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saatorus · 21 days ago

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almost yours — a satoru gojo fic

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

wc — 35.4k (never let me estimate my own word counts again)

read it on ao3

warnings — smut, p in v sex (unprotected and protected), fingering, oral (f receiving), making out, brief 7 minutes in heaven trope (couldn't control myself sorry) tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, kind of unreliable narrator vibes, afab reader, more inaccurate representations of frat parties and possibly frat culture ^_^

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on. He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.” He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then. He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore. Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different. Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges. And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot. So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way. Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra, not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me. It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body. Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up. And then—there’s him. Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts. You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you.

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets. “I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!” Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.” Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system. He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?” You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.” You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?” He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.” You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs. You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts. And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change. But you know it is. He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly. You look up, startled. “What?” His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?” Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire. He’s still watching you. But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand. Still. You tuck it away. Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night. He won’t. But you will.

–

It’s been three years since that night. The one where your heart skittered up your throat at the sound of his laugh, where he’d tugged the ends of your hair and called it pretty, where he’d looked at you like he saw something there. Or maybe he was just being friendly. You over analyze simple interactions with men a little too much.

You’d replayed it for weeks. Obsessively, stupidly. Burned it into your mind like it meant something. But time has a way of softening things, even the sharpest crushes. The ache of it dulled as college rolled on, as you kissed boys who weren’t him, as you got older and started dressing for yourself instead of wondering if he’d notice. Now, you’re sitting cross-legged in Seiko’s childhood bedroom, half in a blanket cocoon, sipping flat soda out of an old anime cup you both used to fight over when you were twelve. The window’s open, the curtains swaying with the breeze, and the room smells like spring air and vanilla body mist. “Okay,” Seiko says, her voice muffled as she flops back dramatically onto her pillows, “I’m literally not kidding anymore. If prices of apartments go up by even one more dollar than the current budget I’m on, I’m just going to live in the campus library like a cryptid.”

You snort. “You’d last two nights before you begged for my airfryer and moisturizer.”

“That is so true,” she groans, throwing a hand over her face. “Wait—why don’t we just move in together? Like… actually. Find a place off-campus. Split the bills. You’re always here anyway, and you hate your housemates. And I wanna get out of this house already. Like, I need to feel like an adult, stat” You blink at her. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Deadass.”

It’s not a bad idea. You are here all the time—your uni ended up being like twenty minutes from Seiko’s family home, and when your dorm got too loud or your brain got too tired, she always had a spare blanket and instant noodles ready for you. Half your stuff’s already in her closet. Living with Seiko wouldn’t be hard. You’ve survived sleep-deprived all-nighters, food poisoning, two breakups, and a disastrous eyebrow waxing incident together. An apartment feels like a natural next step. “I mean, yeah,” you say, stretching your legs out on the bed, “I’d be down. But only if I get the good side of the fridge.”

“You don’t even cook!”

“Exactly. So I deserve extra space for my stash of thirty minute butter chicken and diet coke.”

“Fair point, the thirty minute butterchicken has been one of your greatest finds at the store yet,” she nods solemnly. It’s easy like this. Girl talk, real talk. The kind that only comes after years of shared notebooks and late-night crying and stupid dances in the hallway. You’re mid-scroll on your phone, looking up open listings, when Seiko suddenly straightens up with a weird look on her face.

“Oh shit.” You glance over. “What?”

“I just remembered—my mum texted me this morning… Satoru’s flight from Japan is today.” You freeze, thumb hovering mid-air. “Seiko.”

“I swear I thought it was next week! But turns out she meant this Sunday, not next.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

She cringes. “Sorryyy. It’s not like he’s crashing in this room. He’s taking the guest one downstairs.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter, flopping back into the pillows like the dramatic main character you are. “I need, like, mental prep. A warning! A buffer zone!”

“It’s been three years,” she reminds you, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not still—”

“I’m not.” You cut her off quickly, sitting up. “I’m not. I got over it.” You say it with the conviction of someone who has—not just because time passed, but because you actually did the emotional legwork. You remember how you’d finally told Seiko about your crush a few months after Satoru had flown out for that scholarship program. It was during a late-night snack run—Melonpan and slurpee in hand, parked outside the 7/11 under shitty yellow streetlights. Your voice had cracked halfway through the confession. “I think I had a thing for your brother,” you’d said, casual in that fake-casual way. “Like, a crush-crush.” And Seiko, bless her heart, didn’t freak out or make it weird. She just shrugged and sipped her drink like you’d told her the weather.

“Yeah,” she’d said. “That was kinda obvious.”

“Obvious?” you’d gawked. She’d snorted. “You stared at him like he was a Greek god who worked part-time at Uniqlo. And you got aggressively nice every time he walked into the room.” After that, the dam kind of burst. You ended up telling her everything—every humiliating thing you’d done in the name of Satoru Gojo. Like the time you spent twenty minutes curling your eyelashes before a family barbecue, only to blink so aggressively at him that your contact lens folded in half. Or how you once tripped over her cat trying to sprint to the bathroom when you heard his voice in the hallway—because you hadn’t shaved your legs and you simply could not be perceived like that. Seiko had listened to it all with a mixture of horror, amusement, and deeply affectionate judgment.

“You’re disgusting,” she’d said once, fondly. “But you’re my disgusting best friend, so I guess I have to love you anyway.” Now, three years later, you smirk a little at the memory. “I was like sixteen,” you say, brushing invisible dust off your shirt. “And he was older and cooler and looked good in white t-shirts. It wasn’t exactly hard to crush on him.”

Seiko hums. “You also wore a push-up bra every time you knew he’d be home.”

“Don’t slut-shame me for being sixteen and desperate for attention,” you say with a grin.

“You also practiced putting on eyeliner with a spoon.”

“I hate that you remember everything.”

“You told me your soul left your body when he looked at your knees once.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up.”

“You tried to use cherry lip gloss as blush.”

“That one’s valid. TikTok taught me that.” Seiko laughs and tosses a pillow at you, and the room’s full of that deep, cozy joy that only comes when someone’s known you long enough to remember your awkward era and still wants to live with you. It’s quiet for a second after that. The breeze flutters in, catching on the posters still stuck to her walls—old anime prints, boy band photos from your middle school years, a collage of polaroids with all your worst angles and best memories. You sigh and glance at her. “So… what do we do if he actually shows up?” She shrugs. “We act normal. We’re adults now. You’re not gonna combust from seeing his stupid face again.” You both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter again, that warm, stupid haze settling in the room like an old blanket—the kind woven from late-night confessions and shared snacks, music blasting from your phones, and way too many years of embarrassing stories. And even with all the teasing, the grossed-out big sister act, the ridiculous confessions—you know she gets it. You’re not that girl anymore. Satoru Gojo might be coming back tonight. But you’ve grown up. Gotten your heart broken a few times. Learned how to kiss without thinking about someone else's older brother. You’re not that girl anymore. But you do still kind of hope your eyeliner holds up.

–

The first sign that something’s changed is the sound of the door. Not a knock—of course not. Gojo Satoru never knocked in his own house. It’s the familiar click-clack of the handle Seiko’s parents never replaced, followed by the solid thud of shoes on hardwood and the faint rustle of bags. And then, casually:

“Yo! I’m home!”

Your stomach drops. Seiko, still mid-sip of her Diet Coke, just blinks at you from across the living room. You’re sitting criss-cross on the rug, wearing a hoodie that may or may not have a bleach stain and socks with cartoon strawberries on them. The TV is paused on some half-watched dating show, and you’re surrounded by empty chip bags and your laptop, still open on a tab labeled apartments near campus cheap please.

“…You said tonight,” you whisper, already scrambling to smooth your hair down. “I thought it was tonight!” Seiko whisper-hisses back. “Mom must’ve meant this afternoon!” And before you can gather the scraps of your dignity and disappear up the stairs, he’s already in the room. Gojo Satoru. In the flesh. Three years older. And apparently, bulkier than God intended. He's in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and you hate that the first thing you notice is how tight the sleeves are around his biceps. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Forearms that probably didn’t look like that the last time you saw him. There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and a Lawson bag in the other. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He stops short in the doorway when he sees you. “Oh,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t know you were here.” You go stiff. “Yeah. Hey.” It’s weird. It’s so weird. You haven’t seen him since that summer—since the night before he left for that international scholarship program. And now he’s standing there like no time has passed, like his shoulders didn’t double in size and like your brain isn’t short-circuiting from sheer secondhand awkwardness. Satoru looks at Seiko. “You didn’t read my texts again, did you?”

“They were blurry photos of vending machine sandwiches,” she deadpans. “Forgive me for not decoding that.”

He shrugs, dropping his bags to the floor with a loud thump, going over to trap his sister into a bear hug, smirking when she squealed and said something about not being able to breathe. “I said I was coming today.”

“No, you said, ‘soon.’”

“Well, I meant today.” There’s a beat of silence. You try not to look directly at him, as if eye contact will cause some sort of emotional combustion. You can feel how out-of-place you suddenly are—socks on the wrong foot, posture too stiff, heart hammering in your chest like you’re sixteen again. He looks at you once Seiko has scrambled out of his grip, hands shoved into his pockets. Not weirdly. Just… like he’s trying to remember something.

“So how’s college? Seiko keeps me updated on the entire experience, but how’ve you been finding it? Big jump from highschool?” He asks, voice casual in that way that somehow makes it worse.

You nod. “Yeah. Um, good! Nice, I like it. Fun, even.” He raises his eyebrows slightly, impressed.

“Nice. What’s your major?”

“Psych,” you say, then immediately hate how your voice goes just a little too high on the “-ch.” You clear your throat. “Psychology.” He nods again, the way people do when they don’t actually know what to say next. “Cool. Lots of reading?”

“Yeah. Um, way too much.” You try to laugh a little, like a normal person, but it comes out thin. You shift your weight. He shifts his. Somewhere behind you, a fly buzzes. “How was Japan?” you ask, because someone has to fill the silence before your ears implode from the pressure. He perks up a little, like he’s glad for the safer topic. “It was good. Really cool. I was in Tokyo for the most part, did this exchange thing with Todai—Tokyo University.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They had me in this physics program for my undergrad, working with some grad students on quantum optics stuff.”

You blink. “Quantum what now?” He grins, and you hate that it's still the same cocky lopsided thing it was at seventeen. “Lasers.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “Mostly just a lot of math and equipment malfunctions. The usual.” You nod, because you have absolutely nothing to add to that, unless your psych notes on Pavlov’s dogs suddenly become relevant to international laser research. The silence creeps back in, loud as ever. “Cool,” you say, again. Your default setting, apparently. He nods. “Yeah.”

You both just stand there for a second too long, not quite looking at each other. Then—

“Wow, this isn’t awkward at all,” Seiko deadpans as she looks between you both, sipping her drink with all the grace of a sitcom character arriving to save a scene. You both instinctively reply, “Shut up,” in unison. Which only makes it so much worse.

Seiko just raises an eyebrow at you like you’re the one being weird, and mutters something about grabbing a snack before disappearing into the kitchen again. And then it’s just you and Satoru again. Standing in the middle of the living room. A full foot apart but worlds away. He shifts his weight, glancing around like he’s re-familiarizing himself with the space. The rug. The shelves. The old family photos that haven’t moved in years.It’s weird seeing him here again. Weirder seeing him like this. Older. Bigger. Built like he’s been bench pressing trucks for fun. His hair is a little longer now, swept back lazily, an undercut visible, and his whole presence feels heavier—not in a bad way. Just more… there. Same face. Same dumb grin. But it doesn’t feel like the same person anymore. And god, this is awkward. He clears his throat. “Well. I’m gonna shower.”

“Cool,” you say, like a robot malfunctioning. And trying not to imagine him naked. In the shower. Water running down his built body. He grabs his bag again, nods, and heads upstairs. Only when he’s gone do you let your whole body collapse back into the couch. Seiko reappears two seconds later with a bowl of cereal. You groan into your hands.

“What the hell was that.”

She chews. “That was my brother. Looking like a protein powder ad.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Did I act up?”

“You said ‘cool.’ Like someone’s dad.” You scowl. “Okay, well you forgot to mention he turned into a brick wall with legs.”

“Gross. That’s my brother.”

“You’re the one who said protein powder!”

“Yeah, and you looked like you were going to pass out just from seeing his arms.” You huff, closing your laptop screen with a huff.

“Shut up.”

–

It’s the week before uni starts again. The tail end of your well-earned university break—half spent in your disaster of an apartment with even more disastrous flatmates (you genuinely can’t even get into how bad it is without spiraling), and half in the cozy, warm bubble of your best friend Seiko’s family home. You still don’t know why she ever wants to move out of here. The fridge is always full, the floors are always clean, her parents adore you, and the water pressure in the upstairs bathroom makes you want to marry the plumbing. But there is one caveat to all this domestic bliss. Being in the house of your gorgeous, lovely best friend means now constantly being around her equally gorgeous, equally lovely older brother. Now, to be fair, you said you were over it. The crush. The obsession. The years-long pining that began in childhood and ended somewhere between your first college situationship and your second real heartbreak. It’s been three years since he left for Japan. Three years since you confessed the whole dumb thing to Seiko—who just blinked at you and said, “Yeah? It was so obvious.” Three years since you mentally filed away every mortifying thing you’d ever done in the name of impressing Satoru Gojo.

(“Remember when you wore that way-too-small bra and couldn’t breathe the whole day?” Seiko had giggled. “Or when you put on lipgloss just to ask him what time it was?” “Shut up,” you groaned, face down in her bed. “No, you shut up,” she’d laughed. “It’s endearing.”)

And it was fine. You were fine. You got older. You had experiences. You weren’t that girl anymore. But you’re also just a girl. A really hormonal, 20-year-old girl. With eyes. And a pulse. And a deeply cursed memory of the way he used to ruffle your hair like you were some scrappy little sister. So yeah. It’s complicated. Satoru Gojo has been back from Japan for a few weeks now—and oh boy, had he made his presence known. The living room and his upstairs bedroom have basically become dual command centers of chaos, filled with overlapping noise and endless energy. He’s constantly switching between the two, dragging Suguru along for the ride—also freshly returned and, much to Seiko’s unspoken delight, always over. There’s laughter echoing from the TV, loud cackling over dumb reels, or occasional testosterone-fueled howling whenever they’re deep in some Fortnite deathmatch or FIFA playoff. Sometimes you walk into the kitchen and there’s a stranger raiding the fridge. Sometimes you step into the hallway and trip over Satoru’s gym bag, which weighs more than your trauma. And god—he’s jacked now. Not like, oh he works out sometimes jacked. More like, I could throw a car if I wanted to jacked. Broad shoulders. Arms that stretch his t-shirts in unfair ways. Thighs that should be illegal in those loose basketball shorts. You hate that you’ve noticed. You hate that you still kind of care.

You’re coping. Barely. One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the living room couch with Seiko, sharing a packet of sour gummies and flipping between bad reality TV shows when the front door bangs open. “Back from war,” Suguru announces, tossing his keys on the entry table like he owns the place. “We got slushies,” Satoru says, trailing behind him, arms full of way too many drinks. “Someone help, I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Oh my god, why’d you get six?” Seiko says, hopping up.

