoru?”

“I-I feels so- so–” But the words are failing him - the words are escaping him with every gummy squeeze of your walls like you wanted to swallow down more and more of his solid inches. And hand on your hips swirls your hips around ever-so-slightly to feel his sobbing tip paint tiny circles of gluey precum inside you. Gojo snaps his eyes open - wild. “-is it even l-legal to have ya cunt feel this good, sweetheart? This- oh! Heavenly?”

And he was sounding genuinely concerned. Genuinely worried for his sanity once Gojo manages to feed your needy cunt all of his length. 

Now in.

Fully.

And it feels too good - too blissful to have almost every single prayer in his life finally answered that Gojo can’t help but scrunch his eyes shut and cum.

Loudly. Pathetically. 

One hand dancing downwards to give your plump clit a punishing little squeeze as if it was your fault. The other curling around your throat to have you meshing your mouth with his panting one, you can feel it in the vibrations how his voice cracks at the very same second your gooey cunt is filled with such copious dumps of his seed.

There’s so much. 

As if he’s cumming and cumming harder than he has in his entire life, every splatter of stifling hot cum managing to paint the bullseye of your g-spot in pure white. Ounces of his seed creaming around his hefty base, it smears and slide around your thighs as Gojo continues to fuck you into the mattress. Pound after pound that make him see overstimulated stars. 

And it makes Gojo giggle - giggle - head lolling deliriously into the crook of your neck, now covered in a slather of his drool. Every slow ram into your splurging cunt has him grunting out the tiniest ah! ah! ah! 

“Shit- fuckin’ embarrassing-” You hear him groan into your neck, licking a languid column from his tongue before biting. Hard. Hard enough that you’re wondering whether he’d draw blood, “Can ya believe- s-saved my virginity for the ngh- girl of my dreams n’ m’cumming already~?”

He leaves a few final pecks against your lips, “Th-this pussy’s got me too haaaah- addicted, pretty–” As he’s moving to part sloppy ways, you’re gasping at the splatter! of something warm. Wet. And only then do you register the literal tears crinkling at his eyes from overstimulation. Crying. 

“A-are you okay– Satoru?” You’re whining, limp fingers skimming away the strands of white that cling to his prespired forehead. 

“No.” Comes the answer, comes the heaving gasp when Gojo’s fatigued limbs force themselves through his trembling muscles to heave back upright. “One m-more. That was a practice run.” Throwing your legs over his broad shoulders, you feel his flexing deltoids underneath you when Gojo brings one ankle up to his mouth and kisses. Muttering - more to himself than anything. “B-but m’gonna make y’feel good- oh- fuck- m’gonna make you t-take this big cock.”

His words have you just as stupidly fucked as his fat shaft does. 

Those lightning bolts of his veins thump down the upperside of your goopy channel, massaging your sweet spots over and over and-

“Th-think it was here-” Gojo’s palms feel everywhere and anywhere down your tummy for the vicious back and forth of him inside you. To feel that bulging opening, the way your snug channel clenches every time his bouncy tip recoils back from your cervix. Wanting more more more- “-or w-was it- here.”

“Fuck!” The entire expanse of your spine arches off of those thoroughly and filthily dampened sheets now, meshing up sluttily into Gojo’s body until his prespiry-glossed abs cushion your front, plush pecs so comfortably collapsing on top of you. “There- there there hngh- more-”

“More-” Gojo chuckles, hitting that precious spot over and over. His chubby head mashes in slurping soppy collisions until he was out of breath. Dizzy. “More she says- Greedy girl, wh-when you have me already ngh- dripping out of you. Shit- squeezin’ me so. Oh-”

And his vigorous fingers scoop up such lecherous volumes of his own milky cum, toying with the gushing waves of white your poor pussy leaks with every pound. 

He’s bullying them between your lips - cerulean eyes dilating, mouth sagging unsealed when you eagerly suck on his digits. Tasting his candied self, tasting you. Somehow managing to muffle out, “M-m’not greedy.”

Gojo can only grin, “S-say that to me when this oh- cunt of yours isn’t sucking the fuckin’ soul outta me.”

And Gojo would love to tease you more for this - to mouth away for hours on end into your ear about how drenched you were getting and muse out loud whether you’d dreamt of this just as much as he has, too. 

But instead, he’s pecking a flurry of lovely kisses all down your face. Gasping into your lips, “M-move that pretty hand f’me-” So rudely swatting those fingers of yours that’d snuck their way down to toy with your neglected clit, Gojo’s taking over himself to rub steady, methodical circles. Thumb peeking pressure on the hood of your clit just the way he’d read online. “-I’ve always w-wanted to ah- do this. To fuck you raw. T-to ruin you and ngh- fill you up-” As his words spill, so do a few ropey wads of pre. More. Frequent. “-a-and eat you out all over again. See how you taste like mine…”

“Y-you’re gonna-” You can’t even bring yourself to say it. “Again?”

“Of course, sweetheart- why? Scared I- oh.”

That’s when he does it - the mistake of peering his barely-open eyes down.

His weightily smacking balls that smooch against your ass with each thrust clench oh-so-painfully at the vision of your puffed-up pussy lips gaping around him. Drooling. Swallowing. Accommodating his ruthless cock for all you can, practically broken in half and still yearning for more.

Shit, the sight’s so hypnotic that Gojo doesn’t even realize when he’s letting his thoroughly overwhelmed body lock into yours like a puzzle piece. So hefty and sculpted. 

His abs practically melting into your body, and his sloppy hips pistoning into you even deeper. Harsher. Every raring grind of Gojo’s lengthy shaft probes into your g-spot so hard. Like he wanted to leave widely battered bruises of his circumference on your sweetened spots, your cervix, anywhere and everywhere he could reach. Like he couldn’t stop. 

Doesn’t even know the very word right about now in this filthy, filthy mating press. “C’mon- c’mon one more for ah- luck?” Whimpering, “My sweetheart, I-I’m gonna-”

Gojo sees white when he cums once more this night - and you do, too. 

You’re not sure if it’s because of the violent streaks of electricity that run down your entire body, or because of the treacly spurts of cum that overspill from your poor cunt. But fuck- did it feel so good. 

Your entire body tingles all the way down from your toes up to your bleary head - and the entire room feels like it’s fucking spinning at this point. 

Black tinging your vision with ever overfilling thwack! of Gojo’s tight, cum-filled balls as they empty out, out, out into your depths. It’s coating your insides like a sticky second skin, leaving stringy drizzles of seed seeping from between your slit. Adding to the ever-growing puddle before. 

You’re feeling it swashing around you with every drivel of his hips. Overstuffing your elastic walls until you felt like they were about to burst. 

And all you can do is simply grapple your nails into the bulging muscles on Gojo’s back, whimpering out a broken, “T-Toru–”

“M’here I-I’m here–” Yet his voice sounds airy, hitching like he was on cloud nine. A beefy arm wraps around your body and manhandles you close to him like some sort of ragdoll, “M’here- shit-” His lips graze against yours in what you assume must be a kiss, too oversensitive to even perk his head up and peck you senseless like you knew he wanted to. “Never lettin’ ya go- haaah- never- ah-”

Whatever promises Gojo always imagined whispering into your ear can be said and done later. 

Right now, the only thing he can streamline his body into doing for him is to search blindly for his discarded pants by the side of the bed. Searching for that bulge in the back pocket- no, not the panties he’d swiped right in front of you - instead, he’s feeling for the shape of his wallet. 

Pulling your tired body back into his, Gojo’s carding it lazily open to show you that. 

Exactly what they were talking about.

Splayed out proudly in the front and center of his wallet was a picture of the two of you. Years and years ago exactly on this date, the aged photograph showed a smiling Gojo Satoru in front of a candlelit birthday cake, tiny cheeks all pinkened. A small, surly you standing by his side - eyeing his Digimon hat more than you were eyeing the camera. 

But that didn’t matter, because Gojo wasn’t looking at the camera, either. 

He was looking at you - exactly the way he was right now.

Glowy eyes half-lidded, a mysterious little smile playing on his lips. Gojo nuzzles his face against yours and breathes out a tiny, “I…I might have loved you ever since then, y’know that?”

You’re gasping, eyes shining with…something. And Gojo’s heart stutters as he wants to find out. Wringing your hands to wrap around his broad chest, you’re coiling your legs together until you’re unsure where one ends and the other starts. 

Whispering three lovely words into his ear - and three more into the honeyed  air. 

“Happy birthday, Satoru.”

---

Gojo’s one wish was to wake up next to you - like this. Under soft blankets, with your sleepy breath puffing softly into his collarbone, your body tucked safely into his. 

And he never wants to let go - could never even dream of anything that could ruin this precious moment-

“Mind explaining who ordered wedding decor last night on MY account?”

Ah, that would do it. 

Bleary blue eyes wrench open, taking Gojo every shred of will in his body to not jolt at the unwelcome greeting of Shoko peering down at him…while he was all wrapped up with his best friend’s sister in a bedroom that could almost be mistaken for a crime scene. 

Would it really be too late of a birthday wish to hope that she hadn’t noticed your tattered clothes on the floor, the ruined state of the sheets, and the way that the bedframe sagged suspiciously on one side?

Gulping, he’s pressing your body even tighter into his, careful not to let you stir - well, at least it couldn’t get worse than this-

Footsteps. 

Close.

And an unmistakable few voices - and laughter. “Is that my sist- SATORU, YOU BASTARD-”

“Eugh.”

“WHAT did you blackmail her with?”

“Woahhh- congratulations on your relationship!”

A/N. Lowkey has the spirit of a crackfic, I fear. This was SAUR fun.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[sgojoenthusiast]

Web of Secrets

Best friend. Superhero. Disaster. In that order.

🕸️🕷 Pairings: Spider-Man!Gojo x f!Reader 🕸️🕷 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: blood/injury, mild language, brief suggestive tension, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past trauma/injury, friends-to-lovers tension, slow burn maybe, shirtless Gojo in distress (you're welcome) Art by: @aliyartss on instagram

You always knew something was off. The bruises, the excuses, the way Satoru smiled like nothing was ever wrong. But you never expected to catch your best friend climbing through his dorm window in a torn Spider-Man suit—bleeding, limping, and very, very confused to find you already in his bed. Turns out, the mask was the easy part. Explaining why he kept it from you? That’s going to hurt more.

Look, in Satoru Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to get bitten by a radioactive spider.

It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and thought, “You know what would really spice things up? Permanent genetic mutation.” No—he was just eighteen, bored, and dared by his best friends to sneak off during a field trip.

It had been Suguru’s idea, naturally. Haibara backed it up with that reckless grin of his and a, “Come on, Gojo! Don’t be a coward.”. And Gojo—never one to turn down a challenge, especially with you watching from the corner of the lab, arms crossed and suspicious—took the bait. 

Next thing he knew, he was sneaking behind the barrier in one of the restricted research wings, alone, because of course his friends had ditched him to go flirt with the grad students.

But then he took one wrong turn, finding himself in a closed-off lab, staring at a glowing containment case he definitely shouldn’t have opened. And then—snap. Right on the web between his thumb and index finger. Like the thing had been waiting.

Yeah. He got bit. Sue him.

It was small, and honestly, the bite had barely hurt. You’d scolded him for wandering off, of course. Dragged him out by the sleeve of his lab coat and threatened to tell Yaga about the whole thing. But he never got the chance to explain the bite. Not before the symptoms started.

First came the dizziness. Then the freaky super strength. The creeping sense of pressure in the back of his head every time something bad was about to happen. And then the wall-crawling incident. That one was hard to ignore, especially when it ended with him stuck to the ceiling of the boys’ dorm for two hours before Suguru had found him. He was the only one who knew.

And the weird powers? They never went away. 

The getting-stuck-to-the-walls thing just got worse. Along with his super strength that he hadn’t learned to control, resulting in him accidentally flicking an entire cafeteria tray into Nanami’s face (which he still hadn’t been forgiven for).

The rest, well...it escalated.

He got a mask. A suit. A name.

And for the past few years, he’d been juggling college classes, part-time tutoring, and the occasional city-wide disaster. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t rich or famous. He still showed up to class ten minutes late with iced coffee and fresh bruises he refused to explain. But someone had to look out for this city—and it might as well be him. 

Most nights were spent slinging webs across the skyline, fighting weirdos in mech suits or mind-control cults or whatever flavor of chaos happened to be trending. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined his early twenties would look like, but hey—at least the cardio was good.

Tonight had been one of the rougher ones. 

The villain had some sort of magnetic field tech—don’t ask, he’s still figuring it out—that completely messed with his web cartridges, which was honestly just rude. His ribs were sore, his suit was torn along the left thigh and shoulder, and he was pretty sure there was dried blood on his chin. 

All he wanted to do after was crawl into bed and maybe sleep for the next week.

He didn’t bother swinging all the way across the city. Not tonight. He cut through a few back alleys, scaled a fire escape, and ducked into the familiar creak of the window that led to his dorm bedroom.

He dropped down inside with a grunt, one leg over the sill and already halfway to peeling off the top half of his suit when he heard it:

A soft rustle. The distinct turn of a page.

His head snapped up.

You were there.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream. 

Just you, curled up on his bed like you belonged there—hoodie sleeves pushed up, a paperback balanced on your knees.

You blinked. 

He blinked.

Both frozen.

And for once, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what to say.

It was almost midnight when your phone buzzed again.

Another text from Gojo.

still working late :( don’t wait up

You stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering over the screen like you were tempted to cuss him out one more time. But then you rolled your eyes, locked it with a sigh, and tossed the phone onto his nightstand with a quiet thud.

Liar.

“Working late,” your ass. 

He always said that. Or some variation of it—meetings ran long, had to help Yaga with something, emergency tutoring session. All suspicious. All delivered with that same infuriating grin, like he knew you wouldn’t push.

Sometimes you did. Sometimes you tried.

But he always wriggled his way out of it, brushing you off with a joke or a wink, or a “God, you worry too much.” Like caring about him was some kind of thing you should’ve been embarrassed about. 

It was infuriating how vague he could really be—always making it seem like he was out actually doing something normal. But the bruises told you otherwise. The busted knuckles, the limping gait some mornings, the way he winced when he thought you weren’t looking—it all added up to something much bigger than “late-night tutoring sessions”.

So you stopped asking. Mostly.

Suguru was even worse. You’d begged him once, cornered him in the campus café after class when Satoru had come home with his ribs wrapped and his knuckles bloodied. “What is he doing at night?” you’d asked, giving him a look that said I’m serious this time.

Suguru had just looked at you for a long moment before quietly saying, “It’s not my place to tell. Satoru’s just…a complicated guy.”

Like you didn’t already know that.

Then he paid for your coffee and changed the subject.

You’d never felt so helpless in your life.

Satoru Gojo was your best friend. Had been since high school. Loud, ridiculous, impossibly smart—annoying, in that way that got on your nerves like it was his full-time job (though, he made it incredibly hard to actually stay mad at him). He was also the one who carried you home on his back when your feet hurt. Who sent you memes when he knew you were upset. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the closeness stopped feeling purely platonic. 

You never admitted it. Not even to yourself—not really. But it was there, humming under your skin like static.

And lately…he’d been pulling away. Or maybe hiding something. You weren’t sure which felt worse.

He was so secretive. Always brushing things off, changing the subject, vanishing in the middle of plans. You’d started pretending not to notice. That maybe it was just work, or stress, or something he’d eventually tell you when he was ready. 

But that excuse had been wearing thin.

So tonight, instead of going back to your own dorm, you waited.

You’re not even sure why. Stubbornness, maybe. Or something softer you don’t want to name.

You were already curled up on his bed, one leg tucked beneath you, a paperback open in your lap as you reread the same sentence three times now. The hoodie you were wearing was one of his—oversized, soft, with a faded Digimon print on the front and sleeves that fell over your hands. It still smelled like his detergent—that faint peppermint-and-cotton scent that always made you feel like you were here, with him, even when he wasn’t.

His dorm was quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of someone in the hallway and the low hum of traffic outside the cracked window. The room was small and messy, barely big enough for one person, let alone two (he shared with Suguru). His desk was cluttered with open notebooks and loose pens. A pair of round sunglasses rested crooked on top of a physics textbook. The desk chair was pushed back at an angle like he had left in a rush. 

You turned a page.

And another.

The clock ticked past midnight.

You didn’t know why you were still here. Maybe out of spite. Maybe hope. Maybe because you wanted to be there to make sure he was okay. That if he came back again limping or bleeding or cracked open, you’d be the one to catch him.

But deep down, you were hoping—just a little—that tonight would be different. That he’d walk through the door and sit beside you and finally tell you the truth.

You glanced at the window. It was cracked slightly, as always. He insisted that it was for ventilation, but you always suspected it was just another one of his stupid quirks.

You sighed, stretched your legs a little, and settled deeper into the pillows.

If Satoru wanted to keep secrets, fine. He could have his mysteries and his midnight escapades.

But he could at least have the decency to come home before you fell asleep in his bed.

You were just about to give up and call it a night when the window creaked.

Not loud. Just enough to make your head lift.

You blinked once, slowly, glancing up, expecting him to walk through the door like a normal person.

But no. 

Of course not.

There was movement—a shadow pulling itself over the sill, graceless and muttering.

And then he dropped into the room.

You froze.

So did he.

One leg still hanging out the window, one glove halfway peeled off. His other hand tugged at the edge of a white mask, lifting it high enough to expose his jaw—his bruised, bloody jaw—and a familiar mop of white hair.

And your stomach dropped.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, not fully. He was grumbling under his breath, tugging at the top half of his suit as he peeled it down to his waist with a wince. His hair was a mess, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and there was a cut on his temple that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding.

But that wasn’t what made your heart stop.

It was the suit.

Mostly black and white. Torn at the sleeve. Streaked with dirt and ash. And right at the center of his chest, printed in bright, unmistakable blue—

A spider emblem.

Your breath caught.

He looked up. Finally saw you.

And everything in the room just—stopped. He was like a deer caught in headlights.

You felt your heart kind of stutter, because it’s him. It’s Satoru. Except—it’s not.

You stared at him.

Then at the suit.

Then back at him.

Your mouth dropped open. There is no way. No fucking way…

You’ve seen Spider-Man before—but who hasn’t? He was on the news, in blurry tabloid photos, grainy clips online. The masked vigilante who swung in to stop a building collapse downtown. The guy who took on four robbers at once outside the Midtown bank. The same one who—

—saved you once.

But that had been months ago.

And he hadn’t said a word.

Just lifted you out of danger, bridal style, and disappeared before you could even thank him. You’d told yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But now, with him standing in front of you—torn suit, wild hair, and a look of complete panic settling across his features?

There was no denying it.

The book you were barely reading slipped from your lap, hitting the mattress with a dull thump.

“Y–You’re Spiderm—” you start, the words tumbling out before your brain can catch up.

His eyes went wide.

“NOPE—NOPE NOPE NOPE—” he yelped, practically throwing himself across the room.

You shot to your feet, voice rising. “You’re Spider-M—!”

“SHHHHH—” His palm slammed over your mouth mid-sentence.

Your hands flew up in protest, eyes wide, muffled complaints coming fast and still loud. He looked equally horrified and apologetic, the panic written all over his face.

“Stop talking. Stop—please—shhh. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He glanced wildly at the window, as if worried someone might’ve heard you from four stories below. “Why are you here?! Why are you—why are you awake?!”

You glared up at him.

He winced, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a dumb question. But this is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.” he muttered mostly to himself.

You raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, not normal,” he amends quickly, eyes darting around like the room might start recording him. “But manageable. Kind of. If you just—stop screaming and don’t say the name again—"

You swatted at his hand until he finally took the hint. He slowly peeled it away from your mouth, like you might bite him. You didn’t—but only barely. You gaped at him for another beat. Your eyes flicked back to his suit, to the emblem, to the blood on his temple. “You’re Spider-Man?!”

“That’s…um.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly. “A surprisingly complicated question, actually.”

Your hands flew up again. “Are you insane?!”

“Okay see, that’s more fair—”

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time—”

“Not lying,” he said, holding up both hands like he could Jedi-mind-trick you into chilling out. “Just, you know. Withholding certain city-saving, occasionally life-threatening details…”

You were still too stunned to speak. Your pulse was thundering in your ears.

Satoru Gojo—your idiot best friend—was the Spider-Man.

“What the fuck, Satoru?!”

“I can explain!”

“Can you?!”

“...Well, no. But I will! Eventually!”

There was another beat of tense silence. Then you both spoke at the same time.

“You’re a superhero—”

“You were not supposed to be here—”

Another pause.

You looked at him again. This tall, ridiculous man in front of you, standing in his half-peeled suit, covered in bruises, and desperately trying to hold it together with pure denial.

And you couldn’t help it.

You bursted out laughing.

“You’re Spider-Man?” you ask again, still breathless. “You trip over your own feet walking across campus.”

He pouted, deeply offended. “I don’t trip—okay, that was one time, and the floor was weird.”

You shook your head, a hundred questions forming at once. None of them left your mouth.

Because suddenly, everything—every late-night excuse, every wince, every disappearing act—made a terrifying kind of sense.

And it hit you, like gravity finally catching up, that he’d been doing this alone.

So, the laughter faded. Slowly. The corners of your mouth still twitched, but your chest felt tight again. It didn’t just disappear completely—but it quieted. Simmering beneath the weight of everything you’d come to realize.

Satoru looked at you, and you looked at him—this idiot, this liar, this half-dressed, scraped-up mess of a best friend— was still standing there, scuffed and bloody and too tired to keep the smile on his face. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—usually so loud, so annoyingly bright—were just…quiet. You felt everything all at once. Relief. Anger. Confusion. That familiar knot of worry that always settled in your stomach whenever he came home bloodied.

But mostly? You were hurt.

You crossed your arms over your chest, with a pout matching his own, “Why didn’t you tell me?” It hadn’t meant to come out so quietly, a little too raw.

He flinched as if you slapped him. “I—I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—”

You stepped back before he could get any closer. “No, seriously. Don’t start with that. You lied. You disappeared. You let me sit here for months, wondering where you were. You let me think you were just being a dumbass, going out and getting into fights for fun, when you were out there risking your life every single night.”

He flinched again. You hated that he looked so small sitting there with his arms half out of his suit. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t know how to fix it.

“Suguru knew,” you snapped. “And not me. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”

His mouth opened—then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know where to start.

“Okay, that wasn’t—on purpose,” he said eventually. “He walked in on me stuck to the ceiling of our dorm one night. I was still figuring everything out, and he… just found out. I didn’t tell him. He saw. And I couldn’t really explain that away, could I?”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because you believed that part—but it didn’t fix the ache.

He looked up at you then, eyes wide and a little too honest.

“Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you. I just…I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted. 

That made your eyes narrow. “What?”

He exhaled, long and rough-sounding. “Not because I don’t trust you. It’s the opposite.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’ve seen what happens. Bad guys figure out who matters. They look for leverage, and people get caught in the middle. People I care about. I didn’t want to put a target on your back. If anything ever happened to you because of me—”

His voice broke off shakily, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t survive it,” he said, quieter. “I’d never forgive myself…”

You blinked, feeling your throat tighten. “But I’ve always been there,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Whether I knew or not. I was already close. That didn’t change anything. You just…kept me in the dark.”

He just looked at you like you were breaking his heart. “I know…I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—wanted to keep you safe.”

There was a long, slow silence. Your shoulders sagged. The tension in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.

“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, stepping forward and tugging at his wrist. “Sit down before you fall over.”

He obeyed without argument, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince. You didn’t wait for permission—you turned on your heel and disappeared into his tiny bathroom, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet under the sink.

You needed a minute to breathe. To focus on something real, like disinfectant and gauze pads. Something you could control.

When you returned with the first aid kit, he hadn’t moved. He looked up at you with those stupidly blue eyes like he expected you to throw it at his head (which he definitely deserved).

Instead, you knelt down in front of him, pulling the kit open with practiced fingers. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, smiling just a little.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said, your voice fell quiet again. It wasn’t meant to sound so soft, but it was the truth.

He didn’t say anything, but he held your gaze.

You gestured toward his shoulder. “Suit.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“For the wound, asshole.”

“Oh. Right.” He winced, hesitating for a moment before he peeled the rest of the top down, the fabric sticking to a bloody scrape along his ribs. His chest was broad and flushed in patches of bruised skin and dried blood. Strong. Vulnerable.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the gauze. You tried not to look too long, but your gaze lingered. On the muscles shifting beneath his skin. On the curve of his neck, the dip of his collarbones, the pale trail of a healing scar across his ribs that you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow.

Your pulse fluttered, and it made you angry—because he was reckless and stupid and hadn’t told you anything. And it made you terrified, because you didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it home tonight.

He winced when you dabbed the cut a little too firmly. “Baby,” you teased, gently. “You jumped off a building tonight. I think you can handle a little antiseptic.”

He snorted in response, smiling just a little, but it was smaller than usual. More tired. “That’s rich, coming from the person who cries during animal rescue commercials.”

The silence stretched. Your fingers moved more slowly, feeling the tension between you suddenly shift. It softened, changed shape.

You realized you were still kneeling between his knees, still tending to the bruise blooming down the side of his chest, and his eyes hadn’t left you once. When your hand brushed along the exposed skin, his jaw ticked.

The air felt warmer now. Thicker. His eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips. Yours flicked to his. 

And he leaned in. Just barely.

And you let him.

Your heart stuttered against your ribs once more, this time for a very different reason. Your lips parted slightly—

—and then the door swung open.

“Hey, Satoru, have you seen my—” Suguru’s voice cut off midway.

Both you and Satoru whipped your heads around, flustered, wide-eyed, practically jumping apart.

Suguru stood in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Then Satoru. Then the awkward tangle of limbs and exposed skin between you.

There was a beat of silence as he blinked. But then he smirked. “Oops,” he said, backing up with his hands raised into the air. “My bad.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, you sat back, pressing the gauze firmly to his chest like it was his fault. “Tell him if he walks in like that again, I will kill him.”

Satoru coughed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Technically, he does live here.”

You glared. “Whatever.”

And this time, he laughed.

You cleaned the last of the cuts in silence, fingers steadier now. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something quieter. Something that felt like grief, maybe. Or relief. A kind of tenderness you weren’t sure what to do with.

And it wasn’t awkward between you anymore. Just heavy. Full of things unsaid.

You taped down the last bit of gauze and let your hand rest—briefly—against the uninjured part of his chest. The warmth of his skin. The steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He didn’t move.

You knew he was still watching you. He always watched you like this—like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

And maybe you would’ve. If things were different.

When you finally sat back on your heels, you expected him to deflect. To joke. To shove it all down again, the way he always did when things got too real.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his voice came low. Careful. Afraid he didn’t deserve to ask.

“…Can you stay?”

You looked up at him. Really looked—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still drying in his hair. But more than that…you saw all of it. The fear. The loneliness. The guilt he’d never once said out loud.

You wanted to yell at him again. Or maybe hold him forever.

But instead, you just nodded. Quietly. Without hesitation.

Because he didn’t need to ask.

Because you were already here.

Because you’d always stay.

And that was enough.

Author's Note: I've had this oneshot in my drafts forever now, but I was feeling inspired by Only One's Who Know by @indiewritesxoxo, because this superhero au of Gojo and Geto is chef's kiss. And I HIGHLY recommend you guy's go give it a read (I'm addicted)!

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

banner by @strangergraphics!

[sgojoenthusiast]

test drive

how quickly can the world's fastest driver crash straight into your heart?

synopsis: who would've thought the stranger you meet on vacation would turn out to be four time F1 racing champ, Ryomen Sukuna? or that your summer fling would stretch into the fall?

pairing: f1 driver!Sukuna x f!Reader

content: mdni, smut and angst and fluff, f1 au, strangers to lovers, sukuna is first driver for Ferrari, gojo and geto cameos, unprotected piv sex, full nelson, brat taming, prone bone, pulling out, phone sex, mutual masturbation, pining, yearning, he's actually incredibly in love with you and SUCH an idiot, jealousy, happy ending

art by @winterrbluess !! special thanks to everyone who shared useful info about f1 racing <33

You didn't know who he was the first time you fucked him. Didn't think to look too long past the pink hair and rough exterior, the pretty ink coloring his tanned skin and the lean muscles rippling underneath his shirt.

In hindsight, that was probably why he liked you.

It wasn't until the second week that you picked up on something being just a little off. You were on vacation. He said he was too. Everything was just casual, days drinking in dingy bars and nights eating at hole-in-the-wall restaurants mostly just for some pretense to pretend this was a whirlwind relationship and not just hot and handsy hookups in his hotel room. He kissed you like he liked you, held you like you were someone to savor. Listened to you talk about your life across the table and indulged you in desert instead of rushing you back to bed.

Then someone snapped a photo of him, a bright flash in the dark corner booth, girls giggling.

You never saw their face, but they'd seen his.

Honestly, you tried to convince yourself it was just because he was hot.

But two days later, your friend sent you a link to some tabloid plastering your picture on the front page.

Ryomen Sukuna spotted with mystery girl?

It only took one search to unravel the rest.

When he mentioned he mostly traveled for work? F1 Racing on weekends in championship cups. Which you guessed was what he meant when he said he liked cars. But what man didn't?

Why the fuck would you assume some guy you met at the beach would be the current first driver's seat for fucking Ferrari?

You didn't know shit about the sport. Or well, any sport.

Strangely enough, you still felt almost betrayed, something stinging at the fact he hadn't bothered to bring it up. You didn't think you were special, or that this was serious. But you didn't like feeling stupid either.

"You're glaring," He commented, stuffing his face full of some high protein meal meant to keep his physique up, a black compression shirt clinging to his chest like he'd come from the gym.

"Okay," You shrugged, picking at your own food.

He picked a place with hardly any people today. No one to catch him with a nobody.

"Are you gonna be a brat all night?" He sighed, dropping his fork and scowling back at you.

"Maybe," You shrugged again, glancing away from him to stare at the cash register. Your wallet was in your purse, the temptation to get up to pay for your half and go getting stronger by the second.

"Fine," He grunted, taking one last big bite before tossing too much cash on the table. You guessed he could do that with how much he was getting paid to drive dangerously and toe the line with death. "Want me to fuck that attitude out of you?"

For all his skills, he still hadn't managed to do that two rounds later.

Both of you panting and sweaty, one palm pressing down on the slight bulge of your stomach where his cock was currently thrusting and the other pressing your thighs up higher, folded into a mean full nelson.

"Fuck, you feel me there?" He groaned, biting yet another bruising hickey into your neck while you nodded weakly.

Your limbs ached, feeling more like accessories than body parts by now, a doll for him to fuck, a way to blow off steam before you both returned to your real lives. His cock stretched you out with each searing pump, splitting you open so his kisses and rough reassurances could stitch you back together.

He stalled inside you with his tip smashed against that spongy spot in the back, holding it there just to make you squirm in his arms. His nose grazed against your ear, his breath warm on your skin before he murmured softly, "Stop holding out on me."

"Oh, a-am I annoying you?" You breathlessly teased, and his little huff sent a shudder through you when he tried to push himself in deeper, that extra inch or two leaving your hips struggling to break free and jolt from him, already filled to the brim and about to spill over.

"You keep runnin' from me," He grunted, and in two blinks, he was switching positions, rolling you over on your stomach and pushing your back into a pretty arch before climbing back over you to prone bone.

Shoving his cock in and pinning you to the mattress with his weight, one of his big hands pressing down on the nape of your neck while he bottomed back out inside you.

"S-Sukuna," You gasped, but then he was leaning down and his mouth was on yours, claiming you with a bruising kiss.

"Again," He practically growled against your lips, his canines nipping at them.

"What?" You blinked, the desire still coiling in your stomach and the cum leaking down your legs and even just the scent of his cologne sticking to the sheets starting to melt the confusion from your mind on how you felt about him..

"Say my name again," Sukuna demanded, barely disguising his own moan when he slammed into you. All your muscles were tense, everything oversensitive already, flying so high you were pretty sure you'd crash any moment.

"Ego maniac," You muttered instead, and he readjusted to deliver a harsh spank across your ass, the pain quickly converting to pleasure when you gasped and squeezed around him.

But then he refused to move, buried to the hilt and not budging.

Sukuna didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He was waiting on you.

You were just as stubborn as he was though, biting your lip and hiding your face in the pillow to try to wait him out, counting on him being impatient or getting pissed off. His cock was throbbing inside you, begging to move, your clit aching for relief of it's own.

But you were both two idiots who couldn't admit what you wanted. Even if it was each other.

"I can stay like this all night, sweetheart," He murmured in your ear, dark and dangerous and delicious.

"Me too," You mocked back, adding a fake yawn and cradling your head over your forearms like you might fall asleep in this position.

He bent first. Or maybe he'd convinced himself he could make you break.

And yeah, amidst the blur of blunt thrusts and love bites, you did end up crying his name more than once when he lifted your hips enough to slip one hand under to play with your clit while he used the angle to practically abuse your poor g-spot, slamming into it every time with damn near surgical precision. Chuckling at the way you whined and shuddered, clenching desperately around his huge cock until he was abruptly pulling out and cumming on your back in thick spurts.

You showered together in silence.

Him passing you the soap and you washing his hair, his arms wrapped around your waist for extra warmth. He draped the towel around you afterwards, and you used an extra one to dry off his hair. Falling asleep in bed tracing the tattoos on his face.

In the morning?

You woke up before him, creeping out of bed to get dressed as quietly as possible.

He still hasn't told you about his career. Or anything really about himself outside the barest of basics. You resigned yourself to keeping the biography you'd read through about him the day before to yourself. What was the point of telling him you knew who he was when you wouldn't see him again?

Your vacation was over. Not wasted, but you were leaving more wistful than when you arrived, a deep and uncomfortable knot tangled in your stomach staring at the handsome man sleeping on the bed and the wrinkled sheets and blanket next to him where you should be.

You would go home. Go back to work and sleeping in your own bed and cooking your own meals until maybe you found some nice, normal guy to settle down with.

He'd go back to bigger and better things. Fucking models instead of a random girl he just happened to meet on his break. Too busy to be with someone like you anyway.

"Where are you going?" Sukuna grunted, scowling as he sat up in bed, running his fingers through his soft hair.

"I've got a flight to catch," You murmured, fixing the strap of your dress and hurrying to collect the last of your things you'd left here over the past two weeks of fucking.

"Oh."

You didn't say anything else, shoving an extra pair of panties from under his bed inside your purse, but it meant getting close enough that he reached out to touch you, fingers ghosting over your hip.

"If I paid, would you stay another day?" He asked, and you really had no clue what the fuck to make of that. His dark eyes had softened, shades of purple ringed underneath them, but they weren't harsh, didn't threaten to cut you down.

It didn't feel like the type of casual sex where you couldn't talk about your personal lives when he stared at you like that.

"I have to go back to work," You mumbled, wishing you didn't just as much as you wished you wouldn't miss him.

"I'll call you."

You didn't believe him.

But three days later, when you were curled up in bed and hating how empty it was, how cold it felt, your phone rang.

"Hi," You breathed, answering on the fourth ring after getting over your surprise.

"Hey," Sukuna grunted.

The phone calls became a common thing. Some weeks every day, others where you barely heard from him at all. But he tried though, even if it was just for a few minutes at a weird time. You answered even if it was at one in the morning or afternoon, forcing yourself to stay awake or sneaking out to the bathroom at work to hear his voice.

He begrudgingly admitted what his job actually was after a couple weeks, downplaying it to just racing. If it wasn't for the odd hours and the short calls, you had a feeling he would've tried to skip over the subject entirely. You tried to accept it. Asked if he'd be weirded out if you looked him up or watched his races. Sukuna's whatever wasn't exactly reassuring.

But it was pretty easy to piece together that he lived and breathed racing.

He'd been born into it. Karted as a kid and grown up behind the wheel.

You guessed you were the only thing in his life that was just for himself, outside of all of that.

"You sound stressed," You commented, cuddling a pillow to your chest and suppressing a yawn. There wasn't a real routine to this, but after a few months, you'd gotten comfortable with his calls instead of spending all day nervous and stressed over them.

"Gojo's trying to take my seat," Sukuna scoffed. He rarely talked about this sort of stuff with you, barely brought it up, so you knew it was bothering him much more than he let on. He never opened up, not the way most people did, just dropping occasional bits of information that you had to stitch together with what was publicly available.

Unsupportive family, a more rough upbringing than the rest of his competitors, rivalries that'd started long before he ever qualified for F1. Despite everything, he'd still won the world championship four times in six years, the past two consecutive wins.

"I mean, can he do that?" You asked, unsure how exactly those sort of decisions were made. You knew Gojo was still a couple years younger than Sukuna, but probably his biggest competitor. Rumors had started to swirl about the white-haired pretty boy moving to a different team next year after his contract was up.

"Over my dead fuckin' body.'

A lump too large for you to choke down bubbled up in your throat, a newfound fear you'd recently discovered after looking up clips of him racing in your free time. The idea of his crashing or doing something reckless and getting himself killed had implanted itself in your head no matter how many times you tried to shake it out.

"You still there?" He grunted.

"Yeah, I am," You swallowed hard, doing your best to force those thoughts down too.

"What are you doing?" Sukuna asking sounded more like demanding, but his voice had taken on a different quality now. Darker, more hoarse. In desperate need of relaxing.

"I'm in bed," You admitted, rolling flat on your back in anticipation.

"And?"

"I'm wearing your favorite pair of panties," You murmured, face flushing already.

"And you weren't going to send me a picture?' He tch-ed.

"One second," You muttered, readjusting to open your camera and try to pose, despite how unnatural it felt. You snapped a few photos, then flipped the camera around, pulling up your loose t-shirt to take a couple more pictures of your tits, careful to make sure your face wasn't in frame.

They were immediately marked as seen once they were delivered.

"Fuck," He murmured, and you could hear the sharp inhale he sucked in.

"Do I get one too?" You giggled, heat already starting to pool between your thighs at the idea of him touching himself to you.

He hung up, a request to video chat almost immediately popping up instead. You nervously accepted, fixing your hair and chewing on the inside of your cheek before flipping the camera down to where your panties were clinging to your skin, slipping a hand down between your thighs teasingly.

"Sukuna?" You said, the picture on the other side grainy as it connected before you got the view of him stroking his pretty cock, his huge hand furiously pumping up-and-down over the thick veins, his tip almost as pink as his hair.

"It should be you here," He grumbled, his voice cutting out for a second afterwards.

"Yeah? You just miss fucking me?" You softly laughed, your heart straining in your chest at the rough timber of his voice.

"Wanna see your face," He gritted his teeth, like it was something difficult to confess.

You didn't want him to see you blush, but he was hard to say no to, harder to convince yourself you wanted whatever scraps of him he offered to you.

Hesitantly, you flipped the camera around to your face, and he let out a hoarse moan, his hand working faster, sloppy strokes that didn't match his usually calculated precision.

"Touch yourself for me," He muttered, all gravelly.

"You're gonna talk me through it?" You teased, and the sound he made was half a scoff and half a chuckle.

"Whatever my brat wants."

It was embarrassing how much you wanted to just be his.

You slowly pressed two fingers over your clit through the lace of your panties, making slow circles over the fabric just for extra friction.

"Should I flip the c-camera?" You asked, your breath hitching as you increased the pressure, thighs tense as you watched him jerk off, not sure if it was pre-cum or lube making his hands so slick.

"No," He huffed. "Need to see your face when you cum."

A flash of heat washed over you, your inhales starting to get shaky, your fingers twitching as you began trembling with each harsh circle you traced.

You scrunched your eyes shut, reclining your head back against your pillow and struggling to focus.