“They had a buy-three-get-three deal,” he shrugs. “Math, baby.” You linger behind her, offering a casual wave as Satoru spots you. He nods back, all easy smiles and post-gym glow, looking annoyingly good in a dark tank and sweats. His hair’s messier than usual, like he towel-dried it in the car and gave up halfway through. The four of you end up lounging in the living room, Suguru and Satoru on the floor, you and Seiko curled up on the couch. Suguru’s the first to start shit. “Remember when you two used to pretend to be spies and sneak snacks from the kitchen?” he grins, pointing at you and Seiko. “That was your idea,” Seiko fires back. “Yeah, but you were the one who tried to crawl under the dining table and got stuck between the legs of a chair.” You’re halfway through a laugh when Satoru adds, “She cried for ten minutes. Thought she was gonna die under there.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Seiko says, throwing a gummy at him. He snorts, catching it effortlessly. “I saved you. That makes me a hero.”

“She only cried ‘cause you told her cockroaches resided in the legs of that chair and they were gonna crawl all over her,” you say with a giggle. Satoru turns to you, mock offended. “I was building childhood resilience.” You all laugh again, the energy light and familiar and buzzing. But then—

Suguru smirks. “Honestly, the way you two used to follow him around like ducklings—”

“I did not,” you start, horrified.

“Sure,” Satoru grins, easy and warm. “You were like a little sister. Like I had two little sisters.”

Your heart doesn’t shatter or anything. You’re not a teenager anymore. But something still winces inside you. A slow, dull ache. Not because you wanted him to say something else—but because that confirms it. All the years of wondering, of analyzing every glance or moment, just shrinks down into a single, harmless label.

Like a little sister.

You catch Seiko’s eye for a second. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she saw the exact second your expression faltered. Back upstairs later, you’re sprawled on her bed again, half scrolling your phone, half dissociating into the pattern on her ceiling. “Hey,” she says softly, nudging you with her toe.

You blink. “What?” She winces, dramatic. “I am so sorry. If the guy I liked said that about me I would simply pass away.” You groan into her blanket. “Seiko, stop.”

“No like—why’s he so dumb? He didn’t mean it like that, I swear—he just says the first thing that pops into his head sometimes, you know how he is—”

“I don’t like him anymore,” you say firmly, sitting up. “Seriously. It’s not that deep.” But your younger self stings a little. Because now you know. It’s all been filed neatly into kid stuff. Little sister things. Nothing that ever reached him the way it reached you. You’re not hurt. You’re just… grounded. Suddenly and irrevocably grounded. Seiko flops next to you, throwing an arm over her eyes. “He’s an idiot. A weird, gym-rat, physics-nerd idiot. Weirdo. Total weirdo.”

You snort. “That’s a lot of hyphens.”

“He deserves them.”

–

The first week of uni starts with a heatwave. Everything feels sticky. Pavement melting under your shoes, tote bags sticking to your shoulder, the air around campus thick and weirdly scented with iced coffee and sunscreen and overpriced cologne. Your phone keeps warning you about the UV index. Every lecture hall feels either suffocating or like a freezer on full blast. It's a miracle you haven't already dropped out. Life feels like it's slipping back into place—until it doesn't. Because now Satoru Gojo is here. At your university. I mean, obviously, he was bound to. Something about an honours year. You knew it was coming. You’d heard Seiko mention it offhandedly over break. “He transferred in with Suguru, their credits aligned or whatever, I don’t know. Something about physics and—oh my god, are you listening?”

You’d nodded, but your stomach had dipped. And now he’s just… here. It starts small. A glimpse in the courtyard during the week. You’re sitting cross-legged under a shady tree with your friends when you hear someone laugh loud and obnoxiously behind you. You turn. He’s leaning against a bench, sunglasses perched on his head, grinning while talking to some third-years like he’s known them forever. His presence is so big. He’s always taken up space—but now it feels more deliberate. Like he knows it. Like he expects it. You don’t wave. He doesn’t see you. That should be the end of it. But then it happens again. In the campus gym, where you’re trying to kill time on a treadmill before your next tutorial, and he walks by, all sweat and tank top and biceps that really need to calm down. He’s fist-bumping the guy at the front desk. Later, you hear one of the girls in your class whisper, “That’s Gojo Satoru, right? The hottie in that physics thing in Japan?”

Of course he was. It becomes a pattern. You don’t even need to look for him—he just keeps showing up. In the science wing, at the club fair where he somehow ends up manning the booth for the rock climbing society and the anime club. He’s basically an unofficial campus ambassador by week two. People know him. Your university, for all its massive sprawl and fancy name, is crawling with alumni from your high school. It’s like a silent, unspoken network—people recognize each other, even if they don’t acknowledge it. It means Satoru doesn’t have to try that hard. The guys already like him. The girls—well. You hear his name a lot. For obvious reasons. Floating through stairwells. Written in notebooks with dumb little hearts. There are rumors, already, that he’s seeing someone from the bio department.

You tell yourself you don’t care. And for the most part—you really don’t. Your classes are packed. Your workload’s heavy. You’re constantly flitting from the library to lectures to the café where you work weekends, barely keeping your head above water. And still, sometimes, in the middle of it all—you’ll catch him across campus. Headphones in. Laughing with Suguru. Buying a stupid energy drink at the vending machine by the student union. Sometimes you think he catches you too. But you never talk. You see Seiko more often. She’s in a few overlapping courses with you, and sometimes you sit together on the lawn between lectures, splitting snacks, complaining about professors. She doesn’t bring up her brother unless you do. You never do.

“Did you get that neuro reading done?” she asks one day. You nod, eyes flicking past her—to the quad where Gojo’s tossing a football lazily with Suguru and some guy from your econ lecture. Seiko follows your gaze, then groans, muttering, “God. He really is everywhere.” You snort. “He’s like a university cryptid.”

“Don’t give him that power.”

You smile. But your fingers twist in your lap. You don’t say it, but part of you feels it—like you’re in the wrong timeline. Like you’re living in the aftermath of a story that never got its ending. He’s so comfortable here. Like he’s always belonged. Meanwhile, you’re still figuring out how to breathe around the memory of a crush you swore you let go. The closest you get to speaking is when you’re leaving your psych lecture one afternoon, earbuds in, digging for your sunglasses. You bump into someone’s arm and look up—and it’s him. He blinks. Then flashes you that old, toothy grin. “Oh. Hey.” You freeze, smile stiff. “Hey.”

He opens his mouth, like he might say something else—but then someone calls his name from behind, and he glances over his shoulder. “Catch you later, yeah?” You nod, and he’s gone. It’s stupid. So stupid. You shouldn't feel anything about a moment that small. But it stays with you, hours later. The heat of the hallway. The faint smell of his cologne. The way your voice felt weird in your own throat. You walk to your next class and pretend your heart isn’t fluttering like it used to when you were fifteen. You’re older now. You’re different. But maybe some things still live under your skin, soft and stupid and waiting.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Seiko texts you last minute asking if you can drop off the notes from your shared class.

can’t believe I forgot my entire folder at yours pls drop it off if u can i’ll owe u one xoxo

You type out a “dumbass ho” and stuff the folder into your tote bag. It’s not a big deal. Her house is barely a fifteen-minute walk from campus, and besides—her mum usually answers the door and immediately offers you snacks, which is always a win. What you don’t expect is for the door to open and reveal him.

Satoru. He’s in a black t-shirt and grey sweats, his hair a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. There’s a faint shine to his skin, maybe from a workout, and he’s holding a water bottle like he was in the middle of something when the doorbell rang. “Hey,” he says. Just that. A flat, casual hey. Like he wasn’t someone who used to give you heart palpitations for fun. You blink, pulse suddenly louder in your ears than it has any right to be. “Uh—hi. I brought Seiko’s notes.” He nods and steps aside, letting you in. You’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of the house: something citrusy and comforting, and now… faintly laced with deodorant and aftershave. “She’s out,” he says, shutting the door behind you. “Went to grab some stuff from the store. She should be back soon.” You clutch the folder like it’s a lifeline. “Oh. Cool. I can just leave these in her room or something.”

He shrugs, walks past you, heading toward the kitchen. “You can wait if you want. She said she wouldn’t be long.” You follow hesitantly, standing awkwardly near the dining table while he grabs a glass and fills it with water. There’s a quiet tension hanging in the air. Not heavy, not hostile—just… weird. Like you’re both aware of the fact that you used to be on casual, even teasing terms, but now there’s too much time and space between then and now.

“You want water or something?” he offers, without looking. You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He leans against the counter, takes a slow sip. The silence settles again, this odd in-between where neither of you knows how to talk like normal people. Then, he glances at you, eyes flicking briefly from head to toe. “You used to be shorter.” You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re still short,” he adds, lips twitching slightly. “Just. Less so.” You stare at him, genuinely unsure how to respond. It’s not an insult, exactly, but it also feels like a trap. If you protest too much, it’s pick-me behavior. If you act like you don’t care, it’s awkward. If you joke back, does that make it banter? Are we… bantering? You end up huffing out a weird little half-laugh, scratching your arm. “Cool. Glad my growth spurt was almost imperceptible.” He actually chuckles at that, a small sound that catches you off guard. “Didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated. You’re like—what? An inch taller?”

“Two and a half inches more,” you correct, instinctively defensive.

“That’s generous.”

You roll your eyes and plop your tote bag down onto the chair, trying to play it cool despite the heat in your cheeks. “Glad to know the years haven’t dulled your talent for stating obvious facts.” He grins, and for a second—just a second—it feels almost normal again. But then it dips back into silence, and you both shift awkwardly in the space. He drinks more water. You pick at the strap of your bag. “So,” he says eventually, voice mild. “You’re studying psych, right?” You nod. “Yeah.” He nods back. “That’s cool. You like it?” You pause, debating how honest to be. “It’s… interesting. Not as glam as people think it is. A lot of research. Stats. Trying not to spiral about your own life because of 2000 word essays in the middle of cognitive lectures.” That earns you another short laugh. “Sounds about right.”

You look up at him, heart thudding in a weird rhythm. “What about you? Japan looked cool from the stuff you posted.” He shrugs, but there’s something almost sheepish about it. “It was good. Managed to complete my undergrad, thankfully. Lot of weird hours. Labs. Professors that hated when I was late. Which was often.” You smile, despite yourself. “Shocker.”

“I know. Me? Unpunctual?” He gives a mock gasp. The words settle in the air, kind of dumb and light—but they cut through the awkward tension just enough that something unspoken slips into place. Like, okay. This isn’t the same as before. But it’s not totally broken, either. Still, you’re hyperaware of every breath, every glance. This close to him, it’s impossible not to notice the slight sheen on his arms, the veins on his forearms, the fact that the Gojo Satoru who once teased you about having mismatched socks is now built like a Marvel superhero who occasionally gets mistaken for a Greek statue. He’s being nice. Not in a flirtatious way. Not in a performative way. Just… like a person. A guy who knows you used to be closer, but isn’t sure how to bridge the gap. A guy who probably doesn’t know you once practiced your signature with his last name in the margins of your math notebook

The front door creaks then, and you both turn as Seiko walks in carrying two tote bags. You both glance at each other, then away, and Seiko bursts into laughter. “God, you both are so weird. I hate it.” You shoot her a look. “You’re the one who made me come over because you forgot your notes.”

“Okay, but I had a lot on my mind,” she says airily, waving you off as she kicks off her shoes.

“You left a folder the size of a small child on my kitchen table.”

“I was in a rush!”

“Doing what? Lying horizontally on my floor and watching edits of Business Proposal?”

She gasps. “That was for my mental health. You know how much better I feel after seeing Ahn Hyo-seop.” Satoru, still leaning in the doorway with his water bottle, snorts. “Nah, she’s been like this forever. You’re braver than I am for entertaining her.” You blink, caught slightly off guard, and glance at him. There’s the faintest grin playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. Seiko glares at him. “Excuse me? Who asked you?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, casual and maddeningly smug, “if she forgot a folder, you know it’s probably still under a pile of her clothes or shoved between couch cushions or something. Classic Seiko behavior.” You can’t help it—you snort, loud and involuntary, and cover your mouth with your hand. “That’s actually so true.”

“Traitor!” Seiko gasps, swatting your shoulder. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Oh no,” Satoru says, mock-serious, “she’s right to switch teams. You’ve been doing this since elementary school. Remember when you swore you didn’t lose that permission slip and it turned out you’d used it to doodle hearts all over?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME,” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air.

“You drew Suguru in a wedding veil,” he adds helpfully. You’re laughing now, a real laugh, the kind that warms your cheeks and loosens your spine. There’s something stupidly delightful about the fact that he’s joking with you. Siding with you. Even if it’s at Seiko’s expense. Even if it’s meaningless. But still. A twinge. A fluttery, ridiculous little swell of something in your chest that you stamp down before it can fully form.

“Oh my god, I actually hate you both,” Seiko mutters, dragging you toward the stairs by your wrist.

“You love us,” Satoru calls after you.

“No, I tolerate you,” she calls back.

“Same difference.”

You glance back one more time at him before Seiko hauls you up the stairs. He’s leaning against the bannister now, looking amused, eyes flicking briefly to meet yours—and for a moment, it’s not awkward or distant. It’s just… kind of nice. Then you’re being pulled into Seiko’s bedroom, and the door shuts behind you, cutting off whatever weird, fluttery feeling had started to creep up your spine.

–

"I swear," Seiko groans, shutting her laptop dramatically and tossing it onto the floor. "If I have to look at one more studio apartment listed as a ‘cozy urban oasis,’ I'm gonna cry." You snort, lying on your back and tossing a scrunchie at her head. "Maybe we should just live in a van. Free rent. Adventure. Character building."

"Shut up," she says, batting the scrunchie away. "You're too high maintenance to live in a van." You gasp, putting a hand to your chest. "Excuse me?"

She grins wickedly. "You need, like, twelve skincare products and two duvets to function."

"That’s just basic self-care," you argue, sitting up on your elbows. "You’re the one who needs complete silence and two white noise machines to sleep."

You open your mouth to throw another insult when the door creaks open without a knock, and in strolls Satoru, looking wholly unbothered, as usual. He’s wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is messier than usual, like he just woke up from a nap or something. You really wish you didn’t notice how broad he looks now, or how easily he takes up the space when he steps in like he owns the place.

"Hey," he says casually, rifling through the desk drawers without really explaining himself. "Either of you seen my charger?" Seiko doesn’t even glance at him. "Which one?"

"The black one with the weird fray at the end. It's hanging on by a thread but it's my favorite." You shrug from the bed. "Haven't seen it." He makes a noncommittal sound and keeps searching. Seiko sighs dramatically, flopping onto her back. "God, I hate apartment hunting. It's literally the worst thing ever."

"It’s really not that bad," you say mildly.

"You're just zen because you don’t have to live with your parents and have them coddle you about coming home at 8pm," she snaps playfully. You’re about to argue when Satoru straightens up, tossing something on her desk—some random cable that’s not his charger—and says offhandedly, "I've got a friend who’s trying to lease out his place near the uni." Both your heads snap toward him.

"What," Seiko says, sitting up fast. He leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. "Yeah. It's a big three-bedroom. Nice kitchen, close to campus. Think he’s desperate to find people soon." You and Seiko exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Wait, close to campus?" she says, voice climbing in excitement. "That's exactly what we’ve been looking for!" Satoru shrugs. "I can text him. Tell him you’re interested." Seiko practically bounces in place. "Yes, yes, please. Tell him! Oh my god, you're a lifesaver." Satoru smirks a little. "You’re welcome. Bow down to me later."