"Eyes on me, pretty," He chuckled, and you whined, pouting at him when you peeked them back open, barely able to hold yourself together staring at his cock on screen as you picked up the pace. Wishing it was your hand instead of his and his instead of yours, wishing for him to just be here instead of countries away, for him to fuck you the way he had months ago.

"Are you gonna cum for me, baby?" You murmured, his hand twitching and stalling for a second while he made some hissing sound, like he barely stopped himself from finishing them and there.

"Jus' waiting for you first," He growled, and you could practically hear his clenched jaw. Watching the veins of his cock pulse, the way it twitched at every little flicker of your expression, imagining how it'd feel in your mouth or buried deep in your cunt. You gasped a little, the pressure building and teetering on the verge of snapping, your hips arching up to chase the high. "Close, princess?"

His voice shoved you over.

Headfirst and falling hard as you unravelled in front of him, your common sense snapping with it when you moaned his name, murmuring something about how much you liked him and hoping he didn't hear it. He was cumming too, coating his strong, sturdy fingers white.

You were both breathless, coming back down in the same comfortable quiet you shared in person.

"You make a cute face when you cum," He eventually said, and you couldn't decide if it was a compliment or just him mocking you in some casually cruel way.

Sukuna was a hard man to understand. But you guessed that was by design. He didn't want anyone to know him.

"Do I?" You dryly asked, yawning out loud this time.

"Would I say it if you didn't?" He grunted.

"You just like to tease me," You complained halfheartedly, curling back up on your side.

"So?"

You shrugged, too tired to offer a better response tonight.

"I'll get you plane tickets. There's a race I want you to come to next month," He grunted, confident that you wouldn't say no.

"Seriously?" You hesitated, hoping it wasn't written on your face.

"Yeah," He insisted, like he was exasperated he had to reiterate it.

There was another race next weekend, but you wondered if maybe he'd just be too busy for you then. Or what other reason he had to wait for the one next month.

"Okay, sure, I guess. Um, I'll request off from work," You mumbled, a faint fluttering starting to stir in your stomach at the realization you might be seeing him again soon.

"Good."

Somewhere along the way, all the lines between friend and girlfriend had gotten blurred.

In your head, the dim hope that maybe he offered to fly you out was to make whatever this was official.

But when you tuned into watching his press conference the next Thursday for his upcoming race?

You hadn't realized how clearly he'd draw the boundaries back. It was stupid. Him scowling as some reporter baited and asked him a question about if there was a special someone supporting him or cheering for him before he rolled his eyes and said he wasn't in a relationship so they should stop asking.

Ouch.

You didn't watch any of the races. Ignored his two-sentence text where he didn't even apologize for being too busy to talk. Didn't answer his call two nights later.

He sent a bunch of questions marks in response.

Which might've made you laugh if you weren't already crying for getting too attached when you knew better.

The next day you'd send a congratulations message for him winning or placing or whatever the fuck he'd done, giving some excuse for being too busy with your own work to chat.

You went a week without calling. Barely replying to his texts hours later, trying to untangle him from your heart.

Gojo, the guy in the second Ferrari seat, posted photos of them together though, ones that got plastered on a bunch of stupid sports news sites you'd forgotten you set up notifications for, ones where they were at some club you'd never be able to get into, pretty girls next to them, diehard fans, apparently.

So when one of your coworkers asked you on a date?

You said yes.

Got dressed up, put on your makeup and plastered a bandaid over your heart. He picked you up with flowers in hand, waiting outside while you hurried to put them in a vase before you walked back out with a shy smile.

"You look gorgeous," Geto hummed, a warm hand pressed against your back as he lead you to the car.

"Thank you," You blushed, but you couldn't tell if the butterflies in your stomach were fluttering or being stabbed.

Geto was a smooth-talker, all soft-spoken words that soothed your blistered disposition and dreamy eyes it'd be easy to lose yourself in. So why couldn't you?

The date was picture perfect. Not a detail out of place.

But when he dropped you back off, you couldn't bring yourself to invite him inside. You let him kiss you, his lips soft and tasting like wine as he caressed your cheek.

"I'd like to take you out again sometime," He murmured, apparently not put off by your reluctance. "I had fun tonight."

"Yeah?" You asked, wondering if maybe you needed more time to move past the man still lingering on your mind.

"Yeah."

You watched through a window as he drove away.

Changing into pajamas before digging your phone out of your purse, planning on scrolling through videos before you saw two missed calls and six missed texts.

You'd only read through a few of Sukuna demanding to know why you weren't talking to him before he was calling again.

Your thumb hovered over the button before you begrudgingly answered him. "Hello?"

"God, do you know how long I've been trying to call you?" He gritted his teeth, clearly annoyed already.

"Sorry," You shrugged. "I was on a date."

"A date?" Sukina was about to blow a fuse. That one vein that sometimes throbbed on his forehead was probably about to explode.

"Yeah?" You hummed, unbothered.

"That's not funny," He scoffed.

"Good thing I'm not joking," You sighed, walking around to fiddle with the flowers now sitting pretty in your vase, fingers grazing over the individual petals.

"What the fuck?" He huffed.

"Is there a problem with that?" You asked, walking the line between being an asshole and being apathetic. "I mean, didn't you just say you weren't in a relationship?"

"Shit, you saw that? I'm sorry, it's not like that, just look-"

Yeah, shit.

"It's fine, I get it, you play by a different set of rules than the rest of us, right? My fault for thinking I meant more." You accepted the blame because there was nothing else you could do with it.

Everything else hurt.

"It does mean more," His voice was low, like it took all his pride to admit it.

"Uh-huh," You dismissively nodded, tucking your phone between your ear and your shoulder.

"Did that prick even treat you right?" He grumbled, having an easier time hating someone else than focusing on his issues.

"He brought me flowers. Paid for my dinner. I had fun," You offered the smallest details, just enough to irritate him.

"Are you going to see him again?" He asked, acidic and harsh.

"Maybe."

The silence was heavy this time, thick with tension and crackling with some charge you could feel even when he was in a different country.

"Don't."

"Why?" You genuinely asked this time.

"Give me a chance," He grumbled, before reluctantly murmuring, "Please."

"I'll think about it," You hummed noncommittally.

"Just, get on the plane, okay? I'll take care of everything else." Sukuna was probably scowling even when he was begging you.

The next night there was a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers delivered to your door along with your favorite food, and you didn't need to read the card attached to the flowers to know it was all from him. But you read it anyway.

I'm not letting you go. Sukuna.

You hadn't quite believed it until he'd actually managed to pick you up from the airport a couple weeks later, surely missing some kind of practice or press event, a sign made with your name on it. You almost didn't recognize him when he had on a hoodie and dark shades, probably trying to go unnoticed.

But the second he saw you, he was walking fast over to you, pulling you into him with a crushing hug, like he needed to know you were real.

That you hadn't given up on him yet.

He kissed you the second you got into the passenger seat of his car, his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours, trying to memorize your taste again after so long.

"I was an asshole," He admitted.

"Yeah," You scoffed.

"Sorry," He gruffly apologized. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what? That you're a dick? Or that you don't want people to know about us?" You sarcastically murmured between kisses, and he was hurrying to pull you onto his lap, his hands on your ass and his mouth trailing down your throat.

"That I'm an idiot in love with you," He grunted, and you froze, completely stiff as his sturdy thighs tensed underneath you.

"Don't be stupid," You huffed, refusing to believe him.

"Too late," He chuckled, his teeth sinking in to leave a light love bite above your collarbone. "Gonna show you off all weekend long."

And Sukuna rarely said anything he didn't mean.

His hands refusing to leave your waist when he showed you around the paddock, introducing you as his girlfriend and grumbling when he got dragged into media events.

"So you're actually real, huh?" A cheeky voice teased, aligning an arm around your shoulder while you sipped on an overpriced drink Sukuna had insisted on getting you.

You shoved Gojo off, recognizing him from voice alone.

"I'm Satoru Gojo," He grinned, sticking his hand for you to shake.

You didn't get to shake it before Sukuna returned from talking to their team principal, your boyfriend swatting his hand away from you.

"No touching my girl," He grunted.

"Are you his girl?" Gojo pouted, pushing out a plush, pink bottom lip. "Come on, you could do better, this guy's such a buzzkill."

You thought Sukuna was going to punch him.

"Are you trying to say you're better?"

"Don't fuckin' answer that," Sukuna scowled at him, pulling you back and leading you somewhere else, maybe to show you his real car up close like he'd promised on the way over.

It was prettier in person, a dark shade of red and sleek design. He ran his hands over it, pride glinting in his eyes.

And it kinda terrified you still, to picture him inside that death trap, but you liked watching him in his element, the way it seemed to be a second skin to him.

"Eyes on me out there," He murmured.

You don't think your eyes left him once the rest of the weekend.

In the haze of heated touches or when he was on the circuit, watching on the screen and unable to rip your attention away. He drove with the same control that he lived with - like he couldn't die.

No one was surprised when he took the top spot this time.

What did was him going to you first after he won. Kissing you in front of the crowd and picking you up in a tight hug.

Instead of an after-party, he dragged you back to his hotel room, pulling you back on top of his lap, already tugging your dress up and shoving your panties aside to push himself in after fingerfucking you stupid on the ride over. Your head was a little dizzy from the champagne he popped, your giggle turning into a gasp as his thick tip grinded up into you.

"Easy," You laughed, his fingers squeezing your sides as he guided you up-and-down slowly, savoring each second of being inside you.

"Can't I get my trophy?" He complained with a huff, brows furrowed together as he dragged you back down on his dick, distracting you from the stretch with a long kiss.

"I'm your trophy?" You giggled again, tilting your head back for him to decorate your throat with more hickies.

"My favorite one," He taunted, holding your hips in place and groaning at the way you squeezed around him.

He wasn't used to taking anything slow, but he was trying for you.

"What'd you think?" Sukuna asked as you tangled your fingers through his hair.

"Of what?" You hummed, relaxing into his touch.

"Everything. Did you like it?" He cocked his head to the side, leaning back against the bed's headboard and pulling you closer. The VIP lanyard still dangling around your neck bounced with the force, but you laughed. You were still nervous, still anxious and unsure of how it'd be to adjust to long-distance and what life with him meant. But the past few days had been a high you didn't want to give up.

Sukuna was someone you didn't want to give up.

His hands settled on your waist instead, enjoying being ridden for once instead of in the driver's seat.

"I like you."

[sgojoenthusiast]

i finally finished it.....

[sgojoenthusiast]

The Things We Carry

about: you tell arthur morgan you're expecting. he has a hard time accepting his new reality, juggling his responsibilities with the gang. a new life calls for arthur, but his past pulls him in the opposite direction.

tags: angst, pregnancy, illness, tb, death, loss, grief

wc: 15.7k

an: hi so i put this together over the course of a week. i had the idea of what life would've been like if arthur got someone pregnant but the tragedy that happens in the game still happens. so this is really sad imo, and REALLY long. hope you enojy :3

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The sun was dying slow behind the mountains, bleeding rust and gold across the sky. It should’ve been beautiful, the kind of sunset folks wrote songs about, but your stomach was twisted tight, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You leaned against the split-rail fence just outside camp, your fingers knotted together, cold even though the air was warm.

You could hear him before he even came into view. The sound of hooves crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches, his horse’s low huff, and then his voice–rough, tired, familiar. 

“Y’alright out here?” 

You turned slowly. Arthur swung down from his saddle, dust rising at his boots. He was already frowning, something unreadable behind those blue eyes. He didn’t like the quiet, not from you. 

“I been lookin’ for you,” he added, taking a few steps closer. “You missed dinner.” 

“Wasn’t hungry.” 

Arthur’s brow furrowed deeply. “That right?” He studied you for a moment, head tilting slightly. “What’s wrong?” 

There it was. 

You looked at him–the man who’d carried you across rivers, pulled bullets from your leg, whispered soft but broken apologies into your hair when he thought the world was ending. And still, somehow, this felt harder than all of that. 

“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright.” He leaned against the fence besides you, arms crossed, glancing sideways. “Talk, then.” 

You hesitated. There was no soft way to land this. No way to pad it with kindness. So you just said it, like pulling a bandage off a bullet wound. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

The words hit the air like gunfire. Sharp. Irrevocable. Loud, even in a whisper. Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t speak, or blink. The only sound was the breeze brushing through the pines and the distant murmurs of camp behind you. 

You turned to  him, trying to find his eyes. “Did you hear me?” 

He straightened slowly, like a man waking up inside a nightmare. 

“What did you say?” 

“I’m pregnant, Arthur,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I’m gonna have a baby. Your baby.” 

For a split second, something flickered in his face. Something raw. Then it vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced detachment. 

“Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from you. His hands went to his hat, taking it off before raking through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “Jesus Christ.” 

Your chest squeezed. “I didn’t plan this Arthur.” 

“Well no shit, neither did I!” He snapped, spinning back toward you. “You think I got time to be somebody’s father? You think that’s a good idea, right now? With everything goin’ on?” 

You flinched like he’d hit you. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just thought you deserved to know.” 

He paced, boots heavy in the dirt, a storm rolling behind his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You don’t know what this life is. I can’t keep you safe, I can hardly keep myself safe. I kill people for money,” he spat, “I lie, I steal–I ain’t no man a child should be lookin’ up to.” 

Your voice cracked. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero, Arthur. I’m just telling you what’s real.” 

“Real?” he scoffed bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ about this life real, not really. It all ends bloody. You know that. So what, you wanna bring a child into it anyway?” 

“I didn’t choose this,” you finally snapped, “it happened. And I’m scared, alright? I’m scared outta my goddamn mind. But I’m still standin’ here. I still told you. That should mean somethin’.” 

He went quiet again, breathing hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides now. The fire was gone from his eyes and what was left was something worse. Emptiness. Shame. 

“I ain’t no good for you,” he said, barely audible. 

You blink back the burn in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.” 

He looked at you then–like he was memorizing your face for a day he already knew was coming. His jaw clenched, hard. 

“How far along?” he asked, gruff. 

You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.” 

He nodded slowly. That muscle in his jaw twitched again. And then, he stepped back. “I need to think,” he said, almost choking on the words. “I–I need to clear my head.” 

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Just silence. Just the sinking feeling in your gut as he turned, climbed back into the saddle, and rode off into the dusk without another word. 

The wind picked up behind him, colder now, as if it carried the weight of what had just broken open between you. 

And you stood there, alone in the failing light, hand drifting instinctively to your stomach, wondering if he’d come back before the world burned down around you.

The days bled together like bruises—blue and yellow and aching.

Arthur didn’t say a word.

Not a damn word since the night you told him.

He didn’t storm off again. Didn’t yell. He just… slipped away, day after day, like a shadow shrinking in the light. He rose before camp stirred and came back well after sunset, when the fires were low and the air was heavy with sleep. You’d catch glimpses of him—sharpening his knife alone by the wagon, brushing down his mare in the dark, smoking in the trees with his back turned. Always just out of reach.

He avoided your eyes like they might burn him. And worse? He never said your name. Not once. Every time you passed close, every time your hand hovered near his on a shared task or your eyes lingered too long—he moved away. Like you were poison.

At first, you were angry.

You’d built something with him. Earned his trust in a world where most folks had to fight just to stay human. You’d shared nights wrapped in blankets under the stars, whispered truths into the hollow of his throat, watched him flinch at your touch not out of hate, but out of unfamiliar tenderness. He chose you—over doubt, over fear, over all the mess of the gang and the blood that clung to his hands.

And now? He was gone without ever leaving.

You tried, the first day. Quietly approached while he fed the horses, voice low and careful.

“Arthur…”

He didn’t look up.

You tried again the next afternoon, your voice sharp with frustration.

“You don’t get to just pretend I don’t exist.”

He kept walking.

By the third day, you stopped trying.

You felt like a ghost in your own skin, caught somewhere between furious and hollow. Not just for you, but for the life growing inside you—silent, unseen, and already left behind.

Even Dutch noticed the tension, though he said nothing, just gave Arthur one of those long, assessing looks across the fire. Hosea, bless him, opened his mouth once to ask if you were alright, then closed it again when he saw your face.

And you? You tried to go about your days like nothing had changed. Gathered herbs. Cooked. Patched your torn shirt. Held your composure like a knife between your teeth. But at night—those were the worst. When camp was quiet and the stars pressed down and you could hear the distant murmurs of Arthur’s voice talking to anyone but you.

One night you stood in the shadows behind a tree, watching him laugh softly at something Charles had said. It hit you like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t in pain. He’d just shut you out. Tucked you away like a mistake he didn’t know how to unmake.

You pressed your hands to your stomach, eyes burning, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” into the cold dark air.

Because whatever Arthur Morgan was running from—you were part of it now.

The next morning, he rode out before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye. Just like before. And the issue—the truth of it—hung between you both, thick as smoke and just as choking. Unspoken. Unresolved. Like so many things in his world. 

As he left, something inside you went still. 

Not shattered—not yet. Just... cold. Numb. Like your heart had folded itself in half and tucked away behind your ribs for safekeeping. You lay in your cot staring up at the pale canvas of your tent ceiling while the camp stirred outside—pots clanging, voices low, hooves thudding against frost-hard earth. It was just another day in a world that didn’t stop moving, even when yours had.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not to you. Not to this.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe silence was the only language he could speak when he was drowning. But knowing why didn’t change the ache. It didn’t make it easier to carry the weight of him—and the life growing inside you—alone.

By the time you emerged from your tent, the sun was climbing through low clouds and a few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and aimless. The gang was bustling—Bill was already drunk, Tilly was peeling potatoes, and Dutch was giving one of his sermons by the fire, voice full of honeyed hope and half-truths. Nothing had changed, not really.

Except you.

Your hand lingered at your belly again, a soft, unconscious gesture now. You were starting to feel different. Not much, but enough. A flutter of nausea some mornings. A new kind of tired in your bones. A quiet awareness of something not quite visible but still entirely real.

And no one knew but Arthur. And he had left you alone with it.

You avoided the questions—told Miss Grimshaw you were just sick, waved off Tilly’s concern with a forced smile. No one pushed. Not yet. But the pressure was building like thunder on the horizon.

That night, you sat alone near the edge of camp, watching the stars through bare tree branches. The fire crackled low beside you, but you didn’t add more wood. You liked the quiet. You needed it.

You thought about leaving.

You’d thought about it before, in passing. But now the idea rooted deeper, more real with every breath of winter air. What were you waiting for? Arthur to come back and pretend he hadn’t abandoned you? Dutch to notice and offer some poetic bullshit about fate? The gang to change?

No.

You knew better.

This life was a dead-end road—drenched in blood, shrouded in smoke. You had followed it long enough. And now, for the first time in a long while, you had someone else to think about. Someone who hadn’t asked for any of this. Someone who deserved better than a cradle made of stolen gold and broken promises.

The decision came slow, like a fire building from embers. Quiet, steady, irreversible.

You were going to leave.

Not tonight. But soon. You’d need to be smart—take supplies, money, maybe even a horse. You weren’t sure where you’d go, not yet, but the world was big, wasn’t it? There were towns where nobody knew your name. Farmlands. River valleys. Places where children were born without gunfire outside the window.

You spent the next few days preparing in secret. Quiet, careful. You mended saddlebags. Stashed food in a hidden pack under your cot. Pocketed bits of coin from jobs you hadn’t turned in. No one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

The air got colder. Snow stuck to the ground some mornings, lingering in the shadows. You began to wear a heavier coat, buttoned low over your belly. No one asked. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Or maybe they knew and chose the same silence Arthur had.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

You were leaving.

Then, one night, you crept out before dawn. The moon was low and the sky washed silver. The camp was still sleeping, curled in tents and dreams and old regrets. You paused near Arthur’s tent. It looked the same as ever—neat, quiet, impersonal. As if he might return at any moment and slip back into place, as if nothing had ever changed. But you knew better now.

You stepped forward. Hesitated. Then left something small at the flap—a folded note.

You didn’t write much. Just a single line, in your uneven, looping script.

I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.

And that was it.

You saddled a horse—quiet, a mare you trusted—and rode out under the veil of a waking sky. No tears. No theatrics. Just the crunch of hooves over snow and the slow bloom of morning behind the trees.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. Towns, danger, loneliness. Maybe worse.

But you also knew this: you were strong. Strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to carry what Arthur couldn’t.

You rode on, hand on your stomach, heart full of silence and fire.

And for the first time in days, you felt something like peace.

The camp was half-awake when Arthur finally returned. He had been gone on a long hunting trip with Charles, bringing home a variety of meats and pelts like elk, moose, and beaver. 

Snow clung to Arthur’s coat, stiff and crusted. His horse was tired, ribs heavy from the hard ride. He didn’t speak to anyone—just tied her near the hitching post, nodded at Pearson’s half-hearted greeting—acknowledging their bounty. He trudged through camp like a man halfway through a bad dream. He didn’t expect to find anything waiting for him. He hadn’t really expected you to wait, either. But when he reached his tent, the first thing he saw was a small folded piece of paper, tucked just beneath the flap like a whisper someone left behind. 

He stared at it for a long time. Snow melted in his hair. Cold sank into his boots. But his hands didn’t move—not until his chest felt tight enough to crack. He bent down, fingers brushing the worn edges of the paper. It still smelled faintly like you.

“I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.” 

There was no signature, you hadn’t needed one. Arthur stood there for a while, the paper trembling just slightly between his calloused fingers. He stared at your handwriting until the ink blurred. Then he folded it carefully, like it was something holy. He opened the flaps to his tent, walked in, and sat on his cot he once shared with you. He thought long and hard about what to do next. Should he follow you? Or just find you? Should he let you get away from the dangers of the gang, leaving everything unsaid? For a moment, he was confused. 

Then, he decided the right thing to do was to find you. At least to know you’re both okay. For peace of mind, he told himself.

It took him close to a month to find you. Weeks of bitter wind and half-frozen trails, of sleeping under pine trees and asking questions in dusty towns. He’d asked too many people if they’d seen a woman on horseback—strong-willed, quiet, brown eyes, maybe wearing a coat too heavy for her size. Most shook their heads, some offered a guess. One said she saw someone that sounded like you riding north, toward Strawberry. Arthur hadn't meant to feel hope when he heard that. But he did. And that hope kept him riding straight through the storm. 

When he finally reached Strawberry, the town was blanketed in soft, half-melted snow. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A dog barked somewhere behind the sheriff’s office. The main street was quiet but not empty—townsfolk bustled in and out of the general store, a rancher tied off his horse outside the saloon, and the sky overhead was gray with the weight of coming snow. 

He tethered his horse near the general store and made his way toward the inn. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up until he said your name. Then she nodded, almost cautiously. “She’s got a little house up behind the falls,” she said. “Bit outside of town. Walkable if you don’t mind a climb. Been keepin’ to herself mostly.” 

Arthur thanked her with a tight nod and turned away before she could say more. 

He found the house nestled at the edge of the woods—small, crooked-roofed, with a low stone chimney and a fence half-built around the back. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was laundry strung between two trees, fluttering in the cold wind. A horse was grazing nearby—he recognized her. One of the mares from camp. 

Arthur’s jaw clenched. You were here. You’d really done it. You made a life—without him. 

He knocked before he lost his nerve. At first, there was nothing. Then he heard it—footsteps inside. A quiet shift of movement. The door creaked open an inch, just enough for you to peer out. Your eyes widened. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just that snow-heavy silence between you. 

Then softly: “Arthur.” 

He swallowed hard, unsure what his first words to you would be. “You just left.” 

You opened the door the rest of the way. You looked… different. Not worse. Just changed. Stronger in some ways. Tired in others. A little paler, maybe. But your eyes were clear. And your belly had begun to show. 

He noticed you had a hand resting gently over your stomach. 

“I left because I had to,” you said. “You gave me nothing, Arthur. Not a word. Not even a look.” Silence fell. “I waited. And then I made the only choice I could.” 

He stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice? I was tryin’ to protect you, goddamn it.” 

“By pretending I didn’t exist?” 

“By not dragging you down with me.” His voice almost an ashamed whisper. He was angry, but not at you. It wasn’t ever at you–it was to himself. At his own fear, his own cowardice. 

You stared at him, your voice calm but heavy. “You weren’t protecting me. You were avoiding me.” 

Arthur looked away, jaw tight. “I know.” 

The wind rustled the trees. A pair of crows shrieked overhead, then flew off into the gray sky. Arthur’s voice was slow when he finally spoke again. 

“I was scared. Of what it meant. I don’t know how to… do any of that. How to take care of you. I was…” he paused for a second, searching the space between you two for words he couldn’t form himself. “...I was afraid I’d ruin everything. That i’d break somethin’ I love.” The words escaped him in a hush. 

You blinked at him. That word hung there—love—suspended like breath in the cold. A word he so rarely used for you. A word reserved for moments like these. Rare, raw, and tender. 

“But that don’t mean I didn’t care,” he continued. “It don’t mean I didn’t think about you every second of every damn day since you left.” 

He met your eyes then, and his voice broke on the edges. “I was angry when I saw that note. Not cause you left—but ‘cause I didn’t go with you. And that ain’t your fault. That’s mine.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, you stepped aside and nodded toward the inside. “Come in,” you said softly. 

He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold. 

The cabin was warm. Simple. There were blankets by the fire, food on the table, a kettle steaming. It was a life—not fancy, but real. Tangible. Safe. Something he knew he couldn’t offer you. 

Arthur looked around like he didn’t quite believe it was all yours. All yours. 

“Guess you didn’t need me afterall,” he muttered. 

You turned to face him, arms crossed, a quiet defiance in your stance. 

“I wanted you. That’s different.” 

Arthur looked at you, and for once he didn’t try to explain himself. He just let the silence fall again, softer this time. And after a while, he stepped forward, slow and careful, and rested a hand over yours on your stomach. You didn’t pull away, neither of you said anything. 

The kettle whistled low and steady in the quiet of the cabin, catching your attention. You walked across the small cabin towards the stove where the kettle sat patiently. You poured the tea with slow, deliberate movements—hands steady, though your heart felt anything but. Arthur sat across from you at the small wooden table, hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes tracing the grain in the wood like it held answers he couldn’t find in you. 

It had only been a few weeks but it felt like another lifetime since you’d last spoken—since you last looked him in the eyes and seen something other than guilt buried in them. The fire cracked in the hearth, casting golden light over the room. Outside, the snowfall had started to thicken. Fat flakes drifted sideways in the wind, gathering along the windowsill and piling slowly against the porch. Arthur glanced toward the window, jaw tensing slightly. 

“You’re not gonna make it back to camp tonight,” you said quietly, watching him. He didn’t argue. “I’ve got a spare bedroll,” you added, eyes flicking down to your tea. “You’re welcome to stay. Just for the night. It’s… safer.” 

Arthur hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Guess that’d be smart.” 

Smart. Right. Logical. Reasonable. So why did it make your heart twist in your chest? 

Time passed by slowly, slower than what was comfortable in all honesty. But the two of you caught up slowly, like two people trying to reach each other in a language they’d almost forgotten. You told him about the town, how the general store clerk gave you extra oats when he noticed you were eating for two. How the lady at the inn had helped you find the little cabin. How quiet it was out here, how lonely, sometimes, but how peaceful too. 

Arthur listened in silence, nodding now and then, gaze never straying far from you. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, hat in his lap, looking like he’d aged a little more since the last time you saw him. He told you he’d been running jobs between looking for you. That the Pinkertons were getting too close. That Dutch was getting restless, dangerous. That the world he lived in was unraveling—and fast. He admitted that he was thankful you got out at the time you did, especially considering the baby you now carried. 

You asked him if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine. But you saw the wear in his eyes. The way he sat too stiffly, like he was waiting to run. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome here or trespassing on something he’d already lost. Later, after the sun dipped low and the wind began to howl harder through the trees, you made supper. Nothing fancy, just stew and bread and the last of the salted meat. He thanked you with a nod so quiet it almost didn’t reach his lips. You ate in near silence, listening to the wind rattle the shutters to the cabin. 

When you both moved to the fire, you sat on opposite sides. The warmth between you helped, but the space still yawned wide with unspoken questions. Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t mess up,” he finally spoke, voice rough, eyes on the flames. “I did. I know that.” 

You glanced at him, waiting. He fidgeted with a loose thread in his glove. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. With you. With the kid. I ain’t had someone depend on me like that in a long time. And I ain’t got much left in me to give.” 

You looked at him a long while then said, “I never asked you to be perfect, Arthur. I just wanted you there.” The words hung in the air between you, quiet but heavy. 

“I know,” he muttered. 

You both fell silent again. The wind moaned outside, louder now, a storm building on the ridge. You pulled your blanket tighter, feeling the ache of old hope stirring in your chest—hope you didn’t quite trust anymore. When it got late enough to yawn, you laid out the spare bedroll beside the hearth. You didn’t ask him to share your bed. You didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask. But you lingered, both of you, staring into the fire like it might hold something more than flickering light and fading warmth. Finally, he laid down with a groan, one arm folded beneath his head. You extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, facing the wall. Neither of you fell asleep immediately, simply laid awake in the quiet comfort of each other's presence. 

You rolled over, checking the time. Past midnight. You sat up, staring through the dark cabin towards the now dying fire of the hearth. Something told you that he was still awake. With a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you want to be in our child’s life?” 

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. You couldn’t really see him from where you sat but you imagined his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, mouth drawn tight. For a long time, he didn’t answer. 

Then: “I don’t know.” 

Your heart sank, slow and heavy. 

But then he added, voice lower now, more raw: “I want to. I just… I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Like I messed up everythin’ else.” 

“You can’t undo the past, Arthur,” you said. “But you can choose what you do next.” 

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his silence saying more than he could. 

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reassured him. The quiet hung between you like smoke.

You saw him nod, just once, like it hurt to do it. “Alright.” 

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you moved. But something shifted in the stillness. A step, a breath, a beginning, maybe. 

And in the deep hush of a snowbound night, you both lay awake, listening to the wind, the crackle of coals, and the slow tentative beating of three hearts trying to learn each other again. 

The next morning came blanketed in white—the snow thick on the porch railings, the trees sagging under its weight. There was no point trying to ride out. The roads were buried, the air sharp and bright with winter silence. You stood at the window with a steaming mug between your hands, watching the frost climb the glass.

Behind you, Arthur stirred. You didn’t turn around.

“I’ll split some wood,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

You nodded. “Axe is out back.”

It was a small thing. A simple thing. But it was the beginning.

That first day, you watched from the porch as he chopped kindling. His coat hung open, breath fogging in the cold. He worked without saying much, but he didn’t complain either—not about the cold, or the blisters, or the snow piling up around his boots. Every now and then, he glanced toward the house. Toward you.

You pretended not to notice.

He carried the firewood in and stacked it by the hearth. You nodded to him when he came in, and he gave a short grunt in reply. Then he sat at the table while you prepared breakfast—oats, some berries you’d dried from the fall. You passed him a bowl. He muttered a soft “thanks.”

The silence was different now. Not sharp. Not full of tension. Just… new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to scare it off.

The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.

Arthur fixed the fence behind the cabin, tightening rails and replacing slats where the snow had cracked the old ones. You offered him soup afterward, and he sat close enough by the fire that your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you pulled away.

He mucked out the little barn beside the house, fed your mare, helped patch the draft in the window above your bed.

You caught him standing in the doorway more than once, watching as you folded linens or stirred something over the stove. He never said anything when you looked back—but he didn’t look away either.

That unfamiliar pull grew stronger with every quiet chore. Every wordless glance. Every brush of your fingers as you passed each other in the narrow kitchen.

And still, neither of you spoke about what this was.

Or what it might become.

On the sixth night, the snow stopped.

Stars appeared—faint, but visible through the thinning clouds. The moon glowed soft and full, casting silver over the trees. Inside, the fire had burned down low, throwing flickering shadows across the walls.

Arthur stood near the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. You sat on the edge of the table, watching him quietly.

He turned.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.

He hesitated, eyes on the floor. ��About you. About this place. The baby.”

Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.

Arthur looked up. There was something in his eyes you didn’t expect.

Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Any of it. But I feel… different here.”

“Different how?”

He took a slow step toward you. “Like maybe I could be someone else. Someone better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You blinked, heart tight in your chest.

“Do you want to be here?” you asked. “With me?”

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Camp’s still out there. Dutch is still out there. My past, all of it—it ain’t gone.”

He came closer.

“But right now? All I know is this feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.”

Your breath hitched. And in the quiet that followed, you stood. Walked toward him. Met him halfway. The kiss came slowly—tentative, uncertain. His hand was warm against your jaw, calloused fingers trembling just slightly. Your hands settled at his waist, anchoring yourself to him. He tasted like salt and cold air, like woodsmoke and something unspoken. Something real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was honest.

When you pulled away, you didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. You just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same space. Then Arthur gave a short, almost broken laugh.

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled, faint and sure.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was okay.”

The fire burned low. The snow outside had stilled. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of what you carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. Not when someone might finally be willing to carry it with you.

Days turned into weeks and before you knew it, Arthur had been at the cabin for 2. Life seemed content, calm. You were happy, and Arthur seemed…happy too. Your belly growing by the day, and Arthur’s affection growing along with it. 

Arthur had started to fall into a rhythm that felt dangerously like peace. He’d wake early and tend to the horses, the quiet hum of your morning routine comforting in its familiarity. Sometimes you’d sit together at the table, hands brushing as you reached for the same spoon. Other times, he’d find himself pausing in the doorway, just to watch you move around the little cabin like you belonged there—and like maybe, somehow, he could too.

But peace is fragile when you come from a life built on gunfire and running. 

You were inside by the fire, mending a shirt. Arthur was outside, splitting the last of the firewood, when he paused—head tilted, brow furrowed. The sound of horses echoed down the ridge. Not one. Two.

He moved toward the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth.

You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.

John Marston was the first to dismount—coat dusty, a tired look in his eyes. Behind him, Charles followed, calm as ever but serious. They both looked cold, weather-worn, and—Arthur noticed it right away—urgent.

“Arthur,” John called out, his voice taut. “We’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Arthur stiffened. “Didn’t know I was missin’.”

John gave a humorless laugh. “Dutch sure thinks y’are.”

Charles slid from his saddle, giving you a polite nod before turning to Arthur.

“He sent us out days ago,” Charles said. “Said there’s a job comin’ up. Big one. He needs everyone back.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

You stepped down from the porch, eyes scanning the two men.

“What kind of job?” you asked.

John looked at you for a moment, then turned back to Arthur.

“Blackwater. The ferry,” he said grimly. “Dutch says it’ll be the last one. One big score, and we’re done.”

Arthur looked down at the snow-covered ground, fists curling at his sides. The cold crept up his spine, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the weight. The pull of obligation. The noose of loyalty tightening again.

“He needs you, Arthur,” John pressed. “He’s been getting… unpredictable.”

Arthur’s throat was tight. “He’s always unpredictable.”

Charles crossed his arms, quiet but firm. “We’re not here to twist your arm. Just… Dutch is counting on you. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”

A long silence settled over the yard.

You looked at Arthur, and he could feel your eyes like fire on his skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Why now?” he asked, finally. “Why this one?”

John shifted, glancing toward the horizon. “We’re losin’ ground. Pinkertons are closing in. We’re out of time.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”

You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“So what, Arthur? You just go back? Just like that?”

He turned toward you, eyes flashing with conflict. “I don’t know!”

The air turned brittle. The sound of the wind in the trees was the only thing filling the space between all of you.

“I been tryin’,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Tryin’ to be here. To do something that ain’t just robbin’ and runnin’. But I still got people countin’ on me.”

You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.

“I’m not asking you to turn your back on the gang,” you said, quieter. “But you can’t keep doing both. You can’t keep one foot in that life and one here.”

Arthur looked down, jaw tight.

Charles watched the exchange, saying nothing, but you could see the understanding in his eyes. The quiet sympathy. He’d always been the only one who truly saw Arthur.

“I’ll wait by the horses,” Charles said after a moment, and he walked off without another word.

John lingered a bit longer. He looked at Arthur, then at you, then back again. “You’ve got some thinking to do,” he said, voice rough. “But don’t take too long. Dutch won’t wait forever.”

Then he turned and followed Charles down the path, their footsteps crunching in the snow. When they were gone, the silence was louder than it had been in days. You and Arthur stood a few paces apart in the yard, breath curling in the cold air.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” you replied.

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he was searching for something in your face—some answer, some permission to let go of the life he’d lived too long.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“Then don’t,” you said. “But if you stay, stay for real. Don’t keep your heart out there with Dutch. With that life. I can’t raise this baby always wondering if you’re coming back with bullet holes in your side.”

Arthur looked down at the snow between you, nodding slowly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice like gravel. “Scared that I ain’t gonna be the man you need. Or the man that kid needs.”

You stepped toward him, placing a hand gently on his chest, over the slow, heavy beat of his heart.

“I’d rather have an honest man who’s scared,” you said, “than one who runs off pretending he isn’t.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I need time,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Take it. Just don’t take too long.”

The wind picked up again. The snow swirled between you.

And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan had to ask himself who he was when he wasn’t the gun for hire, the loyal soldier, the ghost riding behind Dutch Van Der Linde. Because now, for the first time, he had something to stay for. Something to lose.

That night was quiet, still, only the sound of the cracking fire filling the small cabin. Arthur didn’t say much when it was time for bed, instead he curled himself around you, holding your belly in his hand until he fell asleep. You took in the moment, memorizing the feel of his breath on your neck, his scent that you grew accustomed to over the course of the past couple weeks. 

But quiet tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your pillow, yet you made sure Arthur didn’t hear you cry. Fear, panic, unease. It all grew in your chest simply by imagining that he could possibly be gone, that he’d miss your belly growing, miss the birth, miss the baby’s first… everything. Still, you wiped your tears, breathing deeply and taking in his calming scent. You put your trust in the universe, hoping that it would be kind to you like you were to it. 

It’ll all work out, you tried to convince yourself. 

You woke before dawn to the sound of boots on floorboards and the distant clinking of saddlebags. The fire was down to glowing embers, the cabin cold. You sat up slowly, watching his silhouette move through the dim light—tall, broad, quiet as a ghost. His back was turned, but you knew the tension in his shoulders like your own breath.

He didn’t expect you to wake.

“Where are you going?” you asked softly as you sat up on the bed you both shared.

Arthur turned. His hat was in his hands, that battered old thing he never seemed to take off unless he had something heavy weighing on him. Like now.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed to your side, sitting besides you so you were eye to eye. His face was rough from sleep, beard untrimmed, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes—were clear.

“I’m going back,” he said. “Just for a while.”

You knew it was coming. Still, your chest tightened.

“Blackwater?” you asked.

He nodded. “One job. Dutch swears it’s the last. I ain’t so sure I believe him, but… I gotta be there.”

You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”

Arthur reached for your hand. His palm was rough and cold, but his grip was steady.

“Then I come back here,” he said. “For good.”

You stared at him, searching for the cracks. The fear. The doubt. But all you saw was something that scared you even more: hope.

“You really think you can leave that life behind?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes falling to your joined hands.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I want to. I know I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of buryin’ people. Tired of wonderin’ what the hell I’m doin’ it all for.”

He looked back at you, voice low.

“But here… with you. Our baby. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away.

“Promise me,” you whispered. “If something goes wrong—you come back home anyway. Don’t disappear. Don’t vanish into that world again.”

Arthur brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“I promise.”

You stood on the porch when he rode off.

His horse kicked up frostbitten dirt as it wound down the snow-covered trail. He turned back once—just once—and raised a hand in farewell. You lifted yours in return, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

And then he was gone.

The cabin felt too quiet without him.