You roll your eyes. "Don’t give him more of an ego, Seiko."

"I can’t help it," she says sweetly. "He’s doing the bare minimum and yet it feels like a miracle." Satoru scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You’re lucky I even mentioned it. I could’ve just let you two suffer and die in a moldy shoebox."

"You're such a hero," you say dryly.

"Finally, some respect," he says, flashing you a wink—so casual you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Seiko claps her hands together. "Okay, okay, when can we see it?"

"I’ll text him now," Satoru says, pushing off the doorframe. He’s halfway into the hall before he calls over his shoulder, "Also, I’m charging a finder’s fee." You grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits the doorframe and flops pathetically to the ground. You hear him laughing as he disappears down the hall. Seiko flops back onto the bed with a loud, theatrical sigh. "Holy shit, what if this is actually it?" You grin. "I'd be shocked if Satoru managed to help us not end up in a hellhole."

The two of you dive back into excited chatter, tossing around potential decorating plans and screaming every few minutes out of pure relief that maybe, finally, the end of the apartment hunt is in sight.

–

A few days later, you’re sitting shotgun in Satoru’s ridiculously new, ridiculously shiny car—some black BMW that still smells like leather and money. It purrs like a cat when he taps the gas, and honestly, you're a little scared to breathe too hard in it in case you somehow depreciate its value. "Bro," Seiko says from the backseat, arms spread dramatically across the leather, "this is actually disgusting. Why does your car feel richer than my entire bloodline? And that’s saying something because I am part of your bloodline."

Satoru just shrugs, flashing a cocky grin as he taps the steering wheel. "Ask Dad. Mid-life crisis purchase. Shit happens when you graduate at the top of your class, Sei." You huff out a laugh, dragging your fingers across the touchscreen console, which looks like it could operate a small spaceship. You don’t even want to think about how many zeros were in the price tag. The city buzzes by outside the tinted windows, everything sharp and golden under the late afternoon sun. You watch familiar streets blur past, a little knot of excitement tightening in your chest.

Soon, you think. Soon no more nightmare flatmates. No more coming home to overflowing sinks and strangers passed out on the couch. No more psychotic flatmates who think doing the dishes once a week is a favor to humanity. No more passive-aggressive notes stuck to the bathroom mirror. No more coming home to blaring music and weird smells you don't want to investigate. Just you, your own space, peace. You can almost taste it. Seiko leans forward between the seats, tapping your shoulder. "Dude, we're literally gonna cry when we see it. Manifesting washer-dryer units. Manifesting no mold in the bathroom."

You grin. "Manifesting no one stealing my milk." Satoru snorts. "Your standards are tragic."

"Let us dream, Satoru," Seiko says. He just chuckles, pulling smoothly into the parking lot of a nice-looking building not far from campus. It's clean, modern but not pretentious, with a little courtyard in the middle and wide, sunlit balconies. Way better than anything you’d expected. He swings into a visitor spot and kills the engine. "Alright, my buddy’s inside. He's leasing out the place." You all pile out. Seiko practically skips toward the entrance, phone already out to take pictures, while you hang back a little, taking in the quiet street, the trimmed hedges, the general non-crackhead vibe of the neighborhood. The apartment is on the third floor. When the door swings open, you swear you hear angels singing. It’s big. Really big. Real hardwood floors. Tall ceilings. Massive windows that flood the space with light. A kitchen that doesn't look like it was last updated during World War II. Three bedrooms, a big open living area, and even a tiny balcony perfect for pretending you’re a functional adult with plants.

You and Seiko spin in place, speechless. "This is...this is so nice," you whisper. Seiko’s already got her phone out, snapping pictures. "We’re gonna die here. In a good way." Satoru leans casually in the doorway. "Glad you approve." You trail behind Seiko as she bounces around, peeking into bedrooms, mentally decorating hers already. Then, inevitably, the real conversation starts. "So, about rent," Satoru says, scratching the back of his neck. You and Seiko both turn to him warily, like two cats expecting a spray bottle. He names the number.

You feel your stomach lurch. It’s...more than you were hoping. Not impossible, but definitely more than ramen-once-a-day money. More like maybe-don’t-eat-at-all money. Seiko glances at you, and you can see the panic flicker across her face too. But before either of you can spiral, she speaks up quickly:

"It's fine! My parents said they'd cover my share for the first three months," Seiko says, waving her hand like it's no big deal. "Graduation-slash-moving-out present, apparently."

You blink at her. "Seriously?" She nods. "Yeah. They said it’s, like, a 'head start' thing. They’re even willing to pitch in a little extra for the whole place while we get settled—you know, just until we find better jobs and stuff." You stare at her for a second, like she’s speaking another language. "Wait, so... they’re covering you, and kind of helping me too?" Seiko shrugs like it’s obvious. "Just a little. Like a safety net. They trust us to take over fully after a couple months." You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Three months. That’s enough time. Enough time to fix your mess of a resume, beg for more shifts, find something—anything—that paid decently near campus. Maybe you could finally stop living off sad frozen dumplings and caffeine pills. Seiko grins, reading the relief on your face like it’s printed in bold. "We’ll survive," she declares proudly. "You and me. Broke, but beautiful." You laugh under your breath, some part of your chest unclenching just a little. For once, the future doesn’t seem like this endless, terrifying drop-off. Satoru watches the two of you like you're some strange species he's never encountered before. His sunglasses are pushed into his hair, and the way his mouth twitches makes it clear he’s fighting a smile.

"You two are so dramatic," he says, shaking his head. "You’re literally way worse. You threw a tantrum when you found out dad was only paying your rent for only six months," Seiko fires back immediately. "That wasn’t a tantrum, dad promised me two years of rent." Satoru corrects dryly, but the embarrassed glint in his eye makes you glance away to make him feel less embarrassed, smiling helplessly. Rich people and their problems. It’s stupid, really, how something as small as that—him standing there, joking like it’s normal, like you’re all still those dumb kids from the neighborhood—makes you feel a little lighter.

–

The day you move in feels half like the best day of your life, and half like you're dying of exhaustion. The morning is a mess of cardboard, duct tape, and terrible weather—hot, sticky, humid. Sweat drips down your back even though you’re barely halfway through loading the cars. Seiko’s parents showed up for a little bit to help, cooing over their baby girl finally moving out, but they eventually left after a teary goodbye (on Mrs. Gojo’s part) and about thirty different "don't forget to eat real food" speeches.

Now it’s just you, Seiko, and Satoru. Satoru, who pulled up in his shiny Lexus and practically leapt out in gym shorts and a loose black t-shirt, looking like an actual paid model for casual athleticism. You tell yourself you don’t notice.

(You absolutely do.)

Your crappy old car is packed to the brim, and the front yard is scattered with the overflow—boxes stacked on the grass, a battered mini fridge, a whole pile of miscellaneous IKEA furniture Seiko impulsively bought off Facebook Marketplace. You and Seiko buzz with nervous excitement, running on adrenaline and bad convenience store coffee, practically vibrating as you unload your lives onto the pavement. "This is so real," Seiko keeps saying every five minutes, grinning like she's won the lottery. "We’re actually doing it!"

You grin back, feeling it too—that breathless, giddy thrill of something new beginning. Something that’s yours. But then reality slaps you in the face in the form of a very heavy box. You crouch next to it, trying to psych yourself up. It’s your kitchen stuff—or, at least, you think it is. It’s all starting to blur together at this point. You steel yourself, grip the bottom—and immediately regret everything. The thing doesn’t budge. You grunt, trying to shift it with your knee, and that's when you hear it:

A low chuckle behind you. "Need a hand?" Satoru drawls, sounding far too entertained. You whip your head around, heat rushing to your face. "I'm fine," you lie, through gritted teeth, already feeling your muscles screaming in protest. Satoru doesn’t even argue. He just strolls over, leans down, and—

Lifts it. Like it’s nothing. Like it weighs less than your backpack. You stare, mouth slightly open, as he straightens up effortlessly, cradling the box under one toned arm like it’s a loaf of bread. Jesus Christ. You hate yourself, genuinely, for how visceral your reaction is. Your brain short-circuits for a good three seconds—because what the hell, why is seeing a man carry heavy things so biologically attractive? It’s purely instinct, you tell yourself fiercely. Caveman brain. Biology. Nothing more. You absolutely, categorically, do not have a crush on Satoru Gojo.

(Not anymore.)

You huff out a noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a noise of despair, you’re not even sure—and scramble to grab a lighter box to follow him up the driveway. Inside, the apartment smells like fresh paint and possibility. The living room is bright, sun streaming through the wide windows, casting everything in a gold glow. The walls are still a little bare, and the kitchen is empty except for a lonely-looking microwave on the counter, but it already feels like it’s waiting for you. You and Seiko move like hyperactive squirrels, flitting from room to room, deciding what goes where, squealing when you realize your rooms have actual closets, screaming a little when you realize there’s a working dishwasher. Satoru mostly hangs back, ferrying the heavier stuff inside with annoying ease. You catch him watching once or twice—an amused, almost fond look in his eye—but every time you glance over, he just rolls his eyes like he’s too cool to care.

"Where do you want this?" he asks at one point, gesturing with a huge box labeled MISC (HELP) in your handwriting. "Uh—living room," you say, already bent over digging through another box. You don’t even look up. You also don’t notice the way the pretty cerulean hues track over your bent over form.

"Say please."

You whip your head up, scandalized. Seiko cackles from somewhere inside her room. "You’re enabling him," she calls out. Satoru smirks. "Mm, I’ve been lifting heavy all morning. Some manners would be appreciated, sweets." You toss a crumpled piece of newspaper at him without thinking, and he bats it out of the air easily, laughing under his breath.

It’s easy, you realize, surprising yourself. Awkward in the way all transitions are, but... easy. You catch yourself smiling more than you mean to. Feeling lighter, younger, almost stupidly happy. Maybe it’s the air of fresh starts. Maybe it’s just the high of freedom. You sigh, dragging the back of your wrist across your forehead, feeling the sweat stick and smear there. For a second, you swear you’re starring in one of those hopecore reels you always save at 2AM—the ones with strangers helping each other move houses, saving stray cats, planting flowers in busted city sidewalks. Wow. What an awesome life. You almost want to cry out of pure cinematic triumph.

"Alright," Satoru says, clapping his hands together once. "You think you two can handle the rest by yourselves? I promised Suguru I’d try out this new steakhouse thing with him." Seiko pops her head out from whatever random corner of the apartment she was currently fussing over, a suspicious-looking candle in her hand. She pins him with a look so unimpressed you almost snort. "Satoru," she says, voice flat, "your baby sister is moving into her first apartment and you have Suguru on your mind? Seriously? Sometimes I think you might actually have a thing for him." She shakes her head dramatically, huffing as she plops the candle down onto the kitchen counter and grabs a small tote full of your combined toiletries, marching off toward the bathroom to arrange your skincare armies in synchronized little rows. Satoru snorts, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Suguru’s hot," he mumbles, like it's just a random fun fact, "but he’s really not my type." You and Seiko roll your eyes in almost perfect sync.

"You're so weird," Seiko calls from the bathroom. "Beyond weird," you agree dryly, hoisting another box onto the counter and stretching your sore arms out in front of you with a wince. "Whatever," Satoru says breezily, scrolling through his phone with one thumb. "You’re just jealous you don’t have a Suguru of your own." Seiko pokes her head out again, narrowing her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Expert. What even is your type, huh? You look like you’d go for anyone with a pulse." You snicker into your shoulder, pretending to busy yourself with unpacking a box of mismatched mugs. You don’t even have to look up to feel Satoru’s wounded gasp. "First of all," he says, all whiny indignation, "I have standards, thanks." You shoot Seiko a knowing look, mouthing do you? She fights to hold in a laugh.

"I’m not about to stand here and discuss my love life with my little sister," Satoru adds, dramatically tossing his phone onto the couch like this conversation personally victimized him. He straightens up then, stretching his arms over his head in that lazy, catlike way he always does, a flash of skin peeking between his shirt and shorts. You glance away instinctively—because you are a normal person who refuses to acknowledge how unfair genetics can be—and focus very hard on peeling the tape off a box. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it—the smallest glance he flicks in your direction. Not obvious, not lingering. Barely there. A neutral, casual once-over, like he’s checking the room. And then, in a maddeningly even tone, he says, "Pretty people. That’s my type." Seiko groans, dropping a bottle of toner onto the counter with a thud. "You're so superficial," she accuses.

"Am not," Satoru says immediately, grinning like he’s proud of himself anyway. He scoops his phone back up, scrolling lazily, thumb flicking up the screen without real purpose. He glances over at you again—more obvious this time, flashing you a grin like you’re in on some joke with him. "Obviously personality matters too," he says, like it’s a casual afterthought. "I’m not trying to date a hot NPC." Seiko snorts. "Freak."

"Heh, best big brother in the world!," Satoru sing-songs. He grins wide enough for his cheeks to dimple, looking so pleased with himself it’s almost comical. Seiko tosses a roll of paper towels at his head. "Get outta here, loverboy. Go on your stupid steak date." "Steak is important to my wellbeing," Satoru says solemnly, catching the roll one-handed. "I’m a growing boy."

"You’re hitting thirty soon," Seiko says.

"After like– So many years. And I’m still growing," he insists, already backing toward the door with a shit-eating grin. You shake your head, laughing under your breath as he slips his slides back on and salutes you both lazily. "I’ll be back later to finish lifting all the heavy shit you two can’t handle," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't break anything while I'm gone." Seiko flips him off cheerily. "Break your face!" Satoru just laughs and slams the door behind him. The apartment falls into a kind of humming silence. You and Seiko exchange a look—and then both burst into helpless laughter.

–

So, it’s been three months. You stare into the fridge like it might magically grow a five-course meal if you just look pathetic enough. A lone carton of eggs, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, two apples that are definitely on their way out, and a single sad yogurt cup blink back at you. You sigh. Deeply. Existentially. Seiko appears beside you, yanking the fridge door wider open like that'll help. She lets out the most dramatic, heartbroken groan you've ever heard.

"Bro," she says, staring into the abyss. "We have nothing." You nudge the yogurt cup with a finger. It jiggles. Threateningly. "I think even the bacteria gave up," you say. Seiko closes the fridge with a thud and slumps dramatically against it. "I'm gonna combust. We had thirty-minute butter chicken twice this week."

"At least it was edible," you mutter.

"At least it was edible," she mocks you under her breath, whipping out her phone and scrolling angrily. After a second, she holds the screen out to you like she's presenting hard evidence. It's a Doordash receipt for forty dollars. For butter chicken. Again. You grimace. "I’m gonna be paying that off in my next life." Seiko growls under her breath and without another word, speed-dials her brother. You hear the faint ringtone buzzing and then—

"What now?" Satoru answers, sounding halfway amused, halfway put-upon. "If you're on your way back from campus, you need to stop by here first," Seiko says, cutting straight to the point. "Emergency." Satoru laughs, but it’s more out of habit than actual amusement. "What, you finally broke the toilet?" You lean closer to the phone. "Worse. We’re starving."

"Oh my god," he says, deadpan. "I'm serious," Seiko insists. "We have, like, apples and eggs. That’s it."

"Protein and fiber, sounds like a win to me."

"Satoru."

He sighs like you’re both his problem children. "Fine, fine. Text me what you want."