You went about your chores—feeding the mare, boiling water, keeping the fire alive—but the stillness weighed on you. It crept into the corners like smoke, like a draft you couldn’t seal out. You caught yourself reaching for a second mug in the morning, turning toward the door at the sound of hooves that never arrived. And every night, you laid in bed with a hand resting over your stomach, missing the weight of his hands, wondering where he was. Was he safe? Was Dutch pushing him too far again? Would he come back whole? Would he come back at all?

The days blurred.

You’d sit by the fire in the evenings, a book open in your lap, barely read. The wind whistled through the trees, and you’d stare out the window for long stretches, listening for the faint echo of hooves that might never return.

You wrote letters you never sent.

Arthur— The snow melted yesterday. The ground’s soft again. I planted something near the fence line. I think you’d like it here, come spring.

Arthur— I felt the baby move today. Just a flutter. Like a heartbeat under my skin. It scared me. And then it made me smile.

Arthur— Where are you? Come home.

You’d fold them, tuck them into the drawer beside your bed. Your hope lived in that drawer now. Fragile, folded, waiting.

The days grew longer. The snow thinned. The creek behind the cabin started to run again. Still no word. You chopped your own wood. You rode into Strawberry for supplies once, just to hear voices, to remind yourself the world hadn’t gone quiet.

But it had.

At least the part that mattered most.

One night, as spring tried to take hold, you sat on the porch wrapped in Arthur’s coat he left behind for you to keep, watching the stars blink open in the purple dusk. The mountains were still capped in white, but the trees had begun to bud, reaching for something new.

Your hand rested on your belly—rounder now, unmistakable. The child was quiet, like they too were waiting for a father they’d never met.

You didn’t cry.

You’d done enough of that.

You just waited. Quiet and still.

Trusting that somehow, the man who’d kissed your hand and whispered I promise would find his way back through the darkness. That he'd return not just for the promise he made, but because—despite the blood, the gunpowder, and all the things he carried—he wanted to.

The snow had melted into slush and mud. Spring had clawed its way up the mountain at last, leaving a damp chill in its wake and a cabin steeped in silence. The trees were budding, the creek behind the house was alive again with the babble of meltwater, and the wind had lost its bitter edge.

But he didn’t come back.

Arthur Morgan had ridden out into the cold weeks ago, hat low over his brow, a man torn in two. And still, there was no sign of him.

Not until the letter came.

It arrived the way all heartbreak does—quietly. No fanfare, no warning. Just a knock at the door one late afternoon, as the sun spilled gold through the trees.

You opened it to find an unfamiliar man on your porch. Weathered face, neutral eyes. He didn’t say a word—just handed over a folded, sealed envelope and nodded once.

“For you,” he said, voice low, and then turned back to his horse without waiting for a response.

You closed the door behind you, hands trembling as you turned the letter over. Your name scrawled across the front in familiar, looping script. It looked rushed. Smudged, even. Dirt on the corners, a faint thumbprint near the seal.

Arthur’s handwriting.

Your heart plummeted.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, candlelight flickering beside you, and unfolded the single sheet.

The paper crackled. His scent clung to it faintly—gunpowder and pine. Your eyes moved across the words, each one a punch to the chest.

My girl,

I don’t have the right to call you that no more. But I reckon it’s the only way I know how to start this.

I’m alive. For now. The job in Blackwater went bad. Real bad. Dutch had it all wrong—we all did. Pinkertons were waitin’. There was shootin’. Screamin’. We barely got out. Some didn’t. I don’t even know how we made it north, but we did. We’re holed up now, somewhere cold and cruel, and Dutch is already talkin’ about what comes next.

I know I said I’d come back. I meant it. Every word. But if I come back now, they’ll follow me. And they’ll find you. You and the baby. And I can’t risk that. I won’t.

So I’m stayin’ away. For your safety. For the baby's. It ain’t what I want, but it’s the only way I can think to protect you now. I don’t know how long we’ll be runnin’. Maybe forever. Maybe not long at all.

I think about you every day. About the cabin. The way you looked at me that night by the fire, like I could be somethin’ better. I wish I’d held onto that longer.

I’m sorry.

If I find a way to make it right, I’ll come back. But don’t wait for me. Don’t put your life on hold. Raise that baby strong. Tell them I was a fool, but I loved them all the same.

Tell them I loved you.

— Arthur

You sat still long after you finished reading, the letter clenched in your fists, its paper crumpling under the weight of your grief.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a bird sang—lonely and far away.

You stood slowly and crossed to the fire, feeding a fresh log to the flames. The letter stayed in your hand.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To curse his name for leaving, even if it was for all the right reasons. You wanted to rip the letter in half.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you read it again.

And again.

Until the candle burned low and the light outside dimmed to blue and indigo.

That night, you lay in bed curled on your side, one hand resting on your stomach. The baby shifted beneath your touch—a quiet reminder that life, no matter how uncertain, still moved forward.

You thought about Arthur’s face the last time you saw it. The way he kissed your hand, the way his voice trembled when he made that promise.

He meant it. Of that, you had no doubt.

But the world had never been kind to men like Arthur Morgan. Men who tried to claw their way out of darkness for the sake of something gentle. The cruel truth was that he hadn’t broken his promise because he stopped loving you. He’d broken it because he loved you too much to bring his hell to your doorstep.

In the days that followed, you kept moving. You fixed the fence he started. You tended the garden he’d helped dig. You patched the leaking corner of the roof, your belly growing heavier with each passing week. Your back growing painful with the new weight of your baby. 

But part of you had gone quiet again.

Not dead. Just waiting. Like the creek under frost.

The letter stayed in your drawer, folded neatly beside the others. You’d reach for it sometimes—never to read, only to hold. Like maybe, if you pressed it close enough to your chest, you could still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel the echo of his voice, whispering words he may never get to say again.

Spring soon turned to the start of summer, and the green world bloomed around the cabin in quiet defiance of your solitude.

The trees stretched tall and full, the days long and golden. Bees danced through the lavender you’d planted by the front step. A pair of robins nested in the rafters beneath the porch roof, their soft chirps a constant reminder that life pressed on, regardless of heartbreak.

You moved slower now. The weight in your belly grew heavier by the day, until even simple tasks left you breathless. You’d catch your reflection in the small mirror hanging near the wash basin and barely recognize yourself—hair messy, face flushed, hands always cradling your swollen stomach like you were afraid to let go.

You talked to the baby sometimes. When the nights got too quiet. When the wind rattled the shutters and your back ached from tossing in bed.

You told them stories—about their father, about the cabin, about the fireflies that blinked like stars in the meadow after sundown. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just pressed your hand to your belly and whispered,

"I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do."

Her name was May. You met her in Strawberry, during a rare trip to town in early June. A trip you’d put off too long, your supplies running low, your body already straining. She was older—widow-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, hands like leather, eyes as sharp as flint. She saw you struggling to load a sack of flour into your wagon and took one look at your belly before she tutted under her breath and stepped in.

“You shouldn’t be liftin’ that. Not in your condition.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she replied curtly, but not unkindly. “Come. I’ll help you finish your errands, and then you’ll come have tea with me. Unless you want to be one of those fools who gives birth in the dirt alone like some wild animal.”

Despite yourself, you chuckled. And then, unexpectedly, you went.

May lived in a small cottage at the edge of Strawberry, vines creeping up the stone walls, a garden teeming with color and smell. Her house was warm and full of clutter—books, candles, knitted blankets folded over chairs. She brewed strong tea. Gave you a bar of handmade soap and a pouch of dried herbs to help with your back. She asked no questions about the father of your child, and you were grateful. You visited her once a week after that.

She showed you how to ease swollen ankles in cold water. How to soothe your cramps with peppermint and lavender oil. How to listen to your body when the baby shifted and dropped. When you told her how far along you were, she nodded and began visiting you at the cabin, walking the half-mile trail from town with a wicker basket in hand and stories about her late husband on her lips.

“It’s not about pain,” she said one afternoon, as you sat on the porch with your feet soaking in a bucket. “It’s about power. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You stared at her, brow furrowed. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

May looked you dead in the eye.

“You already are.”

The first contraction came in the middle of the night.

You woke with a start, the pain twisting low and hard like a rope being pulled tight inside you. You doubled over, gasping, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You lit the lantern. Counted the minutes between the waves. Each one stronger than the last. By dawn, you knew it was time.

You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”

May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.

What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.

“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

And you did.

Because there was no other choice.

Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.

The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.

A boy.

You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.

Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name. 

The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,

"You should’ve been here."

The days came slowly after the birth.

Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.

Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.

And in a way, he was.

You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.

You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.

Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.

Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.

You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.

Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.

But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.

You started closing the gate again.

You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.

You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.

You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.

The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.

Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.

Someone.

And when you opened your eyes—

He was there.

Arthur.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.

You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.

You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.

Wonder.

“Is that…?” His voice faltered.

You nodded. “That’s your son.”

Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.

“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.

Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”

You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him. 

Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”

You stepped toward him, slowly.

“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dyin’?”

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.

Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.” 

You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time. 

The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.

Arthur stayed.

He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.

But still, he stayed.

And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.

You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.

Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.

But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.

You were losing him.

Piece by piece.

And there was nothing you could do.

It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.

You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.

Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.

“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”

You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”

The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”

But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.

You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.

“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”

Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.

“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”

You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.

“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.

Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear. 

And he kissed you back.

That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.

You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.

You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.

But time wasn’t kind.

Time was never kind.

You could feel it before he said the words.

The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.

The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.

“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.

You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.

“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”

You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”

“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”

You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.

He turned then.

There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”

You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”

You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.

“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”

Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.

Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.

You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.

You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.

Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.

Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.

Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.

You opened it slowly.

A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.

You. Him. Alexander.

A dream he’d never stopped carrying.

“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”

You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”

He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.

“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”

You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.

And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.

The goodbye didn’t come easy.

You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.

He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.

You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.

Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.

“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.

“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”

You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”

His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.

“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”

You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.

You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”

You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.

Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.

“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”

Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.

It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.

You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.

“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”

He nodded. “If I can… I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.

Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.

When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.

Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.

And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.

And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.

Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.

Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.

Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.

But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.

He was gone.

You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.

And even still… you waited.

Autumn came gently.

The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.

Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.

Like he remembered.

Like he knew.

It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.

You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.

Your head snapped up.

Your breath caught in your chest.

There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.

You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.

This man… wasn’t him.

He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

John.

He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.

“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”

You swallowed. “You came alone.”

He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.

The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.

And you knew.

He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.

Arthur was gone.

You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.

John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.

“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”

John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”

You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.

John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.

Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.

“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”

You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed. 

“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”

You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.

John stayed beside you.

And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.

John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.

John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.

Arthur’s hat.

Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.

John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.

John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”

Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.

You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.

Eventually, you stood.

“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”

John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.

You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.

John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.

“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”

He handed you Arthur’s journal.

The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.

Your hands trembled as you took it.

John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”

You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.

There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.

You traced his words with your fingers.

“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.

Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”

The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.

“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”

“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”

That broke you.

You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.

John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.

“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”

John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.

John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”

You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.

“Thank you, John.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.

The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.

You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.

And then, you were alone again.

You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.

You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”

And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.

It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.

Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.

You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.

You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.

You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.

The grave.

Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.

There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.

You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.

Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.

“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”

The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.

You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.

“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”

Your eyes stung, but you kept going.

“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”

You drew in a trembling breath.

“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”

The words cracked in your throat.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.

“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”

You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.

Eventually, you stood.

You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.

One last goodbye.

And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.

Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.

In you. In Alexander. In every step you took forward.

And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:

"You’ll always be with us. No matter how far."

[sgojoenthusiast]

‘a cigarette after sex’

wc: 1.8k

tags: fluff, mutual pining. Friends w benefits Arthur PT2. Mentions of sex.

author note: technically an addition to ‘a quiet night’ cause i’m starting to rlly like this friends w benefits Arthur wanting more. will work on requests soon :)

Rich alcohol bubbles laughter from the gang sitting below Arthur’s windowsill, a roaring fire tying together the sound of soft guitar and disorganized melodies. Despite the amusement everyone had danced in, Arthur Morgan had no intention of joining any of them that night on the fun.

What a gorgeous view. Arthur’s mind reels in blanks when he takes a moment to look at you. Back turned to him, he let his eyes drop and rise over you. With a body still slick on the afterglow of sex and sweat, you draped yourself bare over the edge of his springy cot with elbows dug into the linen sheet. The fire dances in your eyes. Peering from where you laid, you gazed down from the window of his Shady Belle room where the two of you laid in the nest of warmth and weakness. Arthur understands that it is weakness that shreds him of his pride and volition everytime you find your way back into his bed. With your body naked, pale moonlight sends a cascading waterfall of silver down the plains of your back. The slight dewy moisture that collects on your skin only sends him reminders of your passionate haze of affection just a few minutes ago. He hopes you’ll stay like this just a moment longer. He lets his mind stray to the vivid recollection of you folded in half beneath him, dirty words and pleads that he pulled from your breath with every rough chase of his hips and heat of his mouth.

Yet, even with the pretty sight of you blissed out, high on the euphoric edge that Arthur seems to teeter you on, he doesn’t think anything can compare to your beauty after the fact. Though, he’ll never admit that to you, not until you tell him it’s what you wanted to hear. With a chest that ached of longing, he revels in the way you soaked in the cold, frosted air of the night as if you had belonged among the banisters of stars. He breathes you in a long moment, a little too long for him to call it friendly. If he were to be more honest to himself, he’d acknowledge full well that there was nothing friendly about the two of you.

He gets an idea. A stupid one, one that’ll surely leave him a foolish man. Even then, he understands that this is a view that he would burn into the skin of his bones if he could. Extending his arm, he reaches for the brown leatherback journal that sits by the side of the bed. His broad shoulders creak like old mahogany wood, the naked planes of his chest chiseled like a greek god. When his pencil lightly taps among the smooth cover, you turn around and he’s met with those punishing, darling eyes of yours that burns his composure to nothing but ash. Arthur knew he was in deep, yet it still makes him ache when you catch him in such a moment of endearment. Your eyes land on his journal and pencil, corners of your mouth twitching into that cherry flavored smile.

“Gotcha’.” Your words fall husky on his ears and he can’t help but scoff shamelessly at his own mistake, even indulging in the way you shifted your bare body back to face him.

“You got me.” He gruffly responds, lifting his hand that rested on his journal up in the air as if signalling his defeat. Quick woman. He hopes you’re too slow to notice his ears burn in slight embarrassment.

This has become quite the pattern for the both of you. Ever since you had both been aware of Arthur’s slight favoring of you and vice versa. Moments of weakness began to bleed into your camping trips, you two began to sneak away every time the moment was right to satiate each other’s needs–A hotel or into the sweet confines of his canvas tent. Only–the need for you didn’t seem to disappear even after healing his soul to the sweet music of your whines and moans. No, he finds himself hungering for the perfect moments after the fact. Moments such as this one.

“Were you just gonna sit there in silence the whole time?” The words play off of your tongue lightly, head tilted ever so slightly to get a better look at him in the flickering candle light. The lines around his mouth are pulled together into a feigned scowl, crows' feet scrunching up along with the bridge of his nose when he begins to quip at you.

“Nah. Just wondering what you’ve been eyeing down there for so long. Practically burned a hole into the damn windowsill.” His expression rests on its stoic pout that seems to never leave his face, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of amusement. Yet, you could tell he was already quite infatuated. You glance back to the distant chatter of the campfire alone and Arthur can see the thoughts steam from your head by the way your eyes flicker. Shifting comfortably, you melt back into the dark sheets of the bed and he tries to not let his eyes linger on you for any longer than dignifying. He believes that the deep seated fondness he holds for you will eventually fade and dwindle if he chooses to not indulge in it. Yet his contradicting mind and body betrays his pride constantly; and as he gets a better look at you in the candlelight, soft embers illuminating your radiating, halo glow with wildflower petals still colorfully strewn about in your hair. You still smelled of sweet citrus and fruit, all he can do is selfishly long.

“Just thinkin.’” You point to his side of the bed to the box of half empty cigarettes and he doesn’t hesitate to supply you with your bitter relief. You notice how despite the creased line of his forehead and the rough, pinched furrow of his brow that his candid crystalline eyes were nothing short of tender.

“Enlighten me.” He pulls his own cigarette from the box before handing it to you, but you simply pluck the cigarette that he stuck between his fingers and slot it into your own mouth. That earns you that toothy smile, a grin pulls his cheeks into creases and he looks down to preserve any of his composure.

You find the lighter that was sitting on your floor of the bed along with your cream laced clothing and golden brass shoes, ever so carelessly and impatiently discarded in your passionate affair. You can’t help but feel the piercing diamond eyes of your lover scale your back as you lean over the creaking cot. As if the tension in his stare was coated in whiskey and fire, you feel your face burn hot like coal. You pull yourself back up. Giving into the thick and dry pull on his throat, he shamelessly watches the bruises and bites that blossomed along your chest and stomach fade back into view when you have finally retrieved the lighter. Another grin threatens to curve his lips. “Tilly and Beth probably wondering where I am about now..” You fumble with the silver lighter for a second when Arthur’s hand instinctively reaches out to help you, only for you to catch the wispy flame in its last moment, chest puffing in pride. “I won’t hear the end of it from those two like this..” That melodic laugh is pulled in strings from your lips when you gaze down at yourself. Deep violets and red seem to blossom along your flesh like petals, hurting ever so pleasurable.

“You’ll be in your dress, you'll be fine.” The image licks flames at Arthur’s mind and he can’t help but let embarrassment run heat through his body in a hot flash. He had gotten carried away this time. Pulling smoke through your soft cherry lips, you hum softly at his comment, handing the cigarette back to him. He sits up, looking down at your naked figure and he feels his throat tighten. “You can go and join them if you want, y’know.” He rasps, quiet as if his tail was tucked between his legs. Quiet as if he didn’t want you to. He hopes the smoke will get rid of the buzzing in his brain, an electric shock shooting through his body as soon as he tastes the bitter paper on his lip.

You roll over on your side to face him, body still melted so comfortably into the sheets as if you were meant to lay beside him for the rest of your life. And a part of him hopes that is the case. “Do you want me to?”

“To what?” He muses for a second.

“To leave.” You say just as quickly, taking the cigarette from his scarred, hair laced knuckles and fingers.

“Hell no, I don’t want you to leave.” He hopes his answer came out confident, smooth unlike the way the apple of his throat bobbed nervously. He hoped it charmed you, because it earned a soft giggle from your lips. It was those moments of soft giggling, whether it was between sweet, heady kisses or laughter just talking back and forth that made him realize that this relationship the two of you held was far past being friendly.

“No?” You reach for the cigarette, hand deliberately brushing against his hand for another brief, electric moment.

“No..” His voice had gotten a little quieter. “Like I said, you’re fine company.” He watches the smoke fill your lungs, the last remnants of your lipstick smearing onto the cigarette when you had wetly kissed it.

You smile through the smoke and he's quick to notice the red that crawls up your face just as thick and sunny. You let the smoke billow from your body, face turned ever so slightly to the side as to not punish him in your intoxicating air. “I’ll stay then.” He forces his smile down at your answer, trading the rough callous in his hand for a cigarette from yours.

He gets a final look at your body, letting the image burn into his mind as he finally spills back into the cot, eyes finding the ceiling of his room. You both watch the smoke spill from his lips, filling the air above you in a haze of unspoken affection. There was no need for a trade of words right now, anyways. Though he will be sorely disappointed to not have gotten that sketch of you, thick graphite lines shadowing the plush of your hips and the thin flicks of his pencil highlighting the glow of your back—he believes this was just as good. Hell. It was even better.

[sgojoenthusiast]

then and now — gojo satoru

synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, mentions of pregnancy, time travel inaccuracies probably, not proofread :x

you’re not quite sure how you ended up here.

one minute, you were curled up in bed, fighting a wave of nausea courtesy of the growing child of the strongest inside of you. the next, you were wandering toward the kitchen, wondering what was taking your husband so long to bring you the damn breakfast he promised — only to find him standing rigid in front of the stove, staring down…

himself.

you blink.

twice.

“satoru, what’s taking so long—”

your voice dies in your throat the second your eyes land on him. no — not him, but a younger, wide-eyed, hopelessly awe-struck version of him. standing in your kitchen, mouth parted, face pale, and gaze locked entirely on you.

you freeze.

he stares.

you stare back.

and then—oh no—he starts to smile. bright. dopey. disbelieving. there might actually be drool.

the younger gojo looks at you like you’re made of stars and everything he’s ever wanted in life, and you’re only in your husband’s oversized tee shirt. 

he looks like he’s about to fall in love with you on the spot.

then comes your gojo.

he appears behind you like summoned by jealousy itself, pressing flush against your back, arms encircling you. his chin hooks over your shoulder as he narrows his eyes at his teenage self with all the warning.

“oi,” your husband growls low, “eyes off my wife, you brat.”

the trance breaks instantly.

“what the hell—she’s my wife too!” younger gojo snaps, voice cracking in disbelief.

“like hell she is,” your husband shoots back, his hand sliding possessively down to cradle the swell of your belly. “i put a baby in her.”

you choke on air.

teen gojo’s eyes drop down—

—and bug out.the younger gojo is practically gaping, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he stares between you and your husband. "y-you let this man impregnate you?!" he blurts out, the crudeness making you flush with heat.

you feel the immediate rush of embarrassment. “i—how— satoru, explain.”

both of them whip their heads around at the mention of his name, as if they were no more than dogs waiting for a command.

your husband rubs your back, “i guess my younger self must have managed to travel to the future.”

you’re gaping at the two men.

the younger version of him is practically wagging his tail, a wide grin tugging at his lips like he’s just won first place in something that actually mattered. he looks completely lost in his own world to understand his future self’s subtle jab, and you could swear you hear him whispering under his breath, breathless and giddy—“i did it, i did it, i did it.”

“ah,” you slowly try to rationalize. “satoru, i know this might seem strange, but—”

“no, no,” your husband cuts you off with a tight squeeze around your waist, leaning slightly into you. “i’m satoru. he’s just gojo.” his tone makes it clear who he thinks should have the honor of the name, but his attention never leaves his younger self, and the muscles in his jaw are flexing.

the younger gojo squints, confused, then his face contorts with a mix of irritation and amusement. “since when did i become so uptight?”

your husband snorts. "yeah, well, you have a lot of growing up to do."

the younger gojo mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back, his posture almost defensive. "i get it. you put on the blindfold and suddenly you're mr. 'i've got it all figured out.'"

the tension in the room thickens, palpable between the two men.

"yeah," the older gojo retorts, voice steady but tinged with a bit of pride. "and i also got the girl of my dreams."

the younger gojo’s eyes narrow, his voice rising, "she’s my dream girl too!"

the older gojo shifts, locking his gaze on his younger self. his expression hardens, becoming a little sharper. "she’s my wife. not yours."

you sigh, exasperated, stepping between them. “oh, for heaven’s sake. you’re both the same person. you’re arguing with yourself.”

younger gojo leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on you. “i could love you just as much as he does, you know.”

your husband scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “please. you don’t even know what to do with her yet.”

“try me.”

“enough!” you snap, your glare cutting through the air like a blade. there’s no mistaking the warning in your eyes, a silent promise that things are about to escalate if they don’t stop.

both satorus fall silent in an instant as they both straighten at your words.

“me and the baby are starving,” you declare, your tone laced with a hint of challenge. “and if neither of you plans on helping, i guess i’ll have to do it myself.”

the younger satoru’s eyes flicker to your growing belly, then back to you.

in an instant, they’re both at your side, moving in synchrony like two halves of a whole, each hand hovering near you, as if they could protect you from something, but you know the truth. it’s not about protection. it’s about proximity—about the excuse to touch you.

“you know,” the younger satoru murmurs, a playful glint in his eyes, “you’re even more beautiful now. who would've thought you could get hotter?”

your breath catches at the unexpected compliment, and before you can stop it, your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the heat of the room. “t-thank you,” you mutter, not quite looking at him, trying to hide the effect his words have on you.

your husband, who’s been standing just behind you, makes no attempt to hide his irritation. his gaze sharpens, but his voice remains smooth, controlled—too controlled. “it’s no surprise, of course,” he says, his hand sliding around your waist in a possessive gesture, pulling you a little closer, a subtle but undeniable claim. “you’ve always been breathtaking. she’s glowing, don’t you think?”

you feel his lips brush against your temple as he says it, and though his words are directed at the younger satoru, they’re meant for you—just the two of you, wrapped in this small, intimate moment. his grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent declaration of ownership that you can feel in your bones.

“thank you, dear,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s a flicker in your chest that betrays you—something more than just appreciation for the compliment.

as you open the fridge, you don’t notice the younger gojo’s subtle frown at the pet name, nor the way your husband’s chest puffs just a little, satisfaction practically radiating off him. but you do feel it. the electricity. the unspoken challenge. and you can’t help but wonder which of them will break first.

the clink of chopsticks and the sound of your satisfied hums fill the room as the three of you eat breakfast, the tension at the table simmering beneath the surface. the younger gojo eyes the older version of himself from across the table, suspicion flickering behind his sharp gaze.

he sets his bowl down slowly.

“so tell me,” he says finally, chopsticks tapping against ceramic. “how’d you do it?”

the older gojo raises a brow. “do what?”

younger gojo tilts his head pointedly in your direction. “get her. my [name] doesn’t want to do anything with me.”

your husband doesn’t miss a beat. he smirks, annoyingly smug, and drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like a trophy. “i charmed the living daylights out of her. obviously.”

you give him a flat look. 

your husband ignores you. “she thought i was endearing.”

“i thought you were desperate,” you add with a sly smile.

he turns toward you, hand over his heart like he’s been shot. “desperation? is that what we’re calling devotion now?”

“you were on both knees when you proposed,” you point out, smug.

“i really wanted you to say yes,” he mutters, now clearly sulking. he stabs at his food like it personally offended him.

across the table, the younger gojo leans in, chin propped in one hand as he watches the two of you. there's something soft in his eyes now, envy tempered with awe. 

“don’t listen to him,” you say with a playful smile, your gaze softening as you turn to your husband. “i only gave you a chance when i realized how big your heart is. how much you really care. your dedication to reshaping jujutsu society—that’s what made me see you weren’t just a nuisance.”

both gojo's eyes widen in shock, clearly not expecting that.

your husband, though, pouts, his usual smugness replaced with playful mock hurt.

“aww~” he whines, a teasing lilt to his voice. “i think you’ve got a little crush on me!”

you narrow your eyes, a warning simmering beneath your words. “satoru, i’m about to bite your head off.”

he grins, leaning in with that signature mischief. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

the younger gojo’s eyes dart between the two of you. perhaps his future wasn’t too bad.

[sgojoenthusiast]

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that… a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering. Curiosity. Science.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He���s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just… optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just… considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked… beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel… bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did… maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says—far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too—I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him—when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be… you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead—realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a “you really fumbled the bag” look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is… just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment—God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him—this man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

[sgojoenthusiast]

Arthur is laughing.

His deep, rasping baritone echoes across camp. The word "guffaw" comes to mind, and a few of the other men join in, but it's Arthur's laugh you hear above all the rest.

"Look at you, grinning like a fool." Karen sways over to you with a grasp on the neck of whisky bottle. It's barely sunset, and she's already had more to drink than she ought to. It worries you, but Arthur's repeated laughter brings you back to your joyful reverie. "What's got you all sun shiny and glowing?"

Your face grows warm, though from the drink or otherwise, you can't be certain.

"Oh, nothing much," you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. "Just thinking."

"Mmm-hmm." Karen sits down on the other end of the log you're perched on and leans in close. "Bet it's got nothing to do with Arthur, does it?"

The men's laughter fades into something less intense and more intimate. You hear Lenny taking deep, calming breaths and see Uncle wiping tears from his eyes while Arthur lights a smoke. It catches you off guard when he makes eye contact with you and tips his hat.

"Nothing like that," you answer Karen, your head in the clouds. "Not Arthur."

She throws her head back and laughs, a rooster's crow. "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England. I swear, if you don't kiss him by the end of the night, I'm gonna toss you both out of camp till ya do!"

Her own boisterous declaration draws more attention to the two of you than you'd like. You stand and wipe your sweaty palms on your skirt and head down to the river that lies just a few yards away. Karen calls after you, saying she ain't kidding. You curl your toes into the silt and let water lap at your feet, admiring the sunset, blissfully unaware of Arthur's eyes lingering on your figure. He's gone quiet while the others sing a little tune.

Maybe it's time he ought to say something.

Just as he gathers the courage to approach, Sean- the Irish bastard- swings you into his arms for an impromptu, drunken dance. You yelp- at once in surprise and fear- but your cry melts into a giggle when he playfully nips at the junction between your neck and shoulder.

Arthur shakes his head and grabs another bottle of beer before joining the others around the fire once more.

[sgojoenthusiast]

It’s Thursday morning, and Satoru is a mess of long limbs, tired sighs, and clingy affection. The alarm barely makes it through the first ring before he slaps it off with a grumble, already pulling you into him, burying his face in the crook of your neck like it’s the only place in the world that makes sense. He breathes you in with a groggy, content hum, your warmth, your scent, the gentle rise and fall of your chest pressed to his.

He’s impossible to move. Heavy and soft, like melting snow. Lanky arms slowly loop tightly around your waist, legs tangling with yours, refusing to let you shift even an inch away. Each time you wiggle, he groans under his breath and clings tighter, like your body is the only thing tethering him to the earth. His nose brushes along your collarbone and soft, pink lips pressing lazy, barely-there kisses to your skin. Not to wake you, not to arouse - just to feel. To ground himself in the softness of you.

Eventually, the weight of responsibility seeps in, but not a welcomed distrubance. He follows you to the bathroom with dragging feet and a petulant pout, still clinging to your waist like a puppy. The moment the water starts, he slumps onto the ledge of the shower with an audible sigh, legs spreading so you can slot yourself between them.

Then he melts.

Face pressed to your chest, his mouth finds the space between your breasts and stays there. His hands roam with worship - over the curve of your back, the softness of your hips, the plush give of your tummy under his palms. Kneading the skin gently, like he’s marveling at every inch, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. The kisses he leaves along your skin are slow, open-mouthed, soaked in affection.

When you reach for the shampoo, he tenses, his touch tightening slightly like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. He looks up at you, white brows furrowed in exhaustion, mouth parted as if he wants to say something but doesn’t have the energy. The only sound is the gentle rush of water and the soft puff of breath as you cup his face, smoothing your thumbs under his tired eyes.

He leans into your hands like they’re the only thing keeping him upright. His whole body relaxes the moment your lips press to his forehead, tension unwinding with a long, sleepy exhale. When you lather his snowy-white hair, his head dips obediently, body going limp as your fingers massage through the strands. A low, contented sound rumbles in his chest - something between a sigh and a purr.

Even then, he doesn’t stop touching you. His hands never stray far, running lazily along your hips, circling your waist, squeezing at your thighs like he needs the constant reminder: you’re here. Soap slips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He’s too tired. Too in love.

And he’s not ready to let go of you - not yet. The world can wait a little longer.

[sgojoenthusiast]

NEED A HERO? | GOJO SATORU

pairings: naive! farmgirl reader x nightwing! gojo

synopsis: nightwing! gojo needs a place to crash when he's on the run from the cops. He tells you he's been framed, that he'd never actually do anything unlawful, and of course, he's telling the truth. ...Right?

an: photo creds to @kayaxxo on twt! a new series im working on. stay tuned for the first chapter

chapter i

chapter ii

chapter iii

chapter iv (fin.)

[sgojoenthusiast]

Okay. Breathe, Satoru. You can do this. It's just a sleepover. Just your girlfriend. Just the person you're absolutely, irrevocably obsessed with. Who you're trying really, really hard not to scare off.

Standing in your apartment, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from touching everything. You’re flitting around, casual, relaxed, while he’s trying to memorize the shape of your furniture, the smell of your space, the way you hum when you walk into the kitchen.

Satoru's baby-blues locking onto the bathroom door. “I’ll, uh... shower first, if that’s okay?” like it’s the most neutral, chill request ever. It’s not. He’s sweating. His ears are pink. You nod like it’s no big deal - of course it’s no big deal - but to him? It’s a very big deal.

He gently closes the bathroom door behind him. Worries if he makes too much of a sound, he will be banned from your fine establishment. Your things are everywhere. Shampoo bottles, conditioner, your razor, a little candle half-burned on the sink, your loofah hanging from the shower knob, the loofah. He stares at it for too long.

Are we at the loofah-sharing stage? Satoru wonders, frozen in place. It’s pink. Fluffy. It looks soft, and it’s yours, and he’s fighting every stupid urge in his body. “Don’t be weird,” muttering aloud, as if he can command himself into normalcy. Still, his fingers twitch. He holds it. Briefly. Gently. Just for a second. Just to say he did.

Then comes the body wash. He squirts out the tiniest amount and rubs it between his hands like it’s precious perfume. The scent hits him and he nearly slides down the wall. You smell like this. You smell like this all the time. How is he supposed to survive? Because now he smells like you.

Pressing his face into the steam and pretends it’s your neck. He’s sick. Maybe a little pathetic. He knows it. But he’s also just so in love. What can a guy do?

When he steps out, face flushed and hair damp, he feels like a teenage boy at his crush’s house for the first time - which, in his mind, he kinda is. You’re waiting for him in pajamas, makeup wiped off, looking soft and sleepy and so perfectly you. He thinks he might pass out.

And then… brushing teeth together. Should be simple. Should be normal. But nothing is normal around you. He’s beside you at the sink, trying to play it cool while your shoulder brushes his. You hum to yourself while brushing, glancing at him through the mirror, and he nearly foams at the mouth. Or maybe that’s the toothpaste. He’s not sure.

Then he sees it.

A little blob of foam at the corner of your lips.

Something happens to him. Something dark and unspeakable. He wants to kiss it away. He wants to lick it off your mouth like a psychopath. He stares. Blinks. Shakes his head like a wet dog. Absolutely not. No. Stop it.

What’s wrong with you, scolding himself. She’s just brushing her teeth. Like a person. A very pretty, perfect person.

He spits. Rinses. Avoids eye contact. Looks at the drain. Looks at your spit down the drain. Another weird thought. One that must be suppressed.

And then it’s time. Bedtime. Final boss.

Your bed is small. Cozy. Absolutely infested with plushies. He pretends to be annoyed but he secretly loves them. Even if they are plotting to kick him off the edge of the mattress. He climbs in carefully, unsure which plush is your favorite. Unsure what you'd do if he accidentally knocked one little guy off the floor. The blanket smells like your laundry. Like home. Like the future he wants with you.

You’re already under the covers, blinking at him sleepily, smile soft and content. Wearing his shirt and not much else. The fabric rides up your thighs and he has to look away before his brain fully melts. He deserves a prize for not making a move. Deciding to lay on his back, stiff, hands folded like he’s in a coffin. He doesn’t touch you. Not even a pinky. Be good, chanting to himself. Be good. You like her. You love her. You’re not a perv, you’re not a perv.

You shift closer.

A leg brushes his. A sigh escapes your lips. Your hand settles gently on his stomach like it belongs there.

He almost cries, something between a half whimper and a wheeze leaves his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his arm around your waist. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. You lean into him.

He swears he hears wedding bells.

You fall asleep just like that, face nestled against his shoulder, breath even and slow. And he lies there, heart racing, brain fried, blinking up at the ceiling, Satoru would be getting no sleep tonight.

His thoughts are a mess: She’s so pretty. Is she really mine? What if I kissed her forehead? No, too soon. Maybe not. God, her skin is soft. I should move in. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. No, bad. Calm down. Be cool. Be a good boyfriend. Don’t get a boner. You’re cuddling. It’s fine. Just breathe. You’re okay. This is okay. Everything is okay.

He wants to. Touch you, that is. Just your waist. Just a hand on your back. Just to pull you closer and feel your heartbeat against his chest. But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still. He doesn’t want to push anything. You haven’t done that yet, and he’d rather die than make you uncomfortable.

Except nothing’s okay. Because he’s so in love it physically hurts. Because you’re sleeping peacefully and trusting him with this little moment, and all he wants is to stay like this forever.

How are you sleeping so peacefully while he’s over here thinking about nothing but how perfect yoh are?

[sgojoenthusiast]

Bat(man) Romance - T.F.

Synopsis. Running into Batman AKA your ex-husband, Toji, after a heist? Could this night get any worse? Well, there’s also one tiny problem…you’re both covered in séx pollen.

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Catwoman! reader, Batman! Toji, BATMAN AU, exes-to-Iovers, PlNING, séx pollen, he goes FÉRAL, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, he’s BIG, making it fit, tummy buIges, overstím, chokíng, p sIapping, making him cúm early, creampíes, cúmplay, he’s RUlNED, bickering during it, latex, cervíx kíssing, bréeding, pússydrúnk Toji, pheromones, spítting, praise, fíngering, proposals, he’s also rich, L bómbs, Megumi cameo, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.0k

A/N. CAUGHT IN BAAAD ROMANCE!!

“Too slow~” You’re snickering to yourself, latex-covered legs swinging in the air as you eye the scattered pinpricks of red n’ blue police lights below. Scouring every road and lane in Gotham City for you - while you gazed with amusement atop a nearby rooftop.

You guess that’s part of being the resident Catwoman. Never to be caught.

Well, never to be caught by anyone other than him. 

You shake off the unwanted memories of your now ex-husband, the billionaire vigilante you were supposed to have happily spent the rest of your life with. And it really didn’t help that the skyscraper you’d found refuge on just-so-happened to be part of his sprawling Fushiguro Enterprises. 

Oh well…

Breathing in the sweet, crispy night air; you turn to what had gotten you in trouble in the first place.

That brilliant - almost glowing - pink flower you’d just stolen from the depths of a ministry vault, now clutched tightly in your cunning hands. “I like something that gives me a lil’ fight.”

“Then you’re gonna love me.”

It was a voice you could recognize anywhere, anytime-– that low, drawling growl that seeped his baritone words with just a bit of danger. 

And you’d forgotten how fast Toji Fushiguro was. 

Because just as soon as the realization hits your startled brain, your front hits the frigid rooftop tile. Tackled down. Face smushing into the smooth marble, chest panting out murked clouds when a heavy weight settles on your sinfully arched back.

Toji slouches sexily on top of you so that his scarred maw tickles your tender earlobe, weight fully rested to pin you down on the ground. Big, beefy arms holding you like a vice, “Heya, wifey.”

“Hello, ex-husband.”

“So- s’it a coincidence that both you and the police are visitin’ me or–?”

Ah- he was just as infuriatingly cocky as ever. Fuck having a happily ever after, you two were more likely to kill each other before that.

You snarl, more so because you’re unsure what else to do than anything. “Oh you know- just missing my favorite ex.” No matter how much you kick and scratch, Toji’s restraint stays firm. Trying to focus your widened peripherals on the ground instead, “I thought they killed you.”

“Not yet.”

And oh, you can’t deny that having his familiar hands on you after so long had you a little…electrified.

Shit– fine, on those lonely nights you’d even dreamt of having his thick, doughy fingertips tracing your simmering skin this way. All over. Drawing sloooow hearts near the nape of your neck - that lecherous bastard - before dipping down, down, down to lock both your wrangling wrists with only one of his oversized ones. 

Your fists clench tightly, still grappling onto that priceless exotic flower. The curved fringes of his digits caress the metallic zipper running down your spine, “Hiding something, mama?”

“Meow, tiger—” You’re purring out, “If you wanted to feel me up then you only had to ask~”

“Down, kitty.” His free hand tugs on your cute spiked collar to strangle those jabs, and then immediately unravels your hands to pluck the pretty stem from between your fingerpads. He twirls the blossom casually in his hands, “So this is it, huh? I should hand you to the Gotham police right this second.”