"Just food," Seiko says dramatically. "Literally anything. I'm not picky. I would eat wet cardboard right now." You yell, "Preferably not wet cardboard!" in the background. Satoru chuckles under his breath. "Alright, I’ll swing by. Try not to eat each other while I’m gone." He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Seiko flops onto the couch with the weight of a war veteran. "He's our only hope." You slide down next to her, feeling your stomach physically gnawing at itself. "God help us."

Twenty minutes later, the front door swings open and Satoru strolls in like he’s just returned from a victorious hunt, two giant plastic bags dangling from his hands. "You guys owe me," he says, kicking the door shut behind him. "We owe you our lives," Seiko says gravely, already diving for the bags. You help him unload: a greasy box of yakisoba, a pepperoni pizza, fried chicken skewers, random sushi rolls, and—because of course he would—a pack of Hi-Chew candies. "God bless you," you tell him, mouth watering as you tear into a box. "You're welcome," he chirps, dropping onto the couch and slinging an arm across the back like he owns the place. For a few blessed minutes, the apartment is filled with nothing but the sound of wrappers crinkling and food being demolished. Seiko leans back after her second slice of pizza, groaning like she just got hit by a bus. "Rent is killing us," she mumbles around a mouthful of yakisoba. You nod, wiping your fingers on a napkin. "Literally murdering us. I think my bank account cried blood this morning." Satoru raises an eyebrow. "You guys just hit month four, huh?"

"Yup," Seiko says, popping the "p." "Dear parents cut me off like they said they would. I'm officially a broke, independent woman now." You throw your hand up for a high five and she smacks it. "At least you're employed," Satoru says, pointing a fry at you. "Kinda."

"Gee, thanks," you deadpan. He shrugs, shameless. "I'm just saying. Adulting is rough, bro." Seiko pokes at her plate, looking more dramatic by the second. "I don't even have an adulty enough job yet. I just pick up whatever shifts I can. And our rent is like a guillotine over my neck."

"Same," you say. "Except the guillotine is made of student loan bills." Satoru laughs under his breath, head tipping back against the couch. He looks way too relaxed for someone still technically in the trenches of his honours year. You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't seem stressed at all." He shrugs again. "I'm moving soon, actually." You and Seiko both sit up straighter, suspicious. "Moving?" Seiko repeats. "Why?" Satoru rolls a fry between his fingers, like he's thinking about it. "My place sucks. No city view. I'm over it." You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "That’s fair." You deadpan, hoping his brain functions enough to realise that he sounds really out of touch with reality right now. "I want something higher up," he says, waving a hand vaguely. Of course the dumbass doesn’t pick up on it. "Somewhere with a view, maybe a balcony."

"Must be nice," Seiko grumbles. "Manifesting," Satoru says, flashing her a peace sign. There's a beat of silence, all three of you chewing or sipping sodas, and then Satoru looks up at you two, slow and casual. "You know," he says, tone maddeningly light, "you do have a third bedroom here." You and Seiko glance at each other. Then back at him. Then back at each other again. "You’re joking," Seiko says flatly. Satoru grins. "Dead serious."

"You wanna move in with us," you say, like you're trying to process it out loud. "I mean," he says, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, "cheaper rent for all of us. You two stop struggling. I get outta my hellhole. Win-win." Seiko puts her pizza down, brows furrowed. "You wouldn’t be, like... annoyed?"

"By what, living with you guys?" He smirks. "I've tolerated you for twenty years, Seiko. I think I can survive." You lean back, studying him. "You sure? It’s not just, like, random strangers across the hall. You’d actually have to live with us." Satoru lifts his arms, draping them across the back of the couch. "I’m fine with it. Long as I get dibs on one of the bigger bathrooms." Seiko narrows her eyes. "No way, I’m not sharing the tiny one."

"First come, first serve," Satoru sing-songs. "That’s not how the saying works, we were here before you regardless!" Seiko argues. You laugh, shaking your head. "He'll just barge into whatever bathroom he wants anyway."

"Exactly," Satoru says, grinning wide. "Might as well make it official." Another silence stretches—this one heavier, but not uncomfortable. You glance around at the cluttered, half-furnished apartment. The cheap couch. The stacked textbooks on the counter. The faint smell of fried chicken hanging in the air. The way Satoru looks sitting here, like he already belongs. You share a look with Seiko. You both nod, tiny and almost at the same time. "Alright," Seiko says, picking her pizza back up. "You’re in." Satoru cheers under his breath, pumping a fist like he just won something huge. You barely even register the words leaving Seiko’s mouth — You’re in — before a weird, fluttery rush lights up in your chest.

Living with you. Satoru. Living here. Sharing a space. A bathroom. A kitchen. A couch. Seeing him stomping around in sweats and a compression t-shirt. Probably leaving the fridge door open. Probably pumping weights in the living room (hopefully). Probably existing. Constantly. You could go into an extreme probability crisis right now. Your brain scrambles, short-circuiting at the images it’s pulling out like some deranged PowerPoint presentation. You squash it down instantly, ruthlessly. No. Absolutely not. This is fine. You’re fine. You don’t care that he’s attractive. That’s just biology. It’s science. You're immune. Fortified. Bulletproof. You pick up a slice of pizza and chomp into it aggressively, as if you can physically chew through the ridiculousness in your own head. Across from you, Satoru just lounges back against the couch, already looking way too at home — laughing at something Seiko says, his stupidly pretty profile catching the light. Your stomach does a small, unnecessary somersault. You blame the hunger. And capitalism. And the universe. Anything but yourself.

–

It starts with the sound of his key jangling in the door like it’s always belonged there. You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you in the same pajama pants you’ve worn three nights in a row, when it clicks open and he steps in — arms full of shit. Like, actual shit. Not even boxes. Just random crap. A pair of beat-up Nikes dangling off two fingers, an expensive backpack that looks like it’s been dragged through five years of war, a stupid Luffy pillow slung under one arm, and a tote bag that says Hotter Than Your Ex, Better Than Your Next in neon pink font. Seiko barely blinks. “You couldn’t use a box like a normal person?” Satoru just kicks the door closed with his heel and grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” It’s… real. This is happening. Satoru Gojo — your best friend’s annoying, stupidly hot older brother — is now your roommate. A fact that has not yet fully sunk in despite your best efforts to emotionally detach. You glance toward the hallway where the third bedroom has been sitting empty. Clean. Neutral. Ready. It’s his now. That’s his room now. And of course, within thirty minutes, he’s already got his crap everywhere. There’s a half-unpacked duffel bag in the entryway. A pair of sunglasses you swear you’ve seen him wear inside nightclubs sitting on the kitchen counter. An open Red Bull can next to the sink. A hoodie draped over the back of one of the dining chairs like he owns the place. His smell — some ridiculous overpriced cologne mixed with his laundry detergent — is wafting through the apartment like he’s been here for days instead of forty-five minutes. He’s not even trying to be annoying. It’s just… him. Loud, effortless, omnipresent him. And when he finally dumps himself on the couch next to you, legs sprawled and hair a little tousled from hauling stuff upstairs, he sighs like he just clocked out of work.

“God,” he mutters, cracking open a soda. “My old apartment sucked. This place’s light is so much better. My plants are gonna lose their minds.” You blink. “You have plants?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I have a monstera named Dog. And this succulent Geto gave me but it’s like… almost dead, so we don’t talk about her.”

“…I didn’t know you were a plant guy.” He glances at you, smug. “I contain multitudes.” From the hallway, Seiko yells, “You contain trash. Come get your crap out of the entryway before I put it all in a black garbage bag and throw it off the balcony.”

“Love you too,” he calls back lazily, then looks at you and grins. “So. Roomies now.” God. Roomies. You don’t even know what to do with yourself. Because this isn’t some sitcom. It’s not all fun and awkward hijinks. It’s the reality of him being around all the time. Late night cereal runs. Passing each other in the kitchen in weird pajamas. Accidentally hearing him sing to himself in the shower. Seeing him shirtless. Probably way too often. And you tell yourself, very seriously, that it means nothing. It’s all cool. You’re an adult. You don’t care. You’re not fifteen and hopelessly in love with his dumb pretty face anymore. But when he reaches behind you to grab the remote, warm arm brushing yours, rings clinking against the plastic of the controller, his cologne curling into your brain like smoke—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this lease emotionally intact.

There are, undeniably, perks to living with Satoru Gojo. First off, the rent. You’re paying less now — which is everything. That extra couple hundred a month? That’s groceries. That’s less existential dread. That’s the occasional iced coffee without hating yourself for buying it. It’s not glamorous — you still have to split utilities and sometimes get a little too creative with how long groceries can stretch — but you’re no longer crying every time your bank app loads. Small victories. But then there’s also… him. Not in a weird way. Not like you’re in love with him again. You’ve made that very clear to yourself. It’s just that — he exists loudly. Satoru’s presence is hard to ignore. Even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still there. Shirtless half the time because he “runs hot” (which is just his excuse to wander around looking like a Calvin Klein ad), hair always messy, a faint smell of whatever stupid expensive aftershave he’s wearing that day lingering behind him. You do your best not to look. You don’t always succeed. It doesn’t help that he goes to the gym at ungodly hours of the morning and comes back looking like something out of a fitness TikTok thirst trap. Hoodie tied around his waist, shirt sticking to his chest, headphones around his neck and a bottle of neon blue liquid in his hand like he’s sponsored by Gatorade. Seiko never comments on it — mostly because she’s used to him. She grew up with the guy. You did too, technically, but there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one and seeing him towel off sweat in the kitchen while asking if either of you finished the oat milk.

The second major perk? The car. You no longer have to stress about trains or getting soaked in surprise rain while walking to the bus stop. Satoru, as rich kid as ever, insists on driving all three of you to uni every morning. He’s not even annoying about it — it’s just what he does. One honk, and you and Seiko pile into the passenger and back seat respectively, the AUX already queued up. It’s stupidly convenient. You didn’t realize how much money public transport drained from your budget until you stopped using it. You still keep your bus pass topped up for emergencies, but it’s basically become a backup plan. Now, you just show up to class on time and dry, with Satoru occasionally handing you a leftover donut from his morning coffee run like he’s God’s gift to women.

Which brings you to the third perk: the food. Satoru and Suguru have this thing where they eat out like every second night. You’re not sure if it’s because they can’t cook or if it’s just rich kid indulgence — but either way, you benefit. They always order too much. And they always bring back leftovers. So now, your fridge has a semi-permanent corner filled with half-eaten yakisoba, overpriced vegan cupcakes, gyoza from a food truck that Geto swears is life-changing, and once — a whole tub of cinnamon sugar popcorn from a rooftop cinema they randomly ended up at. It’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but you’re broke, tired, and too emotionally drained to cook half the time anyway, so you don’t complain. You and Seiko split it like war rations. Half a bao bun each. One cold gyoza that’s microwaved and devoured like it’s gourmet. A shared spoon of caramel pudding.

“Living the dream,” Seiko says one night, holding a lukewarm slice of truffle pizza like it’s holy communion. “You’re so dramatic,” Satoru says around a bite of strawberry mochi. You don’t answer, mostly because your mouth is full and also because you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with him in that damn grey tank top again. So yeah. Life with Satoru in the apartment is a little chaotic. A little loud. Full of dumb inside jokes and stolen food and last-minute Target runs. Sometimes he sings in the shower. Sometimes he talks to Seiko too loudly while she’s trying to nap. Sometimes he leaves his socks in the hallway or accidentally takes your phone charger. But he’s a familiar presence. He’s not unknown, which is the best part of having him in the apartment, and he’s always been a constant in both of your guys’ lives. So it makes everything worth it.

–

The physics wing feels different from the rest of campus—cleaner, somehow quieter, with that sharp antiseptic scent that clings to air-conditioned labs and too many equations floating in the air. You’ve never had much reason to be down here. The last time you stepped foot near this building was maybe during orientation week when you and Seiko were trying to figure out where the vending machines were. Now, a few months into the semester, you stand awkwardly at the glass doors of one of the labs, peering through to where a group of grad students crowd around a table. There’s buzzing—low voices, a light laugh, the sound of a wheely chair screeching slightly as someone scoots back. You spot him instantly. White hair disheveled like he’s been running his hand through it, sleeves rolled up, safety goggles hanging around his neck, leaning slightly over a notebook as he points something out to a guy beside him. God, he looks hot. But like, academically hot. Like the kind of guy you'd see in a random STEM girl’s Pinterest board titled "study aesthetic." You suddenly feel out of place in your hoodie and backpack, clutching your phone like a lifeline. Then someone notices you—of course it’s a girl. Tall, pretty, good skin, expensive earrings, and she’s nudging Satoru with her elbow and going, “Hey, I think one of your fangirls is here.” Your stomach drops. Fangirl? Satoru looks up, squints a little through the glass, then when he sees it’s you, he snorts. “Nah,” he says loud enough for you to hear through the cracked-open door. “Sister’s best friend.” You offer a sheepish wave as the door opens a little more. He slides his notebook off the table and steps out into the hallway with you, all casual like he doesn’t notice the way you’re trying not to internally combust. “Shit,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot I was supposed to take you two home today. Where’s Seiko?”

“Group project,” you mumble. “They’re finishing something up in the studio.”

“Right. Studio kids. Always acting like the world will end if their poster isn’t trimmed perfectly.” He waves back toward the lab, calling out, “Tell Suguru I’ll text him about the readings. And tell Reina and them I’ll probably be at that party next week if I don’t crash out before then.” Someone inside laughs. “We’ll believe it when we see it!”

Satoru rolls his eyes and then turns back to you. You’ve already started walking, and he falls into step beside you. The hallway is narrow, and when he shifts slightly to let a TA pass by, his hand grazes your lower back in that absentminded way—just a half-second of touch, but enough to send your brain short-circuiting. You pretend it didn’t happen. You’re fine. This is fine. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, y’know,” he says as you both walk. “Could’ve just texted me again.”

“I did,” you say. He pulls out his phone, blinking at the screen. “...Oh. I have like thirty unread messages. Seiko’s been sending TikToks again.” You huff a laugh. “Yeah, you’re doomed.”

“I am,” he agrees, letting the door swing open for you as you step outside. The afternoon sun hits both of you, and it’s quieter out here, more open. A weird kind of silence falls between you for a second—not uncomfortable, but almost charged. You’re aware of everything. The distant chatter of students. The shift of your backpack against your shoulders. The way he’s walking just a little slower than you now, like he’s letting you lead the way. You can’t stop thinking about the fangirl comment. Is he that popular that he has a whole fanclub? Does that kinda shit even happen in universities? This feels too much like a shoujo anime. Or the way he so casually said sister’s best friend. Like that’s all you’ve ever been. Like it’s that simple. (And it is. You tell yourself it is.) Still, when he nudged you gently toward the passenger side of his car, casually tossing his bag into the backseat, you wonder if that half-second of contact had lingered for him at all.

Probably not. You buckle in. He turns on the engine. The ride starts off quiet in the way late afternoons tend to be. The sky’s a mellow kind of gold, filtering in through the windshield, painting warm lines across the dashboard and your knees. The hum of the engine is low, steady, filling the silence with something that doesn’t need to be spoken over. Satoru drives like he does everything else—lazily confident. One hand on the wheel, the other resting against the door, fingers drumming to some rhythm only he hears. You’re scrolling through your phone half-heartedly, trying not to look obvious about sneaking glances at him. His profile in this lighting is unfair. Hair tousled like he’s been running it through his hands again, jaw a little sharp with the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek. And his arm, the one holding the wheel, flexes just enough with every turn and adjustment to make your brain short-circuit all over again. Not that it matters. Not that you’re thinking about it. Definitely not.