Your nose wrinkles at the sudden waft of syrupy pheromones that puff out from the flower in shimmery pink vapors. Hissing, “No! Give that back-”

Only for the words to tighten themselves into speechless knots at your throat because you’d finally, finally gotten your first good look at Toji Fushiguro since the divorce. 

Ever since you two had decided, after only a few months of marriage, that perhaps love wasn’t enough to keep you two from tying each other down to your own opposing ideologies and purposes. You ruled a crime empire, he was a death-defying hero.

And he was also…hot. 

Had he grown even more handsome than the last time you saw him? Because, fuck, you don’t remember his rugged jawline being quite as sharp. Or his shaggy Stygian bangs curtaining oh-so-intense of a gaze.

And his suit - oh, his suit. Toji was still donning that dark, skin-tight batsuit as you remembered - only right now, his Adonis-like muscles were practically ripping through the elastic material. Illuminated by the yolky moonlight overhead to carve out every dip and curve, every bob of his prominent Adam’s apple.

Slightly horned mask pulled over his head, he doesn’t even bother to hide the sultry roaming of his mossy eyes.

Toji Fushiguro was like sex personified, and that makes you stir impatiently on the polished tile. 

He’s shifting his bulky heft to stop your pathetic motions, straddling now. Lips twisting into a sleazy leer as his silken cape drapes over your body. “Cat got your tongue, wifey?”

“That’s my line, Batman.” You’re huffing out, lower lip jutting out in a way you already knew he loved. Ignoring his murmured rasp of ‘you look good’, you plead for the spoils of your heist once more. God, you could sense the scented perfume already saturating the heady air. “Give that back…p-please-”

“Oho?” Toji raises a sleek black brow, chuckles spouting off in gusts of scorched breath. He inches even closer, letting out a loooow whistle between his surprised lips, “The great Catwoman usin’ her manners? Ohh, say that again.”

“...please?”

“How cute.”

“Fuck off.”

“S’this lil’ flower really that important then?” You hear grumbling from above you - and you really should’ve predicted what would happen next. You really shouldn’t have been surprised when Toji promptly touches the straight bridge of his nose between it’s velvety petals and steals a deep sniff—

“You imbecile!”

And if Toji was swift, you were swifter. 

“Oh, shit- sugar.”

He barely even registers that it’d taken two bats of his long eyelashes for you to break out of his heroic stronghold and slam! his towering body to the ground. Your legs latched onto either side of his toned v-line like glue, one hand of yours clawing onto the unmistakable bat logo on his broad chest. 

“Reminds me of our honeymoon.” Toji cocks a grin from underneath, slender waist bucking - and failing - to throw you off. You were fucking determined. 

“I have never- met a more-” You spit through your clenched teeth, so hard you could taste the raw poison coating your tone. Through each pant of your chest, you swipe for your prize like the cat that was yearning for the cream. “-stubborn- hard-headed- moronic bat-”

Over and over.

And then with a final reach of your free set of fingers, you entrap Toji’s wrist, grab the delicate flower, and–

-crush it.

Only, this was no regular bloom.

The moment its glowy pink petals collide with your fingertips, softened fibre smashing into your eager flesh, the blossom bursts. Bursts. Into a thick, cloudy smog of microscopic pollen that glitters and spreads in front of your eyes. 

The sight was so mesmerizing that by the time you’re trudging your head out of the saccharine-smelling distraction, and crying out a frantic “Don’t breathe it in!”– it’s already too late.

Toji himself can’t see any reason why you’re practically sputtering n’ fraught - he certainly isn’t.

Sure, he was not the one who’d just lost what was likely a few million dollars worth of a rare plant. But when he had you like this? How could he ever even think of- actually, how could he ever even think?

Your chest heaving deliciously in that glossy latex catsuit, cute lips spit-slicked and parted with a never-ending train of complaints, fiery eyes he missed so much locked on him - and sat prettily on top of him, to boot! Oh, how he’d dreamt of this.

“Heh, always did like havin’ you on top of me, mama.” He inches his lolling head carnally closer to steal a few inhales of that sweet, sweet perfume you were wearing. It wasn’t your usual - but damn, did it leave him drunk on you.

And he sounded so gone.

Shit. 

“Oh no, it’s working already.” You bemoan, massaging the looming headache throbbing at your temples.

“What’s workin’?”

“The sex pollen.” You jeer, your heart racing with a slight inkling of satisfaction at the way you’d finally managed to render your taunting ex-husband speechless. Or was it from…something else? You didn’t want to consider that just yet. You’re dragging your hips on top of his and you almost moan.

Instead, stabbing a rigid index right between the cushy valleys of his pecs, lingering. “Which you- would have known if you’d just listened to me. Honestly- this is why we divorced-”

“Sex…”

“Sex pollen.”

And then it’s silence. Tense, deafening silence. 

Not even the sounds of the distantly-blaring police sirens are enough to make the panic set into your shivering body. Because right now it was bubbling with something feverish.

Needy. 

But did you really forget who you were dealing with? Of course, Toji would never let the uncomfortable quiet linger on for too long before he shatters the night stillness with a sharp bark of husked laughter. 

“S-so you’re sayin’...” He starts, and you definitely don’t like that particular tone of his. One which never boded well for you. With a hand squishing either side of your cheeks embarrassingly together, he ogles you dead-on into your hazed irises as he asks, “-you want to fuck me right here, right now, my wife?”

“I-I don’t-”

“I can tell when you lie, sugar.”

“Fuck you.”

His willowy eyes flutter shut with the image - and Toji feels so hot. He feels like he’s burning straight from the inside out, so many degrees higher in temperature at your sexy, sexy glare that told him you wanted murder him in cold blood and dance on his grave. Inhaling deeply, “S’that a request, mama~?”

And it was meant to be a joke - seriously. It was meant to be something stupid that would make you scoff and shove off of his burly body, disappearing into the night as he so often admired. 

But you always did surprise him.

And so did the next word spilling shyly from your mouth– “Yes.”

If Toji thought he was burning before then he was simply aflame with fire right now.

All he can do to steady his dizzy head, all he can do to stagger his greatly heaving chest into choking out a guttural, “Fine- come on.” 

Before you know it, your entire world tilts upside down - and not just because your ex-husband is throwing you over his meaty shoulders, your stomach laid over his rippling muscles. The slinky whoosh! of his grapple gun darting out and hooking onto the side of his building. Firmly. Your ass held high in the air, you swear you feel him give your right cheek a solid spank. “You wanna lose control, wifey? Let’s lose control.”

Fuck.

It takes two seconds for Toji to stride to the edge of the high skyscraper and projectile swing the both of you over to launch inside a conveniently-open window on the highest floor. Pulling himself inside. 

And only one second for you to realize that he’d just line-launched you straight into his fucking bed.

Honestly, your scream had barely had the time to formulate within your throat before you’re being thrown straight onto a plush, dark-blanketed king sized mattress. 

Glassy eyes looking ‘round – you’re realizing that you’d been transported right inside one of his many looming Gotham penthouses. Hell, he’d even fucked you right here in this exact bed a few times before.

Just your luck to choose to hideout in your ex-husband’s fucking house of all places.

“You- you little-” Your shrilling voice cuts out with every springing bounce, which makes the glare thrown in Toji’s direction immensely useless. Thighs emanating a stretchy screech of latex as they press together, you intake deep gulps of his musky cologne. “-you know how I always h-hated that thing.”

And oh, landed only a few feet away from the bed, Toji laughs - he laughs.

Breathy noises coming out in a thick tone, part of his face was obscured with the shadows spilling from outside. But the partial expression you could see made Toji Fushiguro look ruined - sharp, honed canines lifted into a snarl, sage eyes halfway through glowing. Desperate.

He looked at you like he wanted to devour you - and spoke of just the very thing. Gritting out, “And I’ve always hated that damn catsuit, mama.”

Heavy stepfalls thud! thud! thud! closer. And Toji’s sculptured body prowls like a predator closing in on his prey. Closed in on you. 

“L-liar. You know you liked it.”

And closer.

“I did.”

Until it was too close.

And suddenly Toji had two meaty palms loops around your helpless ankles to draaaag you all the way down his decadent bed, your hips flailing until they find purchase somewhere near the very edge. 

Ending off- “And I couldn’t wait to fuckin’ rip it off every time I saw it.”

Your skin feels so hot it’s like it’s melting, parched heat wafting off of you like the damn Sahara as his rude fingers pinch the rubbery material between your legs and riiiiips—! Exposing you for just how soaked n’ pretty you were.

Oh. 

So drenched that just tearing your latex had you forming a damn puddle. Toji isn’t sure whether it’s the sex pollen or just fucking you that makes his heart race faster when he’s watching the slimy globs trickle from between your dewy, swollen folds. 

Throbbing so depravedly that he counts one, two, three adorable quivers of your pussy before finally speaking. 

“Fuck, I missed ‘er.” Toji’s seething between his teeth, already on fucking edge for letting himself go the what– seven months? without his only lady. He breathes in - gulping in that sugary smell of your cunt, and it’s so much. Too much, he’s nibbling on your sleek mask. “Fuck-”

“Y-you’re-”

You’re dazed, your puffy pouted lips glueing together with stupid drool and flapping wildly after the hero lowers himself to gift a wet, smacking kiss on your dripping outer pussy. “A kiss for her, aaaand-” 

Toji tastes you and he flinches. Just for a split-second before the creamy stickiness clinging to his lips presses onto yours-

“-a kiss for her.” Toji’s lapping the scratchy buds of his tongue to slither across your pouted lower lip, sloshing out beaded wads of your own sap. Sweet. “Mmmm- really did miss this hah- pretty mouth, sugar.”

“You’re damn filthy.” You kiss through barren glares, and Toji’s grasping at the crown of your mask to tilt your head back. To swat your throat with a weighty splosh! of saliva. 

“And you’re damn likin’ it. See?”

Fuck- you didn’t know if you even wanted to. Knowing damn well that it would be something enough to drive you into madness.

But, alas, for how relentless of a criminal you were - good always did win in the end, after all. 

Though, as Toji slaps his swollen fingertips over your slick-filled hole to watch the ribbons of slick leak and ooze a glittery gloss over his wrist, you really wondered whether this would have been more evil than good. 

You watched through cracked eyelids at the way Toji was certainly smirking like it was. Your watery eyes can’t look away– “T-Toji.”

“Mhmm–?” He’s gnawing on your sting-buzzed lips like a gummy, itching the top of your wobbly bottom lip with his sultry scar. You really did miss that textured feeling. 

“Want- want you.”

“Are you begging, wifey?”

And right now you couldn’t even bring yourself to correct him - only blubbering with your desperate tongue, incoherent soft gasps about ‘please’. Wrapping your arms unstably around his broad shoulders, you thumb at the sweat-dampened black curls hanging on the nape of his neck. 

Making sure to lock your heart-eyes deeply with his - Toji feels his entire body shudder. He feels his entire body wrack with vulgar shivers from head to toe when your dilated pupils come in direct contact with his own.

It isn’t even that damn sex pollen that makes his heavy tongue wash over with a simmering wave of spit just from the way you tilt your head n’ whine “Baby…”

Now you’ve done it– you’ve used that top secret weakness of his. Pet names. 

The moment the airy syllables leave your cunning lips, you watch as your ex-husband’s darkened eyes flap shut. As if he was holding himself back this entire time. A tick in his jaw growing, a blush on his face burning, and his response has you wondering whether this was really the Toji Fushiguro.

Whether it was really him with his usual bass so hoarse, higher. Wild. “E-evil.”

And it’s like the heat is hitting him tenfold, curdling inside him and culminating in an ultimate, big dollop of syrupy saliva that Toji’s meandering down between your folds. Saturating your pussy with yet another layer of slicked sap, he’s rubbing one of his globed thumbs riiight over the mess. 

“Count f’me, mama.” SMACK! He’s granting a tough pawprint of his fingers on the hood of your clit, grinning sleazily down at you. “Count.”

You feel your skin heat, swamping out a proper pool between your thighs at this point. “F-fuck y-youu- ngh!”

“What was that?” Toji hums, darkly. The cushioned bed dips and creaks! when he’s shifting sloooowly down the bed, closer to where you needed him the most. But so painfully slow. He finds himself snickering at the way your huffs grow louder in impatience. 

“O-one…”

Another filthy thwack, and another cracking whine departing from your slobbery lips. It reaches Toji’s ears like his favorite song and compels him to reward you with another. 

“Two- three.”

And another. 

“Four.”

And another. 

“Hck! Five- five five five-” You’re bucking your hips wildly into his clashing hand, and the slightest smear of his mountainous palm on your pussymound makes your legs twitch animalistically. You arch upwards in repeated grinds- Practically sobbing, from both ends, “Please, Toji- please.”

And it takes him exactly one more sullen spank on your fluttery nub to render you just starstruck enough for him to strike his knees against the floor without yourself noticing. The aching thud! reverberating Toji’s mahogany bedframe with just how urgent he was.

Rapid.

Desperate. 

Toji spends a good chunk of time simply admiring your body, his nostrils flaring with great gusto as he drinks in your fragrance. Like caramel candy. Dripping wet. You were so fucking pretty, and that was something that would never change. 

You’re feeling a sweltering sigh hit the very outside of your cunt, washing over you like a summer breeze right as Toji’s hollowed baritone rings out. “Missed me, kitty?”

Scrambling up onto your elbows with all and any remaining strength, the last thing you manage to see is fucking Toji Fushiguro - the dark knight, still in his snug suit - kneeling at the bedside as if he was worshipping you. 

His pinkish tongue flopped out to smear a little wetspot where your inner thighs were, peeking at you through his dark lashes. Drunken.

Before your head throws back and all you can hear is the plopping squelch! of Toji prying apart your adhesive-slicked folds. Stray snapped strands of sap hitting his plunging lips, he circles your sloppy hole exactly once ahead of bullying inside.

“O-oh my- oh my god.” You’re hiccuping out, white-hot stars of pleasure bursting behind your weighted lids at the sheer stretch.

Toji’s lecherous tongue laps at your entrance and reminds you of just how big he is – how loooong. You swear you feel like his wet muscle is never-ending when he’s smearing your pussylips widely agape to push n’ push n’ push.

Mazing his slobbery way through your mushy walls until the tip of his tastebuds prickled almost near your sweet spots. And he’s just as mean as you never got used to, thrusting in and out of your cunt before you can utter a word.

“Please…oh please-” You’re thrashing back into the slight hill of expensive velveteen bedsheets that had collected underneath your surging hips. 

Hands scrambling anywhere - everywhere - from the plush of his mattress, to clenching into fists, to creeping onto Toji’s bulky deltoids and reeling him in deeper-

“Oi, mind ya manners, wifey.” He’s stretching his tongue out wiiiide, swabbing the flattened fringes in a massage down your raw walls. It’s a scissoring sensation that leaves you sobbing for mercy, your cheek bitten in a desperate attempt to keep your composure. Failing. 

“But- but I want more.”

“More, huh?” Shit, he’s humping his hips ferally into the smooth bedstead, rolling his throb-throb-throbbing bulge into it so hard that his words start veering into a…growl. “My wife wants more- more more more.”

The invisible pollen sticks to you like gum, leaving you insatiable. 

A few steamy wads of drool trickle down your pussylips, and Toji makes sure to keep your fattened folds open so that he can slouch back for a second and watch the wads seep inside your hole. One beefy arm is all it takes to keep your legs open when you try to shut them cutely closed. 

You’re both holding direct eye-contact as he bites down on a snagged edge of his glossy gloves and draaaags it slowly off. Displaying your unfocused eyes with rugged, tannish skin. 

“How ‘bout a lil’ ‘thank you’, huh?” 

“Sh-shut up…”

“Spit in my mouth then-”

And when you reach over to, he’s slurping it allll up. Every translucent speckle. “Ungrateful girl.” He’s moaning into your pussy, and you gasp at the sensation of his honed fangs sinking around your pulsating clit and biting. “She’s h-happy to see me though, riiiight?”

And it was true. Your diveling pussy was on overdrive, pulse after pulse that let out the most conversational noises Toji would nod and hum along to. “Damn, mama- ya sure yer my ngh- ex-wife? Fuckin’ missed how wet she got.” Sopping out so many more luscious splotches of slick - raining, fountaining out and he still couldn’t get enough. 

You’re letting off whiny babbling mewls as you’re feeling Toji ladle out the clingy residue onto the capped tops of two fingertips. Pecking your quivering hole with a loud sluuuuurp, before he’s thickly stretching his way inside.

“Fuck- fuuuuuuck–!” You’re squealing, your cheek lolling further into the moist puddle of drool that was constantly escaping your poor maw. Insatiable. 

And it was safe to say that your pathetic pussy hadn’t experienced anyone as staggeringly big n’ girthy as Toji. Ever. Because all that solid fucking length on his fingers and he only had to slip inside the very sensory pads to get you to feel like the world was spinning.

“They’re- they’re so big–�� You’re hiccuping out through the leaden ball stuck in your throat, and it’s hard enough to pitch your words up to an audible level over all the waterlogged squelches. 

So filthy, every damp inch inside of you curls up deliciously. He’s plugging your overspilling cunt up all the way to his knobbly knuckles, “S’that a compliment? From you?”

The bed shakes as Toji’s gyrating his hips even deeper, the plummy crown of his tip streaming out wet, syrupy smears of pre all across his overpriced mahogany.

You’re sinking deeper into the humid bed when he slaps his manicured crescents of fingernails right over the orifice of your g-spot. Oh. Pushing. Pleasing.

Delving purposefully deep to set you off maddeningly, “C’mon, sugar—-” Toji croons out, trawling his greedy tongue all over from the drenched crevices of your thighs to where your clit was all plump n’ perky. 

Delicately outlining the cutest of wet hearts on your leaky pussy, he swabs a targeted whack right into your g-spot and makes you cry– “Yeah- tha’s right. Tha’s right.” Breathy tone hurried, rough. “Heh- meow f’me, kitty.”

You swear you were about to open your stupid maw and teach him a thing or two - maybe about how you wanted more - you swear. But right at that very moment, Toji’s third finger eases in past your gushing walls and toys with the buttons of your g-spot just right.

Rendering your jaw permanently slack, your cunt smeared wide open - sap waterfalling out like it was nonstop. 

And all this time whilst Toji had been driving you to insanity with his right hand - oh, the man himself is fucking slobbering out viscid pearls of slobber as he brushes over the cold, cold wedding ring on his left hand over your clit and makes you arch—

He still had it?

“Please–” Your eyes moisten with big, salty tears, streaking down your face and making it so fucking difficult for Toji to keep himself from reaching over and licking them clean off. “M’not gonna last- fuck! M’not gonna…”

Ahhh, how cute. 

Unruly locks of his hair plastered onto his perspired head, you’re just barely able to make out the sassy roll of Toji’s eyes. “Where’s that stamina of yours- ngh- wifey?”

“Where are those fuuuuck! d-divorce papers–?”

“Ooooo, fuck- I’ve missed that damn mouth.” He almost fucking whines, bloated cock twitching. And thereafter every wet slap! of his lips is followed by a pained grunt, every thud of his fingers deep into your goopy pussy crazed. Toji’s taking all of you - everything he can. 

Making up for how many nights he’s fucking missed you, he twinges his frigid ring over your sensitive nub and pinches. All the way until your fleshy clit scorches with heat, painful n’ yet so good. “Mmm– seems like heh- someone’s gonna cum–” 

And, shit, it might just be the both of you right about now — but your pretty self didn’t have to know that right now.

Every sloppy clench of your soft insides squeezing instinctively ‘round him only made Toji’s fat balls even tighter. Fuller. And the completely primal sounds ripping out of you are nothing if not sexy.

Only growing louder. Faster. 

Your tight ring stings with the ramming slams of his rounded knuckles hitting again and again.