“So,” he says eventually, tone casual. “Did you end up getting paired with the group of doom or the semi-decent humans for that one communications elective you chose?” You blink, then groan dramatically. “Oh, the group of doom, hands down. I’ve basically become the parent. I write things in our doc and then go delete them hours later because no one else is contributing and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

“That’s brutal,” he says, wincing in sympathy. “Honestly, the whole group work concept should be illegal. Like, I didn’t sign up to babysit strangers who forgot what Google Drive is.” You snort. “Preaching to the choir.” He taps his fingers along the wheel, turning the car down the side road toward your neighborhood. “We had this one guy last semester who literally submitted his part of our lab report as a picture of handwritten notes on lined paper. With a Dorito fingerprint on it. I swear to god.”

Your jaw drops. “No. You’re lying.”

“I wish I was. Suguru and I sat in a lab for three hours rewriting it while our TA walked around behind us like we were criminals.”

“You and Suguru sound like the worst combination,” you say, laughing. “Too much brain power. No accountability.”

Satoru smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I’m struggling to remember what APA formatting is and you two are running a science empire.”

“I’m more of the face of the brand,” he says modestly. “Suguru does the actual work.” The car slips into silence again, this time a little softer. The kind that fills up with quiet comfort. You glance down at your phone again. No new messages from Seiko yet, just a screenshot she sent earlier of some random overpriced candle she found at the campus market, captioned smells good should i get? lmk.

“Still no update from her?” Satoru asks, glancing over.

“Nah,” you say. “I think her group’s holding her hostage.”

“She’ll claw her way out. Probably with a monologue about art and justice.” You giggle, and then you both fall quiet again, but this time it lingers. You glance sideways at him. He’s driving one-handed again, but he’s leaning a little more now, elbow resting on the window like he’s relaxed—like you being here isn’t strange or unexpected. You shift slightly in your seat, clearing your throat. “That girl earlier,” you say, not looking at him. “She called me one of your... fangirls.”

Satoru glances over, caught slightly off guard. “Yeah,” he says, then smiles. “She’s just being annoying. I don’t have fangirls.” You raise a brow. “Didn’t that one video of you go viral during university orientation and everyone on tiktok was asking which university this was so that they could come here?”

“Okay, correction. I don’t claim the fangirls.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “The Gojo name has power, huh?”

“I mean... I am tall, conventionally attractive, decent at physics, and have a sexy ass car,” he lists off, counting on his fingers with a smirk. “It’s a hard combo to resist.”

You scoff. “You forgot ‘humble.’”

“Oh, right, yeah. And humble,” he adds, laughing. Another beat passes. The street outside blurs with quiet houses and kids walking home from practice, and you almost forget what started this whole train of thought. But then, without thinking, you say it: “It didn’t bother me. The fangirl thing.” He glances at you again, more carefully this time. “Good,” he says after a second, voice softer. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m embarrassed of you hanging around me or anything.” You’re not sure what to do with that. So instead, you change the subject. “Do we have anything at home to eat?” you ask. “Or should I mentally prepare for a dinner of peanut butter straight out of the jar?”

“I think Seiko’s got some questionable microwave rice and like... a rogue banana,” he says thoughtfully. You groan. “We’re going to die.”

“I’ll stop by the corner place,” he offers. “Grab some katsu curry or yakisoba or something. You like those?”

You nod quickly. “Love them. Bless you.” Satoru grins. “Told you I’m useful.” He pulls into the parking lot of the hole-in-the-wall place that’s somehow cheaper than anything on UberEats, and just before he gets out, he pauses and looks over at you again. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks.

“With what?” You ask, looking thoroughly puzzled. He shrugs. “Me. Driving you. Being around. Existing in your apartment. I understand if it’s like weird with your best friend’s older brother just being around you all the time–”

You blink. “You live with us now, Satoru. It’s a little late to ask if it’s okay.” He laughs and opens the door, stepping out. “Fair enough.” You watch him disappear into the little restaurant, humming to yourself and feeling... weirdly calm. (But your chest feels warm anyway.)

–

The takeout bags rustle as Satoru unlocks the apartment door (somehow) with his elbow, a practiced motion at this point. You’ve each got one in your hands, plastic warming your palms through the handles, the smell of fried noodles and katsu curry already seeping through like sweet, spicy comfort. The elevator ride up had been quiet—at least in the way that being near him always hums with an odd undercurrent. Satoru had been scrolling on his phone, probably checking something stupid Suguru sent him, when his arm nudged against your shoulder. Not aggressive, just a bump. But it lingered for a second too long, a lazy sway of his weight into yours, like he forgot you were shorter, smaller—more affected by that kind of touch than he was. You hadn’t said anything. Just swallowed it and stared ahead at the doors like your reflection in the brushed steel held the answers. Now, stepping into the apartment, it’s dark except for the thin line of city light pouring through the blinds and cutting across the floor. You toe your shoes off while he moves to the counter and drops the food with a sigh. “I swear this bag's leaking teriyaki oil all over my hand,” he mutters. You’re still standing there by the door, holding your bag like it’s something delicate, looking at the room a little longer than necessary. It’s quiet. Seiko’s still not back. The hum of the fridge is the only sound besides Satoru rustling through a drawer. And suddenly, for no reason at all, you think:

What if it was just us? The apartment feels different like this. Dim and soft. You can picture it so clearly—him coming home later than you do, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing his keys on the counter, looking exhausted but smug from some lab win, shoes half on, hair wind-swept and eyes heavy with it. You imagine asking him how his day was, and he’d just lean back against the wall and say something dumb like “miss me?” before smirking and stealing food off your plate. You picture him walking past you in a towel after a shower—wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, water glistening down his chest, or maybe you both could shower together, or maybe he’d be the type to bend you over every piece of furniture in the house—and you have to blink, hard, because now you’ve accidentally spiraled into something bordering on indecent and you’re still holding katsu curry in a dim kitchen while he’s three feet away. Jesus Christ. You set the food down quickly, trying to physically shake the thought away as you move toward the cabinets. “Plates?” you ask, clearing your throat. “Top left,” he answers without looking up, still fiddling with sauce packets like they’re puzzle pieces. You reach up to the shelf, stretching on your toes a little. The cabinet is just barely out of reach, your fingers grazing the edge of a plate but not able to actually grab one. You mutter a quiet, annoyed “fuck’s sake” under your breath, just as the warmth of a body steps up behind you. You don’t even have time to turn.

There’s a snicker by your ear. “Need help, sweets?” You hate that your entire body reacts before your brain does. His chest brushes your back as he casually reaches around you, arm flexing as he grabs the stack of plates with ease. His hips press lightly—too lightly to be on purpose but too present to be ignored—into your ass as he leans in. Just a half-second of his weight against yours and your whole bloodstream short-circuits. He’s so close. So casually, blissfully unaware of how much you’re spiraling again. “Got it,” he says, voice smooth with amusement. “Thanks,” you manage to squeak, completely not like yourself. He places the plates down on the counter with one hand and then leans forward just slightly so he can look at you over your shoulder. “You good?” he asks, smiling a little too knowingly. “Fine,” you say quickly. “Totally fine.” You take one of the plates and focus very hard on opening the takeout boxes like your life depends on it, even though your pulse is doing jumping jacks and your head is screaming get it together. He just hums behind you, like he’s not noticing the complete inner meltdown happening a foot away, and grabs two chopsticks and a fork from the drawer. “Seiko said she’ll be home in like twenty,” he says casually, scrolling through his phone again and settling into one of the bar stools. “Group finally let her escape.”

You nod, handing him one of the boxes. He smiles and takes it, eyes on the screen, and says around a bite of yakisoba, “If you want more curry than rice just take mine. I like it drowned.” You stare at him for a second—just… stare. The stupid hair. The lazy voice. The soft lighting that makes the corners of his face look gentle. God. Living with him might actually kill you.

–

It’s barely noon and the apartment is quiet in a way it rarely ever is. Seiko had texted something along the lines of “kill me I’m gonna be stuck in this library group hell all day,” and Satoru, as usual, was off somewhere—he mentioned errands, maybe gym, maybe campus, maybe both. You hadn’t really been listening when he said it over his coffee that morning, still half-asleep and trying not to drool on the kitchen counter. So now, for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone. No blasting TikToks from Seiko’s room, no loud slams of Satoru’s door because he still hasn’t figured out how to close it without shaking the whole apartment. Just you, the faint hum of the fridge, and the unmistakable theme song of Modern Family floating through the living room. You hadn’t really bothered with getting ready—weekends were lawless like that. Your hair’s a mess, there’s a scrunchie abandoned somewhere on the couch, and you’re wearing this soft, too-thin tank top you usually reserve for sleep and your most battered pair of lounge shorts that might as well be pajama bottoms. Honestly, you kind of forgot anyone else existed. You have a blanket pulled over your legs but it’s too hot to fully commit, so it’s half-on, half-off, like you’re being attacked by fabric indecision. You’re about two minutes into the episode when the front door swings open.

Satoru walks in, keys jingling, sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He looks fresh from outside—hair tousled from the wind, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, plastic bag of snacks in one hand, phone in the other. “Oh,” he says, eyes scanning the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here.” You sit up straighter, immediately pulling the blanket tighter over your torso like it’s gonna save you from embarrassment. “Yeah. I thought you were out all day.” He tows off his shoes lazily, drops his keys on the counter without looking, then tosses the plastic bag down on the coffee table. “I was. Grocery store line was hell. Also—” he eyes the TV “—is that Modern Family?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“I love Modern Family.” You arch an eyebrow. “Seriously? I thought you didn’t like sitcoms.”

“Yeah, but this one’s special,” he says, flopping onto the couch next to you with no hesitation. “Cam and Mitch remind me of me and Suguru.” You snort, trying to subtly tug your tank top higher over your chest. “That’s unhinged. Which one are you?” He thinks for a second. “I think I’m Cam.”

You stare. “Satoru, Cam is like… dramatic. He cries a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing that.”

“I have feelings,” he says defensively, grabbing a snack from the bag and opening it one-handed. “You just don’t respect that.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, turning back to the TV. You can feel the body heat radiating from his side—he’s close, way closer than necessary on this big-ass couch. You’re acutely aware of every inch between you and him. Which is to say, not much. For a few minutes, it’s just the show playing. Comfortable silence. Except your heart is doing this stupid uneven thing because he’s right there. And it doesn’t help that at one point—just as Phil Dunphy is doing something ridiculous—you feel his eyes flicker to your side. And for the briefest second, maybe half a second, his gaze dips. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. His eyes are back on yours almost immediately, lazy grin still on his face like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just (maybe) looked at your chest. You’re not even sure it was a look. It could’ve been your imagination. It probably was. Right? You suddenly feel ten degrees hotter, curling your toes under the blanket like that’ll ground you. “You good?” you ask, trying to keep it casual.

“Yeah,” he says smoothly. “Why?”

You shrug, eyes glued to the TV even though you’re not processing a single joke anymore. “You looked like you were spacing out.” He leans back on the couch like he owns the damn thing, all sprawled out with one arm tossed lazily over the backrest. His fingers dangle behind you, brushing the edge of your shoulder. Barely. But enough to make you hyper-aware of every exposed inch of your skin. You shift a little in your seat. It doesn’t help. His thigh is still resting near yours, solid and warm, his scent faint and maddeningly familiar—clean laundry, citrus shampoo, and that soft hit of spice from whatever cologne he throws on without thinking. The TV flickers, but you don’t see it. Not when you feel him like that.

“Dunno,” he murmurs suddenly, voice lower than before. “Just thinking how wild it is that you’re Seiko’s best friend.” You blink out of your daze, glancing over. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He turns his head toward you, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks. His eyes flick down—so quick you might’ve missed it, but not really. A lazy sweep across your collarbone, down the slope of your tank top, the faint outline of your chest where the fabric clings too easily without a bra beneath it. And then his gaze flicks back up to meet yours like nothing happened. You’re suddenly burning. “You’re just… eh, you’re like different now,” he says finally, mouth tugging into something softer than a smirk, but still not safe.

Your throat goes dry. “You literally told me a few months ago I was like your annoying little sister.” He huffs a laugh—low and amused, almost like he’s laughing at himself. “Yeah. People say dumb shit all the time. Obviously I didn’t mean it.” His voice is rough around the edges, like the words cost something. Like they meant something. And you—stupidly, helplessly—can’t tell if you want to shove him away or drag him closer just to find out what the hell he’s thinking. His knee knocks into yours, casual, but it lingers. You glance down at the spot where your legs touch. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you. You don’t want to. He leans in just a little, stretching his arm further along the back of the couch, fingers now brushing fully against your shoulder—his pinky grazing your bare skin. Not accidentally this time. You swear you feel the air shift between you. Charged. Tense. He smells even better up close. You can hear the faint scratch of his breath, the creak of the couch when he adjusts, the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The air in the room feels hotter than it should be. Maybe it’s the blanket, maybe it’s the body heat, or maybe it’s the fact that Gojo Satoru—Seiko’s brother, the guy who used to shove Cheeto crumbs in your face and call you gremlin—is now lounging beside you like he didn’t just casually imply he’s been thinking about you in a way that definitely isn’t brotherly. You try to laugh it off. Try to breathe normally. Try to keep your thoughts from careening off a cliff. But your skin is buzzing under the weight of what he said—what he meant—and it’s getting impossible to sit still. “I’m gonna—uh…” you start, voice a bit too breathy for your liking. “Grab snacks.” He hums, low and lazy. “Of course you are.” You don’t even look at him to know there’s a smirk playing on his lips. Smug. Fucking smug. You peel the blanket off your lap, heart already thudding in your chest like it knows something you don’t. As you rise to your feet, you catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—subtle, fast.

Satoru’s gaze dips. Straight to your ass. You freeze for half a second, spine locking, suddenly very aware of your little lounge shorts, how they cling when you move, how thin the fabric is. Your skin prickles. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just glancing around the room. Maybe he— But you felt it. And when you dart a glance back at him, he’s already back to facing the TV. Arms sprawled out. Cool and unbothered. Except—his jaw’s clenched a little now. One hand is flexing faintly against the armrest, like he’s trying not to react. And you swear, if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s the one trying to calm himself down. You walk to the kitchen way too fast, needing the distance, needing to get air because your thoughts are spiraling again. Did he really look? Was that just your brain on horny autopilot? Are you imagining this whole thing because you’re bored and he’s attractive and close and smells like sin wrapped in cashmere? You yank open a cupboard. It takes you a second to even remember why you came in here.

Oh. Right. Snacks. Behind you, the sound of the TV fills the silence, but your ears are still ringing with what he said. “Obviously I didn’t mean it.” Those words echo in your chest like a struck bell. Over and over and over. You grab a random bag of chips and pop it open just to keep your hands busy. You nibble one. You’re not even hungry. You hear the couch creak. He’s shifting. “Sooo,” Satoru calls out, voice stretched and casual like this is nothing, like he didn’t just nuke your brain two minutes ago, “you bringing those back to share or am I supposed to sit here and starve?” You roll your eyes, half grateful he’s still being a dumbass, half annoyed he’s pretending like your body language wasn’t screaming confusion and want and maybe something more. You return to the couch, tossing the chips between you both as you sink down. This time, there’s a full cushion between you, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere. He grabs a handful of chips without looking away from the screen. “You good?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” He doesn’t push. He just leans forward, his long legs spreading slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The new position pulls his shirt tighter across his back, and it’s ridiculous, the way you notice the flex in his shoulders. The way your gaze dips now. You're no better than him. Your throat dries again. “So,” he says after a moment, voice still easy, still pretending, “what episode are we even on?” You glance at the screen and realize you couldn’t name a single thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes. “Uh. The one where Phil gets stuck in the portable toilet.”

Satoru laughs. “Classic. That guy’s so fucking dumb.” You nod, distracted. You keep catching yourself staring. At his jaw. His hands. That little shadow of stubble growing in because it’s the weekend and he clearly didn’t care enough to shave. You wonder what it feels like. What he’d look like if those same hands were pushing your head down on his co—

No. Nope. Abort. You try to focus on the TV. You try not to think about how he looked at you. How you’re now almost certain you didn’t imagine it. But then you feel his thigh bump yours again. Well, as much as someone can with a fucking pillow in between you both. Deliberate this time. Just the lightest nudge. You glance at him, and his eyes are still on the TV—but his lips? They’re tilted in the faintest, most devilish smirk. You bite the inside of your cheek and sit there in silence, knees barely touching, heat coiled tight in your stomach like a secret. The tension is coiled tight between you and Satoru—like someone pulled a rubber band back and is holding it in place, fingers twitching on the edge of letting go. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes too loud. You’re still thinking about the brush of his thigh against yours, about the way he smirked without really smiling. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the blanket.

Then—

The front door creaks open. “HELLO?” Seiko’s voice echoes through the apartment like a goddamn fire drill. “This house is full of the rudest bitches, I swear.” You sit bolt upright, practically yanking the blanket up to your collarbones as if she’s about to catch you in something. Satoru casually reaches for another chip, cool as ever. Seiko rounds the corner into the living room, dropping her bag on the floor with a theatrical huff. “I called you,” she says, glaring at her brother. “Like five times. Five. You told me to let you know when I was done!” Satoru lifts a brow, lazy and unapologetic. “I was busy. You survived.”

“I had to take the bus,” she groans, flopping into the armchair like she’s just returned from war. “The bus, Satoru. You know how many coughs I heard in ten blocks? You might as well have sentenced me to death.” You snort, trying to play it cool, heart still racing beneath your tank top. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m chronically disrespected in this house,” she declares, and then her eyes flick to the TV. “Oh my god, is this the one where Cam tries to be a clown at Luke’s party?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It just started.”

“Perfect,” she says, curling up under the throw blanket and stealing the chips off the coffee table. “God, you and I are literally Cam and Mitch.” You blink. Her and Satoru were eerily alike. “I don’t know how to feel about that.” She shrugs. “We just have a shared delusional flair and a healthy amount of judgment, and I think that’s beautiful.” Behind you, Satoru exhales a soft, amused sound and stands up, stretching in that obnoxious way that pulls his shirt up just enough to flash a sliver of his toned stomach. You avert your eyes fast. “Well,” he says, voice easy, almost bored, “I’ll let you ladies get back to doing… whatever this is.” He takes a slow step back toward the stairs, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder—but before he turns completely, his eyes flick back to you. Just for a second. It’s subtle. Barely a second too long. But he holds your gaze—and that same faint, almost imperceptible smirk ghosts across his lips. It’s not a full smile. It’s a knowing one. And then he’s gone, padding upstairs without another word, leaving you sitting there with a fake laugh stuck in your throat and your pulse suddenly much louder in your ears. “Ugh,” Seiko says, mouth full of chips. “He’s so annoying. I cannot wait until he gets his own place.” You hum, pretending to agree, but your eyes linger on the stairwell he disappeared into.

Yeah. Annoying. If only it were that simple.

—

You’ve been staring at your reflection so long your own face is starting to look unfamiliar. Two skirts are flung across your bed—one black and slinky, the other plaid and shorter than you remembered it being when you first bought it. You keep switching between them, holding them up against your hips, spinning a little in the mirror, frowning. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It’s just a frat party. But it’s one of the big ones. The kind that gets talked about weeks after. The kind where even the art students who pretend they hate frat culture show up and get drunk on jungle juice in someone’s bathtub. You want to look good. You want to look good. Eventually, fed up with your own indecision, you grab both skirts and swing open your bedroom door, calling, “Seiko, I need you for like two seconds, I swear—”

You barrel straight into something warm and solid and—

“Oof—fuck, sorry,” you mumble, skirts slipping in your grip. Your hands are full, so you bounce off and stumble a step back. Satoru catches your elbow before you can completely lose balance, steadying you with one lazy hand. “Hi to you too,” he says, his voice edged with amusement. You blink. “Hi. Uh—sorry. I was just—I thought Seiko was still here.”

“She left like ten minutes ago,” he says, stepping back and glancing over your shoulder, toward your bedroom. “Grocery run or something. You’ve been holed up in your room forever.” You glance down at the two skirts in your hands and shift them awkwardly against your chest, heat licking at the back of your neck. “Yeah, I—uh—was trying to figure out what to wear.” His gaze lingers. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “To the party?”

You nod. A beat of silence. “You sound stressed,” he says, voice dipping a little. “What happened? You sound like you’re about to cry over a skirt.” You roll your eyes. “I just wanted her help picking one.” There’s a softness to his expression now. A twitch of his lips that looks suspiciously close to a smirk. “Tragic.” You groan and hug the skirts tighter to your chest. “This is stupid. I’m being stupid.”

“Nah,” he says, casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed now. “It makes sense. Lot of people are gonna be there. First party of the semester everyone actually gives a shit about.”

“Exactly,” you mutter, more to yourself. His eyes drag lazily from your bare thighs to your slightly flushed face. You’re still in the tank top you’d thrown on earlier—one of those thin, soft ones with lace on the straps. “So,” he says, head tilted, eyes unreadable but fixed on you, “what are the options?” You blink. “What?”

“The skirts,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Let me see. C’mon.” You roll your eyes, but your voice still comes out embarrassed. “I just wanted Seiko’s opinion.” He grins. “And instead you got mine. Brutal.”

“Yeah, I’m regretting it already.” He pushes off the wall with a little amused hum and steps closer. “Lemme see.” You raise an eyebrow. “You? The fashion expert?” Satoru shrugs. “Hey, I’m good at judging outfits. From the outside and the inside.” Your face burns. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You’re the one asking for my opinion while wearing a tank top that’s basically see-through.” You make a sound of protest and clutch the skirts against you again. “Okay! Thank you, great, very helpful!” He doesn’t move. “I mean, either one would look good on you. You have—” He pauses, lips twitching, “—range.” You squint at him. “Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”

“Because you know me.”

You laugh, but it comes out breathier than you intend. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way guys at parties look. Not even like how he used to look at you months ago—distant, vaguely amused, older brother of your best friend. This look is different. Lazier. Focused. And then he just casually reaches out, like he’s done a hundred times before, but this time his knuckle grazes the bare skin of your arm when he adjusts the hem of the black skirt in your hand. “Go with this one,” he murmurs, suddenly closer than he was a second ago. “It’s a better choice.”

You swallow. “A better choice?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.” The air feels a little too charged now. A little too tight. You’re still, not sure what to say, barely sure what you’re breathing. And then, blessedly, he takes a step back, his expression shuttering into something light again. “Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you to your existential wardrobe crisis. Let me know if you need my expert fashion advice again.” You nod dumbly, skirts clutched tight. Inside, you drop the plaid skirt to the floor and stare at yourself in the mirror again. Somehow, the decision’s a lot easier now.

–

“What do you mean, Satoru can’t drive us to the party?” Seiko screeches, her voice echoing off the tile as she stalks around the apartment in a pair of clacking nude heels, aggressively tapping his contact on her phone. You lunge across the couch, snatching it from her before she rage-texts him something psychotic. “Seiko—calm down. It’s not because of the fight. Listen! He said he has a late lab or some shit, okay? He’s coming later.” She stares at you, lip curled in disbelief, before deflating with a dramatic sigh. “Oh.” There’s a beat. You watch her face as she recomposes herself—like she’s loading a new expression. A girl rebooting in real time. “So… is he sending us Uber money, or…?” You suppress a grin. “No need. Suguru’s driving us.” The shift in her demeanor is instant. You swear you catch a spark of actual electricity pass through her body. “Oh.” Now her voice is a full octave lower, soft, composed, perfectly pleasant. “That’s nice.” You snort, giving her a shove. “Nice try. But that fake ‘cool girl’ thing is not working. I know how long you’ve liked him, dumbass.” She squeals, spinning in a little circle like you just handed her a backstage pass to her dream concert. “Oh my god. You don’t understand—this is like the first time I get to hang out with him without Toru’s annoying ass being all over the place.” You roll your eyes. “You’re literally acting like a Shoujosei heroine right now. Tone it down before he thinks we’re taking you to the ER for heatstroke.”

But you’re grinning. She waves a hand, unfazed. “Whatever. This is my moment. I need it to be perfect.” You snort and smooth your hands over your outfit one more time. The black skirt he picked sits high on your waist, hugging you like a second skin. It’s short—dangerously so—but structured enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with a slinky backless top in that kind of soft fabric that feels cool against your skin, and lets just enough cleavage peek through to keep it casual. You might’ve been dressing for yourself. But you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t wondering what Satoru would think when he finally saw it. Seiko squeals again as she double-checks her lipstick. “Okay but wait. You said Suguru’s stared at me before. When? Tell me now. Don’t lie.”

You shrug, all fake-casual. “Mmm. Like twice last week. When you wore that fitted top to the library. Also when you made that stupid joke and he actually laughed.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, hand flying to her chest like you just told her she’d been accepted into heaven. “I knew it. I thought I was delusional. But you just confirmed it.” You’re about to tease her again when a familiar honk cuts through the buzz of the apartment. “Speak of the devil,” you grin. Outside, Suguru’s car is parked by the curb, headlights casting long shadows through the blinds. You head out with Seiko, the cool evening air brushing against your legs as you slide into the backseat. Suguru, behind the wheel, turns slightly to look over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply, amused as Seiko wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat like it’s her destiny. You swear she almost sits with a flourish. She twists toward him. “Thanks for picking us up. You look nice.” Suguru gives her a crooked smile. “You look nice, too.” You almost groan at the tension brewing already. You catch the subtle glance he gives her legs, the quiet, too-smooth “seatbelt” reminder as he reaches across to pull it out for her. She blushes, mumbling a thanks, and you just sink back into your seat, smiling to yourself like you’ve been let in on a joke no one else knows the punchline to. The ride to the frat house is filled with casual conversation—muted music humming from the car speakers, the windows cracked just enough to let in the city air. As Suguru pulls into a crowded residential street littered with double-parked cars and glowing red solo cups on curbs, Seiko leans forward to point out a spot. Typical frat party energy is already bleeding into the night—thudding bass in the distance, porch lights glowing warm, a guy doing a keg stand on someone’s lawn while someone else records with flash on. You smooth your skirt down instinctively as Suguru parallel parks like a pro, killing the engine with a low chuckle. You glance up at him just before stepping out, voice quieter than before. “Hey. Do you know when Satoru’s coming?” Suguru gives you a look—one of those slow, knowing, older-brother-type glances that feels like it sees more than it says. “Not too far away,” he replies, lips twitching. “You’ll see him soon.” He opens his door and gets out, and you follow, the air buzzing louder with the bass as you approach the house. It’s already full—bodies moving on the porch, music pounding out the windows, a mix of cheap perfume and sweat and smoke curling through the air. Inside, the light is dim, string lights casting a low amber haze over the crowd. People call greetings, red cups are pressed into hands, and the house is full of the usual noise—music, laughter, flirtation, chaos. You let Seiko tug you in by the hand, eyes scanning the room—not consciously, not desperately. Just… wondering. If he’d see you tonight. If he’d look.

Inside, the house is buzzing. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, someone’s dog is wearing a backwards cap for some reason, the music’s loud enough to rattle your ribs, and the air smells like a mix of weed, tequila, and Axe body spray. You and Seiko barely make it past the kitchen before you’re intercepted by a group of mutual friends from one of your guys’ shared elective class.

You’re nodding along, drink in hand, when you spot someone across the room—a guy you know from high school? Or maybe the library? The edges of memory are fuzzy from the noise, but you tilt your head and squint, trying to place him. “Wait—excuse me for a sec,” you say to Seiko, squeezing her wrist. You pivot, winding through the crowd, barely making it five steps before someone’s shoulder crashes into yours. You reel back instinctively, blinking up.

White hair. Too tall. Light eyes. Hoodie thrown lazily over a plain tee, but still looking like a full time model for Vogue. He smells like cologne and smoke and something faintly citrusy. “Wow,” you say automatically, blinking again. “You actually came.” Satoru smiles—lazy, tilted, boyish. Like he’s just been caught in something he enjoys too much to lie about. “Yeah,” he says. “Took an Uber. Not planning on being sober tonight.” You laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Same. But Seiko and Suguru are both staying sober, which is kind of impressive given the circumstances.” He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows exactly what circumstances you mean. “Ah. Right, right.” There’s a pause—just long enough for his eyes to drop to your legs. Then, casually, like he’s not saying anything crazy at all, he leans a little closer. “So… you wore the skirt.” You grin. “Yeah, I did. Is it nice?” He snorts under his breath like please, then runs a hand through his hair. “You know it is.” You roll your eyes. “You don’t even remember which one it was.” He pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his chest. “That’s actually insane of you to say. Of course I remember. It was this one. The black one. Little zipper on the side.”

You blink. “There was no zipper.” He squints. “Okay. True. I made that part up. But it looks like it could have a zipper.” You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your drink. You’re about to clap back when someone bumps into him from behind, sending him a half-step into you. His hand lands lightly on your arm to steady himself, just for a second—warm fingers, calloused from god knows what, brushing your bare skin. You both go still for half a beat.

Then he’s grinning again. “You having fun?” You nod. “Yeah. It’s actually a good party. Not too many freshmen. No one’s cried in the kitchen yet.” He laughs. “Give it an hour.” You don’t respond—just bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile at bay. His gaze lingers on your face for a second too long. Someone behind you pops a can of something and the fizzing sound makes you both blink.

“Well,” he says, standing a bit straighter, “should we find the others?” You nod, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “Yeah. They’re by the pong table.” As you both start walking side by side through the house, you can’t help but glance sideways at him. He’s looking ahead, but there’s that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The same one from the apartment earlier. Knowing. Lazy. A little smug. A little dangerous. You finally make your way toward the makeshift beer pong table someone’s set up near the back of the frat house. It’s surrounded by half-drunken students, red solo cups, and a poor folding table that’s seen too many parties and not enough soap. You spot Ryomen Sukuna chatting to some girl—his chem lab partner? Odd, she was way too nice to talk to a guy like him— by the drinks table, his gaze unabashedly admiring her form. A cheer goes up as someone lands a shot, and you hear Seiko’s unmistakable laugh—shrill, excited—off to the left, where she’s clapping dramatically for Suguru, who’s currently in what looks like…? A competition to see who can stay in a handstand for the longest? Is that Toji Zenin with him?