Toji wheezes out a slurring few mumbles over your clit and your toes curl. Pushing your hips back to glue your oversaturated folds lecherously against his scarred lips. Itching yeeeearningly over n’ over your shaky pussy. Your tummy flutters carnally as he rasps, “Go on then. C-cum f’me, mama- cum goddammit.”

The pollen was scorching him– making him starved. 

And the sheer bliss that overtakes your body and makes you shake is ridiculous. Like something buried deep inside of you snaps–

“Cumming—” You trill out shrillingly, “Cumming cumming cumming– fuuuck, baby–!”

“I already know, kitty.”

Toji’s already crushing the massive bulge tenting his pants against the polished bedframe, hungrily lapping up every spurt, every twitch, every ounce of sappy slick that angrily swashed out of you. And ohhhh, this was heaven on Earth.

His lips were stinging at this point, drinking up all the ribbons of translucent juices that slipped down his tongue like a lacquer. He was so thoroughly at home, making out away between your pretty tremblin’ legs.

The edges of his pearly whites getting caught on your tender clit and sopping out your large splashes of sap even more feverishly. “So fuckin’ sweeeet, my wife.”

Toji lets his pointed chin droop open to smear over the very base of your treacly pussy, creaming all out into his steaming hot mouth. He’s drifting the metallic band of his ring over your hole - soaked with a thin layer of perspiration and smooching your clit with the buttony tip of his nose. 

Spitting, just to watch the drenched way in which it spills out of your flooded entrance, Toji’s dark lashes shutter as it sprays a glittery sheen all over his sexy features.

“H-heh- clean your act up, mama.” Toji husks out, his clenched teeth gleaming with so many multiple laminations of dripping wet slick. Your sweet cunt was so filthy, and he can’t help but let out a wild, unrestrained laugh– “Should punish ya for this fuckin’ mess.”

And you’re barely even done with the Earth-shattering highs of your orgasm, toes still curling every time the teasing tip of his tongue flickers in and out of your hole a few recurring times. 

Thighs tremoring as you shake out an unsteady, “Y-you made it.”

“That I did.” Another swopping slap, and Toji pulls himself off with a wet plop! It’s so fuckin’ loud, because that’s just how drenched you were, he hisses at the vicious spanks of stranded slick hitting his face. Grunting out - because oh, he missed you already.

Couldn’t stop himself from departing a throaty groan and kissing your dripping cunt again. And again. And again. Snog after slippery snog. 

He’s panting out in scorched syllables, “Really fuckin’ missed my hah- wife’s pretty pussy.”

“I’m not-”

“After this?” His smile was so smug as he finally – finally, managed to reel in ‘nough self-control to actually pull away. Making such an exaggerated show of sucking his thick, sopping wet digits all the way from his knuckles to the very tip. Satisfied, “You sure…wifey?”

Your needy hips twitch from the last few dredges of your high, “M’your ex- oh.”

And yet, you can’t even defend your honor - not when Toji starts shedding that stupid hero suit of his and he looks like that.

Ohhh, all the way from head-to-toe. One by one. The yellowish oval of his Batman logo almost splitting straight in half when it snags on one of his ridged obliques. And fuck– you certainly did miss this - maybe you wouldn’t really mind his renewal of your titles…

Your eyes rovered all greeeedily to take in the swole puff of his broad pecs, spine curved deliciously in a slight ‘S’ from his muscular back to his sinful waistline. 

Shit, he wasn’t even wearing much underneath his suit. 

Nothing other than a tight, stuffed underwear that didn’t hide much- anything, actually. You’re ogling unblinkingly at the raven curls that stick out in a rugged happy trail. Bumpin’ up and down his exact eight washboard abs and tufting out at his swollen base.

Taking his sticky boxers off.

Fuck…

The bed dips and sings out creaking praises as Toji splays his bulky, capped knees on either side and meets you somewhere in the middle. Close. 

Manspread so vulgarly that you can count the precise number of times his biiiig cock bobs up n’ down, you’re gasping at the sheer way he seems to have grown. Because surely Toji Fushiguro wasn’t always this massive, right? 

Swollen. All proudly near damn ten or eleven inches and covered in decorative zig-zags of veins, he was so fucking hard that his glistening shaft was twitching with every pounding ba-dump–! of his pulse. 

Your mouth waters as you take in the overwhelming streams of warm, see-through pre that was frosting his reddish crownhead in a thickly cap. Aching to be inside you. So fucking hot. Burning. 

Toji was as bloated as a ripe strawberry and just as pink, you’re licking your lips at the lewd wonderment of whether or not his firm, mushroomed tip would taste like it, too. And before you know it, you’re crawling slyly to where he was kneeled on the bed. 

Your kiss-bruised lips just flopping on top of his curvaceous head to give a sweltering, steamy smooch before–

“Fuh-fuuuuck! Nuh uh, mama…” Sparkly dewdrops of sweat swing to and fro as Toji shakes his head vehemently. Curling a soft hand at your throat and manhandling you to lay out flat on the puffy mattress, “Now.”

It’s all that’s said – it’s all that has to be said.

And by the grating, gone tonality sticking to his words, your husband meant it. 

Not even soon enough.

Especially once he’s getting his hands on the glossy fabric of your catsuit and teeearing it all down into unapologetic tatters. Thrown all over his messy floor, Toji can’t help but admire that gorgeous body he’s thought about night after night after night.

“T-Toji–” You’re whimpering impatiently, and it takes only the slightest buck of your hips for him to lug over a meaty knee and press it down on your slobbering pussymound. 

Your silvery slit slopping out a glistening splotch right where his capped limb was pinning you down with pressure. Hard. Though, honestly, it doesn’t even take much of his ripped muscles to hold you still.

“Eeeasy. Easy there, sugar.” He spits into your saggingly ajar mouth. And only nanosecond later you’re stung with the striking clap! of his ballooned-up length falling on your dribbling pussylips. Rubbing over the tender flesh with his wiry, tamed hairs, “Jus’ wanna nghh- admire my wife a lil’.”

Shit, you almost forgot what a complete tease he was.

Sandwiching his cylindrical length between your raw folds - he’s almost warming his vicious hips up. Sliding loooong drags of his blushing tip up and down your teary slit, you were so helplessly needy underneath him. 

Smack! Smack! Smack! There he went spanking your nubbed clit with a few prodding veins of his, one after the other. 

And he’s skimming a fat thumb to watch your frothing hole even better, slabbing your cunt with another slab of spittle through titters. Taking a countless deep inhale of your sweet, sweet scent.

Pure heat.

“Ad-admire me later—” You’re sounding out your complaints so prettily, droplets of tears starting to accumulate by the edges of your droopy gaze. Just simply soaked through, your mouth overspills with saccharine water to catch up to the rest. Needed it. You needed this.

“So you admit it?”

“Wh-ngh- what?”

“Admit that you’re m-my…” You almost don’t have the privilege of hearing the rest of Toji’s smug grumbles because of the way he promptly aligns himself on the target of your dripping cunt. Of the way he slouches forward, your ears popping once he sinks in– “-wife.”

And oh, for how full Toji was leaving you with only his sheer size - cramming n’ cramming his solid fucking length desperately - the hero was stuffing you only fuller when he eases a red, swollen inch and cums.

You’re hearing it before you register it - that sickly sweet sluuuurp of being filled to the utter brim. Your poor, gummy walls ram with so many knotted wads of cum that you feel dizzy. Stretching, stretching, stretching until the tautness pulled by his snaggling veins bloats even further with the splosh of thick seed. Filling you up. 

He was ruthless on a normal day, but with the pollen he was merciless. Leaving none alive. 

“T-Tooooji–!” You yowl out at the poke of his fattened, bludgeoning tip scraping your insides deeply. He wasn’t going easy on you. At all. No, you were going to take it. 

Your eyes widen a fraction at the scalding trickle of goopy seed that was pouring out of you, buttering your lips with frosty white icing. One of your fingers twitch to smear a mess of the puddle, “Did- did you just c-”

“Move that damn hand.”

“Wha-”

“I said-” Toji leans in close enough that you can count every strand of gold in his jade eyes, dark brows furrowing. And you’re not quite sure that the fire in his gaze is solely because of the pollen, “-move that damn hand.”

Before you can make a singular motion, his calloused hand dips down and rudely swats away your curious fingers. 

And then Toji thumbs your pussy open to spit– once on your gaping pussy, once in your mouth. Tilting your stupid mouth shut with a flick to your chin and bottoming out. 

Loooong and slow so that you can feel your dribbling nooks and crannies massage all down with the lightning bolts of his prodding veins. Such deep, magical spots he’s discovering just by hitting the juts of his hip bones to your front - just trying to fit his thick cock inside. 

Smacking and smacking. 

And was so fucking big. You can’t stop the tiny whimpers that leave you every time he’s funneling your pretty lil’ cunt with such a large, barreling length. Just the feeling of his hefty weight sagging your walls had your knees buckling, his tip reaching scorched insides only known to him.

Oh, it was all so familiar having his fat breeder balls nuzzling your sensitive lips, and with a content hum Toji rests the weight of his sweat-glossed abs down onto your front. 

His spit-sheened lips hovering over the heated curve of your ear, whispering. “We’re gonna have the ngh- cutest kids, wifey.”

Toji claws one of his engulfing hands on the matted, bedraggled mess of your scalp, and you gasp at the twitch of his big, bulging biceps pushing you down. Fitted all the way to his fat hilt, and he’s still bucking and bucking. 

“Oh- ohhhh fuck!” You wail with every plump pinprick of his geysering divot streaking out long lines of precum along your dewy wet walls. Wobbly legs pushing off the bed, “You’re so big- nghhh you’re so big.”

He’s cracking a lewd smile at the way you’re already running away from his rummaging stretches - and he hasn’t even started putting his back into it yet, seriously. 

“C’mere, kitty kitty~” As if you could even think about running away from him. His own bloated cock stiffens at the way that lil’ nickname makes your glassy eyes widen, using the diversion swiftly to grip your throat and pull.

Spearheading your sap-soaked channel open until the four walls reverberated like an orchestra of your carnal squeals.

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuck–! You’re in s-sooo deep–”

“Ya think that’s deep?”

Shit, your gaping drenched hole is gulping down so many barreling inches and he’s still pounding in more. More and more and more squeezing in past your tight muscle, and batting at the bullseye of your cute g-spot.

Trailing a hand over to poke where his bumpy tip was pressing pretty pecks on your sweetest spots, the crest of his shaft slips n’ slides until it reaches your spongy cervix to give a good, long prod. 

“Ya loooove it here, huh?” He’s huffing, hips slamming into yours so hard that you could feel the ridden heat. You could see the blushing red stains where his fleshy mounds were papping against yours. Red n’ raw. “Can practically hear that k-kitty ngh- purring, mama.”

And Toji’s version of “purring” were those slimy wet splashes that emanated non-stop from your pussy. Ringing up and out so roughly that you couldn’t even wrap your cottony mind ‘round just how hard Toji was fucking you.

Like he hated you.

When it was anything but. 

With a dark, quirked brow at the way your maw unfastens when he picks up speed. “Yeah? Yeah? Louder, mama, louder.”

Every hit was a homerun, precisely. Toji’s knees part your legs to crumble open so far apart that the muscles of your inner thighs burned. With both friction and stretch.

He looks down at you with a lipstick-stained smile, sexy even when he isn’t even trying to be. “Maaan, I m-missed this sight, my wife.” Huskily, he grips his way to your hips and manhandles you to thrust even deeper. “Missed this pussy— never been the s-same hck! without ya, sugar.”

Toji’s tenderly leaving the wholly bruising marks of his thickened digits all over your throat, making sure to pivot his hips so that your throbbing clit catches on his textured happy trail. Swervin’ to and fro right as he buries himself to the entire base. Pounding you open spaciously. 

You’re molded oh-so-voluminously spread to take his exact hits that your jaw hangs agape, eyes woozily criss-crossing - and it wasn’t even the sex pollen that had you like this. 

“Sh-shooo good—” You’re bawling out, and it’s so cute how your pussy dribbles even wetter when Toji bends his plank position to massage you with his washboard abs.

Juuust the way he knew you liked it.

A sheened layer of sweat transfers from Toji’s sultry, sliiiiding muscles to yours. Making those raggedly-run vocals of yours pitch into something broken while you ached out more n’ more of that deeply carnal scratch of his puffy bubble-gum pink nipples massaging your own tits. His toned pelvis batter-ramming away as he pleased. 

He hits perfectly at your g-spot once more, honing in on it over and over until you’re left sputtering on the hammered glazes of drool that coats your dry mouth. “M-missed you- ngh! toooo–!” 

One of your eager hands tug on one of his smooth, sensitive nub and Toji damn near cums. His mouth - oh, his scarred mouth was curving into the most accomplished smile. 

Splotching your own sloppy lips - missing the gasping cavern of your mouth, purposefully. Just so Toji could watch the showy way his glob of spit splatters the ends of your twitchy maw, while he counted every plap plap plap. 

“H-heh–” Though, the tips of Toji’s ears blush primally red. “Knew it. Knew ya missed- missed me…Probably couldn’t go a haaaah- second without thinkin’ of me, hmmm?”

Grumbling out something incoherent as he kisses the tender side of your neck, something along the lines of a pathetically pitched “C-cocky bast…ard.”

“Wha’s that now?” Free hand toying over your clit, other tightening on your neck.

“Fuh-f–”

“Fuuuuh–?” Toji’s naturally chiseled chest ripples as he keeps mocking you from above. And even the ridged curve of his heavy cock was drowning out your thoughts with utterly fuzzy cockdrunkenness. 

It takes you a long while - and a vulgar few plaps of achingly hard, gloss-dribbling cock - for you to finally manage out. “F-fuck you.”

And ohhh, Toji Fushiguro isn’t a masochistic man - but hearing those rude words come out of your beautiful lips always did make his overworked hips shiver dangerously. Closely. 

“I’m fucking you, mama.”

He was hot.

Soooo hot. Scalding you. Drilling into you like he was out of control— so hard that one-two-three slaps strike you in sloppy succession, almost every nanosecond. Pushing you further and further up the rickety headboard, swashing around the thick, milky cum snugly pumped inside you until you were dripping from the inside out. 

Stupid enough to murmur out a thick, “Then c-cum- cum inside me–”

“Ohhh now you’re talkin’ outta ya fuuuck- pussy?” He’s gritting out, tense abdomen pinning you down further so all the chatty gusts of air leave your throat. “Shut up n’ cum f’me, wifey.”

And shit- Toji himself didn’t think that would fucking work like it used to.

Your poor, infatuated pussy still so deeply in love with him that they’re basically melding into the perfect heart shape inside when you reach your high. 

Toji feels it first with the way your gluey-like walls cling onto his sensitive, plunging shaft like never before. Slouching forwards to sniff in your candied scent with a groan, “Atta girl. Aaaatta girl, jus’ like- like that- cum allll for your ngh! husband.”

You’re already so sensitive from your last high that this one hits you like five semi-trucks at once, and your head tumbles uselessly backwards into the silk-covered pillows. Vision blacking out near the edges - and all you can concentrate on was Toji Toji Toji.

This wasn’t even the sex pollen’s fault - you just needed him so bad. 

“Inside- inside-”

“H-heh, my cockdrunk wife. If I c-cum ngh! inside m’reeeally gonna wife ya up.”

“T-Tooooji–!” It falls from your mouth as if a sinful mantra, and you’re hiccuping with every prominent vein of his cock rubbing the insides of your tense spots. Ramming. Pulsing. “Look- look at me.”

Toji could barely even flap his eyes open but oh, was he looking at you.

Through predatory, half-lidded eyes that devoured you. “Mhm— Toji’s here, Toji’s here. Your husband’s here, sugar.”

One of your hands slithers up to the sweat-wetted locks of his black hair, other caressing Toji’s left pectoral. To thumb your thick fingerpad over his rosy nipples, and to also feel the ba-dump–! of his rapidly increasing heartbeat. You’re mumbling into his plump lips, “You’re catnip to a g-girl like me. Wan’ you inside.” Nuzzling his flush scorched cheek, “I still hngh! love you, y’know-”

Fuck. 

The syllables are barely dangling off of your slimy tastebuds before Toji’s finally finishing - inside you. 

And it’s so sloppy.

If you thought that Toji was making a mess before, then this made you realize that he was - in fact - holding back. The strawberry end of his red, red shaft roaming your sodden walls until he knocks against the door to your womb and cums.

Straight As for his aim, a great dollop of buttery seed starts piling up right where your g-spot is. And your cute cunt is stretched out wiiide on the slathers of ribbony sap he pumps you full with.

Your walls spreeeead.

All the way to the brim. Your head starts spiralling at just how full you felt - you didn’t know it was even possible, and yet, here you were. The tummy bulge Toji was fucking from the inside only inflating bigger by the second, cute lil’ knots of cum swirled ‘round and ‘round by his swollen tip.

With a face burying right into the clammy crook of your neck, he’s hiding away the cherry blush on his cheekbones. 

But you could already feel the thin trickle of drool spilling from either side of his parted mouth, feel Toji’s Adam’s apple rip with a whimper–

“S-still love you- too, mama.” He’s kneeing open your legs further to make sure you take every last drop. Breathless at the glued-together skin of your thighs, stained all creamy white with his seed. His own bulky thighs twitch whilst he bucked, all milking himself out. “Always- always have. Always will.”

You find the wet insides of your mouth sizzling by the time Toji’s wrung his tender, twitching balls free from every teensy tiny drop of cum he had to give your starving pussy. 

Though, still rolling his hips lazily into yours, still pressing the damp skin of his forehead into your own– his calloused fingertips break apart from your neck to give the pearly dewdrops of juices pouring from your slit a lil’ smear. 

Languidly trailing up, up, up until he cups that protruding bumpy outline - drawing an adorable heart out of his warmly slicked mess. 

“N’- m’gonna- ngh- gonna love our d-daughter j-jus’ as much.” He’s whispering through a low, almost reverent tone. So sure it’s going to be a girl. His girl. His daughter. Both of yours. “She could be our Robin.”

Your heart swells, and you’re just about to breathe in Toji’s piney, sweetened smell you loved so much - until he plugs his candy-glazed fingers in his mouth to suck, before promptly reaching underneath the very pillow you were laid out on. 

And within the blink of an eye, you’re staring at one of the biggest sparkly diamonds you’ve seen your entire life - your wedding ring. One to match his. 

“Always kept ya c-close ta me, my wife.” Toji murmurs. Gently grasping your hands to slide the cool band onto your finger, while he still fucked you through the last few lecherous throes of his high.

His emerald, half-open eyes stare deeply into yours as the ring sits rightfully in its home after so long. His shaggy bangs falling over your own eyes, Toji connects his forehead with yours. “Always will.”

And you already knew that the sex pollen wasn’t long-lasting, that it was firmly and happily fucked out of your system.

Yet, you still partially blame it for the way it takes you all of two split-seconds to push Toji from his shoulders until his back hits the back with a springy whoosh! A surprised gasp retreating from his scarred lips, turning into a growl once he catches sight of the thiiiick oodles of cum that gushed down your legs. Doubly full. 

“S’gonna hafta hah! take if we’re gonna have a daughter.” You’re musing, a greedy smirk playing on your lips. 

Seating yourself down slowly, slowly, sensually to do an experimental figure eight on his overstimulated, ruby-red cock. Still so hard, but hitting your cervix with a line of wispy cum - just from seeing you like this.

What was it he said–? Ah yes, he always did like having you on top of him.

Toji interlocks your trembly fingers with his so that he could leave a loving peck on your clinking wedding rings. And you’re purring, “Better not tap out now, Batman.”

Yeahhh, he’s marrying you again tomorrow first thing. If you two make it alive by then, that is. 

“W-wouldn’t dream of it, Catwoman.”

.

.

.

And then just about nine months later; when your darling baby boy, Megumi, is born- well, your overeager husband only sleazes that you try and try and try again. He always did want a big Bat Family.

A/N. TOLD Y’ALL I’D DO IT. Also my period started RIP send help.

Plagiarism not authorized.