“I was wondering where you ran off to,” Seiko says when she sees you. Her eyes briefly dart to Satoru, then back to you, and you give her a look that says: Don’t. Start. “Me and Satoru are gonna take a shot at this next game,” you say quickly, already setting your drink down and rolling your shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. Satoru raises a brow. “We are?”

“You scared?” He grins. “Nah, I’d win. I always win these.”

“You’re the one with freakishly long arms, so I guess I need to have more confidence in you,” you say, pointing at him. “You better land every cup.”

“I will. As long as you look pretty while doing the distractions.”

You blink. “That’s so sexist.”

“And yet, you smiled.” You try to smack his arm but he’s already ducking around you, grabbing a couple of ping pong balls from the table while the other team clears out. A small group starts to gather as you both step up to the table—probably because Satoru Gojo doing anything draws attention, but also because you’re not exactly subtle about whisper-arguing with him about technique. “Okay,” he says, tossing a ball up and down like it’s a warm-up. “We’re playing standard rules. Elbow behind the edge, reracks at 6 and 3, bounce shots count for two. You know how to play, right?” You make a face. “Sort of.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t come to college to learn about sports, Satoru.”

“It’s beer pong,” he groans. “It’s not a sport, it’s survival.” You flip him off, but you’re laughing. He lets you shoot first. Your ball clinks off the rim of a cup and bounces harmlessly to the floor. Satoru whistles low. “Strong start.”

“Shut up and make your freak arm useful.” He sinks the shot. Effortlessly. Doesn’t even blink. Of course he does. You sigh, already resigned to being carried. “Come here,” he says, waving you over like it’s no big deal. You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Your form’s all wrong. You’re like. Flicking it. This isn’t badminton.”

“I don’t flick—”

“Come here.” He’s behind you in a second. You feel his body brush against your back, the faint warmth of him just close enough to register without being obvious. His hand slides along your forearm, adjusting your grip on the ball.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmurs, and now his chin is practically over your shoulder. You swallow. “Like this,” he continues, his hand still guiding yours. “It’s more of a lob. Use your fingertips. Gentle. That’s it— ah, good girl. ” You try not to think about the way he says gentle. Or good girl. Or the way his breath is hitting your neck in warm puffs between words. “You realize you’re totally milking this under the guise of tutoring me,” you say, heart thudding faster. “Obviously.” His grin curls against your cheek. “You gonna shoot or what?”

You shoot. You land it. The group around the table erupts, laughing and shouting. You turn around, triumphant. “Holy shit—”

Satoru’s grinning, arms raised like he’s just coached a champion. “That’s my girl.” Your stomach does something very stupid at those words. You try to ignore it. The game continues like that—banter, shots, shoulder brushes, the occasional low “good job” from Satoru that lights up every neuron in your body. You’re not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is just him, but your face is warm and your hands shake a little more every time he reaches past you. At one point, someone makes a distracting joke and you miss horribly, groaning as the ball flies way off. Satoru leans close and mutters, “You need to take your revenge.”

“How?”

“Distraction tactics. Classic.” You eye him. “What, like flash a tit?” He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Jesus, no. I mean, you could, but maybe start smaller.” You giggle. “Like what?” He leans in again, voice lower. “Do that thing where you bend over to pick something up slow.” You look at him, deadpan. “Dude, what?” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m not blind.” You end up not bending over or doing whatever Satoru had been telling you to do, instead you just plainly smile at the guy on the opposing end of the table, hoping it does the job. And it does. Dramatically. And the frat guy across from you absolutely chokes on his shot. You land the next cup clean. What can be said? You’re extremely gorgeous. Satoru claps you on the back like a coach. “What’d I tell you? Iconic.” You’re both laughing too hard now. And a little too close. Eventually, the game ends—you win—and there’s a flurry of congratulations and another drink thrust into your hand. You feel light and flushed and way too aware of the guy still standing next to you like he belongs there.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Satoru says, sipping from his own drink now. “Yeah, I thrive under pressure.” You’re mid-sip of some questionably pink drink when Satoru leans down, tipping his head toward your ear so casually it makes your stomach do that stupid flutter thing again. “Yo,” he says, nodding toward a different room where you can see bodies shifting and crowding around a makeshift open circle. “What’s going on over there?” You blink. “Dunno. Is that… a dance circle?”

“Nah,” he grins. “No one’s moving that confidently.”

You snort. “You wanna check it out?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says, and the way his voice dips just slightly makes it feel like he’s not just talking about the crowd. “Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. The two of you squeeze your way into the room, jostled on all sides by a sea of people shouting and laughing and pushing in toward the circle. The floor’s sticky, the air’s muggy, and someone bumps into your back hard enough that you stumble—and before you can find your footing, a flash of blue disappears ahead of you. “Satoru?” you call, but your voice is drowned out by a chant going up in the center. And just like that, he’s gone. You’re shoved toward the edge of the circle, almost tripping over a couch leg before managing to flop down beside some guy in a bucket hat holding a solo cup like it’s sacred. You glance around, heart racing, trying to spot that stupid head of white hair somewhere in the crowd. The guy next to you chuckles. “First time at one of these?” You glance over. “One of what?” He gestures with his cup. “Spin the bottle. Slash seven minutes in heaven. Slash drink whatever disgusting cocktail that bowl has if you bail. It’s a house rule.” You blink. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs. “You can decline. But then you gotta chug whatever’s in that punch bowl. And it’s, uh… unholy.” You look to the center where sure enough, there’s a half-filled bottle spinning on the floor like it’s trying to find a victim. A few people are already crowding behind it, sitting cross-legged like some cursed sleepover. And the punch bowl he’s talking about? It looks like someone dumped red Gatorade, vodka, pickle juice, and maybe NyQuil into the same pot and called it “edgy.” You whip your head around again—Satoru is, of course, lounging cross-legged on the other side of the circle now, chatting with some people you vaguely recognize from class. He looks like he belongs there, all sprawled limbs and lazy smirk, like this kind of chaos was built for him. When he catches your gaze, he waves. Waves. You shoot him a you left me to die glare. He mouths something back that looks suspiciously like, “Have fun.” Before you can get up and leave, someone shouts, “ALRIGHT! EVERYONE SHUT UP—RULES ARE THE SAME. SPIN LANDS ON YOU, EITHER GO IN THE CLOSET OR DRINK. NO BACKING OUT.” And just like that, the first spin hits a girl in a crop top and some guy who looks like he’s about to pass out. Laughter, whistles, cheers—then they’re stumbling off toward the dark little closet in the corner like lambs to the slaughter. You sit frozen, drink clutched to your chest like a life preserver. The bottle spins again.

Not you. Then again. Still not you. Then: you. You freeze, neck stiff as your name’s called. It’s some guy you’ve never seen in your life. He winks. You immediately reach for the punch bowl. The crowd yells as you choke down the mystery concoction. It burns like betrayal. Another few rounds go by. You watch people you know and people you don’t vanish into that cursed closet. You try not to count the minutes. Try not to watch Satoru each time he gets picked. And yet—you do. Twice the bottle lands on him. Both times he just laughs and reaches for the drink, wincing as he gulps it down. Your stomach does that thing again. You don’t want to care. Finally, the bottle spins, slower this time, teetering between two people. It seems to almost stop on the bucket hat guy next to you—until the neck slides a few inches more and lands squarely… on you. Your heart lurches. Then it spins again—and lands on him.

Satoru. It goes so quiet, you can hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards. Someone cackles. “Ohhhhhh shit—”

You look at him. He’s already watching you, a crooked, loose-limbed smile stretching across his lips. “Alright, alright,” someone’s saying. “Or you can drink, but I’m warning you, the new mix is, like, fucking illegal.”

“Yeah,” someone else adds, “Toru, you already tapped out of two. You're out of lives.” Satoru throws his head back and groans. “Shit.” He locks eyes with you again. “Well?” you ask, voice a little smaller than you mean it to be. “You tell me,” he says, tone light but eyes dark. “Closet or cocktail?” You hesitate. You could back out. You should back out. But he’s standing already, towering in his black tee and the chain peeking out from under his collar, holding out a hand to you with that infuriating confidence. “Let’s go,” he says. “No way I’m drinking that pickle NyQuil bullshit. My kidneys are failing already.” A cheer erupts.

“SEVEN MINUTES STARTING NOW!” You feel someone gently shoving you forward, and then you’re walking—stumbling—toward the little coat closet with Satoru beside you, hand hovering behind your back like he’s making sure you don’t fall. Inside, it’s pitch black. You both tumble in, bumping into each other, the door slamming shut behind you with a click. It’s cramped. Shoulders touching. Knees knocking. You can hear him breathing. And somewhere outside, someone’s laughing like this is the funniest shit they’ve ever seen. You swallow. “Thank god Seiko’s not here,” you mutter under your breath. “Speak for yourself,” Satoru says casually. “I think this is character-building.”

“Character-building?” you repeat, incredulous. “Yeah.” His voice is low, amused. “We’re trapped. Small space. Zero distractions. Forced eye contact if there was any light.” You laugh, nervous. “This is not how I imagined dying.”

“If we die in a frat closet,” he says seriously, “I just want you to know it’s been an honor.” You laugh again, this time a little too loudly. You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until you shift and your knees knock again—his thigh against yours. Warm. Solid. “Is it hot in here?” you mumble.

“It’s definitely not cold.” You don’t respond right away. Neither does he. It’s suddenly too quiet. You can feel his gaze, even in the dark. And somehow, you know—you know—that whatever happens next will not be played off as just another party game. The silence wraps around the two of you, warm and humming and too dense to ignore. Your back hits the closet wall, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding louder than the music outside. Somewhere, someone yells about shotgunning a beer, and it sounds so far away compared to the stillness between you and him. Satoru shifts beside you, his voice low and careful. “Hey—just so you know, we don’t have to do anything in here.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. His shoulder brushes yours. “Oh,” you say. You try to sound neutral. Chill. Normal. You fail. “Um—no, it’s okay. We can do stuff.” He huffs out a laugh, and it’s so goddamn warm in the closet and so him that your cheeks burn on contact. “We can do stuff,” he repeats, teasing. “Wow. That’s seductive.” You groan and immediately bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” He laughs again, this time a little breathless. “Nah, I’m into it. Super smooth delivery.”

“I’m drunk,” you whine, still hiding. “I’m tipsy. I literally cannot be held accountable for anything I say.”

“Oh, now you’re pulling the legal disclaimer.”

“I’m gonna die in this closet. Like, emotionally.” He shifts again, and you feel it—his thigh pressing more into yours, his arm now behind your back along the wall like he’s boxing you in without even meaning to. Or maybe he is meaning to. Maybe this is the point. Maybe you’re just slow to realize it. He opens his mouth—probably to say something sarcastic and obnoxious, like always—but you don’t let him. You don’t know if it’s the cheap cocktails or the lingering electricity from that beer pong game or just how close he is in this tight little space, but your body moves before your brain can catch up. You lean forward and kiss him. You only mean to peck him once, test the waters, but the second your lips meet his, he responds. Hard. His hand finds your waist with immediate purpose, dragging you closer until your chest is pressed against his, the scent of his cologne and sweat and cheap beer swirling around your head like smoke. His other hand fists into the fabric of your top, knuckles brushing your ribs, and he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this, mouth hot and demanding and perfect. You gasp a little when his tongue brushes yours, and he swallows it greedily like he wants to hear that sound again. And again. And again. You’re vaguely aware that you’re making noises, little broken gasps against his lips, but you don’t care. You’re half in his lap now, one leg slung lazily over his as your back presses to the closet wall. His grip tightens at your hip like he’s trying to keep himself anchored, but it’s not working. He breaks the kiss just for a second—only long enough to breathe against your mouth. “Fuck,” he mumbles, voice ragged. “You taste like whatever’s in that drink. That horrifying punch. But you still taste good. What the fuck.”

You laugh a little, dazed. “You too.” Then he kisses you again—deeper this time, rougher—and it’s suddenly impossible to remember what the hell you were ever nervous about. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm flat and hot against your bare skin. You shiver, and he smirks against your mouth, like he felt it. “Cold?” he asks, voice muffled by the skin of your neck as he kisses along your jaw. “Shut up,” you whisper back, breathless. He doesn’t. His mouth is relentless. He kisses like he’s starving. His lips drag down the slope of your neck, his tongue wet and hot as it traces up the column of your throat. “God,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“Yeah?” he grins against your skin. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Coward.” You grin and push him back lightly, but it just makes him grin harder—until he catches your wrists and gently pins them beside your head, still smiling like a little shit. “You kissed me,” he says.

“You let me kiss you.”

“Damn right I did.” And then he kisses you again, harder this time, like a promise. You forget where you are. You forget your name. You forget the stupid crowd outside or the timer ticking down. The only thing you know is his mouth, his hands, the heat that’s spiking through your body like wildfire. You moan into his mouth—and this time, he groans. Low. Rough. Dangerous. And you get the sudden, dizzying feeling that if someone doesn’t knock on this door in the next ten seconds, you might not make it out of this closet with your clothes still on. The closet is too dark to think straight. Too warm. His breath is hot against your skin, and your back’s pressing into the wall like it’s the only thing holding you up. Your legs are still half-draped over his, and his hand’s still under your shirt—his palm splayed wide across your waist like he forgot he put it there and now refuses to move. You’re kissing again before either of you says another word. It’s not careful anymore. Not testing the waters. This is all open mouths and low groans, tongue and teeth and the dizzying clash of teeth when one of you gets impatient. His grip shifts, and suddenly his hand is sliding further up, rough fingers grazing your ribs until his thumb just barely brushes under your bra. You freeze for half a second, the sharp spark of oh shit cutting through your haze. But then his mouth drags down your neck again, open and wet and hungry, and any coherent thought short-circuits in your brain.

“Satoru,” you breathe. You don’t mean to say it like that. You don’t mean to say it at all. It just falls out of you, broken and breathy and a little desperate. He groans.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

“Boo, party pooper.” You’re both smiling—giddy, a little drunk, a little overwhelmed—and he noses at your cheek before dragging you in for another kiss. This one’s slower. He licks into your mouth like he’s tasting you, savoring you, like you’re something he’s wanted for way too long and can’t get enough of now that he has you. His thigh shifts between yours and—god—your hips roll on instinct. You feel his breath catch in his throat. Your lips part against his, and that’s all it takes for him to move. His hands are on your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh again, and the friction makes your brain completely short-circuit. You bite back a sound, but it’s embarrassing how easily your body reacts to him. How natural it feels to rock against him like this—slow, messy, clothed, but blistering. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rasping low in your ear. “You’re really doing this, huh.”

“Don’t act surprised,” you mutter, head tipping back when his mouth finds that one spot under your ear. “I’m not,” he admits, voice rough. “I’m just—fuck—I’m so into it.” You’re both breathing hard now, the air between you sticky and thick with heat. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and that’s it. That’s the moment he slips both hands under your skirt, palms warm on your thighs. He squeezes lightly, like he’s checking—asking—and you nod, burying your face into his shoulder. “Touchy tonight, huh?” he murmurs into your skin.

“Don’t be smug.”

“Impossible. I’m literally in a closet with you grinding on me. I win.” You shove at his shoulder, and he laughs, this quiet, messy sound that turns right into another kiss. His hands wander again, fingers sliding along the edges of your underwear with just enough pressure to tease but not enough to do anything. You whimper. Quietly. Against his mouth. He bites your lower lip. And that’s when there’s a knock at the closet door. You both freeze. The knock comes again—followed by a tipsy voice yelling, “TIME’S UP, CLOSET LOVERS. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.”

You don’t even move at first. Just sit there. Half tugged up by him around his waist. Half undone. Breathing like you ran a mile. You blink at each other. He grins first. “That was like… two minutes,” he whispers.

“Swear to god, if Seiko’s out there—”

“We’ll lie,” he says, totally unbothered, smoothing down your skirt and grinning lazily. “You fell. I helped you up. We kissed a little. No laws were broken.” You snort, cheeks still on fire. But you can’t help it—you lean forward, just once more, and kiss him. Softly. Just one little press. He hums into it. Hands still on your hips like he’s not letting go the second the door opens. “You okay?” he asks, quietly this time. No teasing. No jokes. You nod. “Yeah.” And then you add, with a shaky laugh, “But next time we do something like this… please not in a literal party closet.” His grin is smug. “Next time?” You shove him again. He opens the door. And the second it does, a wave of music, noise, and light crashes in like you’ve broken the seal on a private, heated little world. You both step out—your hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, heart racing—and pretend like nothing happened.

“Wanna make another bad decision?”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Bathroom’s unlocked.” You stare at him. He stares right back. You give a small nod, imperceptible almost, and then he’s grabbing your wrist, dragging you down the hall. You don’t even check if someone’s watching. You just move, fast, stumbling a little behind him as he shoves open the bathroom door and pulls you in behind him. Click. The lock slides into place. Silence. Your back hits the bathroom door. And Satoru’s right there—crowding into your space, bracing a hand beside your head like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he’s giving you that split-second window to change your mind. You don’t take it. Satoru spins you around and backs you up against the counter like he’s done this before—like he’s been thinking about it since the first time you argued over the last chocolate bar or something. His mouth finds yours in seconds, and this time it’s not playful. It’s hungry. Hot. Desperate. You tug on his shirt, dragging him closer, and he laughs into your mouth, breathless and boyish and so into it. His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms on bare skin, fingers playing with the hem of your black skirt like he can’t help himself. “You know, this skirt that you’re wearing? The one I picked out?” he mutters, mouth moving down to your jaw, then under your ear.

You nod, dizzy. “Uh-huh.”

“Good choice,” he grins, hands squeezing your ass over the fabric. “It’s fucking hot.” You whimper. Actually whimper. And he groans, like you’ve just undone him. “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re actually—”

Your skirt rides up. Your thighs part. And his body slots right between them. “You sure?” he pants, nipping at your lip. “We don’t have to—”

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. “I know we don’t have to.”

Pause.

“But I want to.” That does it. His mouth is back on yours before you finish breathing the sentence, and now his hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, under your top. Your hands tangle in his stupid white hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss and grind into you, hard enough to make you gasp. “Shit,” he mumbles against your mouth. “We should be careful.” You bite your lip. “Why?”

“Because if we keep going, I’m not gonna stop.” Your breath catches. You kiss him. Slow and deep. “Someone’s gonna notice we’re gone,” you whisper, even though you make no move to stop touching him. He nips your neck. “Let them.”

“Satoru��”

You don’t have time to laugh before he lifts you—just like that, hands under your thighs, and sits you on the cold marble counter. Your skirt hikes up to your waist, and his eyes drag down your thighs with an audible breath, eyes glancing over on the wet spot forming on the front of your pink panties, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear like he can’t wait. You’re kissing again—hot and messy and open-mouthed—while his hand works fast, dragging the fabric to the side and letting out the dirtiest fucking sound when he feels how soaked you are.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead to yours. “All this for me?” You glare. “No, for Suguru. Obviously for you.”

That grin—that goddamn smug Satoru Gojo grin—flicks across his face. “Should’ve known,” he says, fingers sliding over you now, teasing but desperate. “I really get you going, huh?” You moan, hips stuttering, hands fumbling with his belt now. “Toru—please.” That does it. The second you breathe his name like that, he’s moving—shoving down his jeans and boxers just enough, grabbing a condom from his back pocket like the cocky frat boy you know he is. “I swear,” he mutters, tearing it open, “I was not expecting to use this tonight.”

You give him a look. “Bullshit.” He laughs low. “Okay, maybe I hoped. Come on, haven’t been laid in ages.” Then? Then he’s right there, dragging your hips to the edge, rubbing himself against you slowly, teasing. Too slowly. “Satoru,” you whisper, grabbing his shirt, pulling. “Now.” He groans—and then pushes in, slow at first, filling you in a way that makes your whole body arch off the counter. “Fuck,” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t anchor himself. “You feel—Jesus.”

Your breath stutters out. “Move—please.” And he does. He fucks you like the party doesn’t exist. Like the music isn’t thumping just outside the door. Like someone won’t knock at any second. Hard, deep thrusts—his hand muffling your moans when they get too loud, your nails clawing down his back under his shirt. He kisses you through it, open-mouthed and filthy, murmuring curses against your lips like he’s losing it, too. “Didn’t think this would happen tonight,” he says between thrusts, voice ragged. You’re gasping. “Me either—oh my God—but don’t stop.” He doesn’t. If anything, he fucks into you harder, like your words lit him up, hips snapping forward, making you see stars. You cling to him, head falling to his shoulder, trying so hard not to moan too loud when he shifts his angle and hits just right.

“Satoru—”

“I know,” he grits out, kissing your shoulder, your neck. “You’re so fucking tight—shit.” The counter creaks beneath you. His hands are gripping your thighs, and you’re clinging to his shirt, and when you finally come—clenching around him, eyes fluttering—he groans like you just knocked the breath out of him. He follows fast. Gasping your name, forehead buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he finishes with a shudder and a string of muttered curses. The room falls quiet except for your heavy breathing. You’re still panting when he finally lifts his head, face flushed, hair messy, looking more fucked-out than you’ve ever seen him.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Pussy is too good.” You smack his chest, still catching your breath. “Way to ruin a moment.” He laughs, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead resting against yours. Outside, the bass drops again. Inside, he kisses you—sweet, slow now. Like he wants this again. And again. You're still half-breathless when you peel yourself off the bathroom counter, shaky legs dangling before you touch the floor. Satoru leans back, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised and glistening, grinning like he just won a game he wasn’t even supposed to be playing. You glance at yourself in the mirror and immediately groan. “God,” you mutter, fixing your hair with trembling fingers. “I look like I just got railed in a frat bathroom.”

“You did just get railed in a frat bathroom,” Satoru offers, obnoxiously proud. He’s zipping his jeans, running a hand through his tousled white hair, utterly unfazed. “Shut up.” You swat his chest as he snickers. “Fix yourself. Your hair looks like you’re Goku from Dragon Ball Z right now.”

He checks. “Oh. Shit.” You both burst into quiet, breathy laughter, like two kids caught in the middle of something reckless and brilliant. The bathroom still smells faintly like the citrusy hand soap, alcohol, and you—God, you—clinging to Satoru’s skin like perfume. You tug your skirt down. It’s wrinkled. Your thigh is slightly sticky. You don’t even want to think about it right now. “Wait,” you whisper, holding your arms out like a human barricade. “Are we going out together?” Satoru looks at you, then toward the door, considering. “Nah,” he says finally, lips twitching. “I’ll give you a 60 second head start. Real secret agent vibes.” He pulls you in before you can leave, pressing one last kiss to your mouth, slower this time, his hand cradling your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. When you pull back, you're flushed again. “Go,” he says, voice low. “Before I forget we’re trying to be subtle.” You open the door and slip out fast, stepping into the dim hallway. It takes you a second to adjust to the bass again, the flood of people, the bright overhead lights that make everything feel too real. You make a beeline toward the kitchen like you haven’t just been completely wrecked in the bathroom, grabbing the nearest cup you can find and pretending to drink something even though it’s mostly just melted ice and backwash.

Then—

“Yo!” Someone calls your name from across the room. Not Satoru. Just a classmate. You wave, hoping they don’t notice how warm your cheeks are. You’re mid-conversation when, exactly one minute later, Satoru wanders in from the other side of the room. Cool as ever. You both lock eyes for the briefest second—and he winks at you like an absolute menace before joining some people near the pong table. You swear your knees go weak all over again. As you’re sipping from your cup and attempting to regulate your heart rate, your phone buzzes.

Torustill taste u on my tongue lol

You immediately lock the screen and shove it into your pocket like it just caught fire. Across the room, he catches your expression. Smiles. Smug. Lazy. Like he owns the whole fucking house. You shake your head, lips twitching as you pretend not to look at him again. But you do. A few times. And each time, he’s already looking back.

The car ride home is a blur of motion, low music, and the afterglow of too many drinks and too little inhibition. You’re squished in the backseat of Suguru’s car, shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru as Seiko loudly insists on shotgunning—“I called it like thirty minutes ago, Satoru, don’t even try me”—and Suguru just raises a brow like why did I agree to this? You're half pressed against the window, the cold glass seeping into your flushed skin. Satoru’s thigh is warm beside yours. Too warm. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware—of him, of yourself, of the fact that less than an hour ago he had his hands under your skirt and his mouth on your neck. “Ugh,” Seiko moans from the passenger seat. “Suguru, drive slower. I’m gonna puke.”

“You said faster two minutes ago.”

“Well now I say slower. Unless you want vomit on your dashboard.”

Suguru sighs and taps the brakes. Beside you, Satoru chuckles low in his throat. It’s not even directed at you, but it ripples down your spine like a dropped match. He shifts, resting his arm casually along the backseat behind you, not quite touching—but close. So close. You try not to look at him. You fail. His hair is still tousled. There’s a mark—barely-there��on the edge of his jawline. You wonder if he noticed it in the mirror at the party. You wonder if he knows it’s from you. You blink away the thought and stare hard out the window as Suguru pulls up to your apartment. The car slows to a stop, and suddenly all of you are groaning and tumbling out, drunk and exhausted. “Everyone drink water before bed,” Suguru calls after you and Seiko, who are giggling as you shuffle toward the door. “Don’t be dumbasses tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom,” Satoru mutters. You all collapse into the apartment like a pile of overripe fruit—sweet, bruised, and sticky with the night. No words. Just Seiko drifting into her room with a loud yawn, mumbling something about being glad she didn’t drink tonight. Satoru disappearing into his own with an unreadable look over his shoulder, and you stumbling into yours with your head spinning. The moment your door shuts behind you, you exhale hard. And then you feel it. The ache between your legs. The ghost of his mouth on yours. Your lips are swollen. Your hair’s a mess. And there’s a bite mark—not aggressive, but definitely there—on your collarbone. You don’t even change clothes. You just fall face-first into your bed and let the haze swallow you whole.

The morning hits like a truck. You wake up with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth and your thoughts screaming. What did I do? Your brain floods with flashes: the kiss in the closet. The way he’d looked at you in the bathroom mirror. His laugh, low and cocky. The stretch of his hand around your thigh. His voice against your neck—

You sit up way too fast and groan. Okay. Okay. Think. Was it just the alcohol? A one-time thing? He is a flirt. He does sleep around. But he didn’t flirt with anyone else that night. And he didn’t go into the closet with anyone else. And he kissed you like he meant it. You press your hands to your face. You don’t even know what you want. Do you want it to have been a one-time thing? Or are you hoping he’ll bring it up again? Are you hoping he’ll come knock on your door right now? You stare at your bedroom door. It’s way too quiet outside. No Seiko, no Satoru. You check the time—past noon. They’re probably both still dead asleep. But what if he’s not? What if he’s in the kitchen? What if you walk out there and it’s awkward as hell and he doesn’t even look at you the same? Your heart starts pounding. You’re suddenly, intensely aware that you’re still wearing that damn black skirt. It’s wrinkled and rides up your thighs in your bed like a cruel joke. You pull your blanket over your head and groan. Nope. You’re not going out there. Not yet. Not until you know what the hell to say to the boy who fucked you over a sink last night and then waved at you across the room like he hadn’t just ruined your entire life. You eventually force yourself out of bed. It takes a long, boiling shower, half a bottle of ibuprofen, and several internal pep talks, but you finally open your bedroom door and step into the hallway—blank expression, huge hoodie, and an unholy craving for caffeine.

The apartment is quiet. No Seiko. No Suguru. But you hear faint kitchen sounds—running water, a mug clinking against the counter. Your stomach drops. You turn the corner. Satoru’s there. Leaning over the counter with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, looking very not hungover. His hair is damp—he’s clearly already showered—and he’s in a pair of loose sweats, shirtless, like he doesn’t even know what modesty is. You almost turn around. But he glances up. And you’re already seen. “Oh,” he says, like you’ve bumped into him at the fucking supermarket, not—well. Not after last night. “Morning.”

You blink. “Hey.” He sets his phone down. You make a beeline for the coffee machine, not looking at him. You feel him watching you, though. And not in a last night way. Not in a “you looked so good riding me against the bathroom sink” way. More like… a confused “are we just pretending that never happened?” kind of way. You clear your throat. “You sleep okay?” He pauses a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says finally. “You?” You nod. Pour yourself coffee. “Fine.” Silence. You sip. He sips. The room is so quiet you can hear the tick of the old wall clock. “So…” you say, and instantly regret it. You don’t even know what you were going to follow that up with. There’s no “so.” There’s no normal segue into hey remember when you pushed my panties to the side and said I was making too much noise? You don’t even finish the thought. He scratches the back of his neck. “So,” he echoes with a crooked smile, “that was a party, huh?” You huff out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Yeah. Yeah, it… was.” Silence again. You glance over at him—and he’s looking at you. Not in a teasing way. Not flirty, not smug. Just… like he’s trying to read you. Gauge your reaction. His voice is careful when he says, “I didn’t think we were doing spin the bottle last night.”

“Oh yeah,” you say lightly, hoping your smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “That was a… surprise.” He hums. Sips again. Neither of you brings up the closet. Or the bathroom. You both stand there, drinking bad coffee in your shared silence, pretending like nothing did. And somehow that’s worse. You suddenly can’t stand it—the way your heart keeps jumping every time he shifts, like you’re waiting for him to say something. Clarify something. But he doesn’t. And you don’t. So instead, you mutter, “I’m gonna go back to my room.” He looks at you for half a second too long. Nods. “Yeah. Okay.” You carry your coffee out, heart beating stupidly fast. You shut your door behind you and lean against it like you just escaped something dangerous. Because you did. You escaped the conversation where he might’ve said it was a mistake. But now you don’t know if he wanted to say the opposite, either. And the not-knowing might just kill you first. You hear the shuffle of his feet in the hallway—his bedroom door creaking open, the sigh he lets out when he realizes the apartment is still quiet. But you’re already locked inside your room, sitting in bed in one of your oversized hoodies, a brutal hangover kicking at your temples. You don't even check your phone. You just stare at the ceiling, mouth dry, heart pounding. God. What the hell did you do?

–

By Monday, it’s not just a one-day silence. It turns into a pattern. You start rehearsing escape routes—routes that avoid the kitchen, the couch, his side of campus. You’re back to taking the bus instead of the ride he always used to offer, lying to Seiko with dumb excuses like “I left early” or “I had to drop by the post office.” When he passes you in the hallway of your apartment, you duck into your room before he can speak. He notices. You can feel it.

On Tuesday, you hear the jangle of his keys, the creak of the front door, and his heavy, dragging steps like he’s tired. You hold your breath when his steps pause in front of your door for just a second too long. Then they continue—out to the living room. You exhale only after the TV starts playing. You don’t know why you’re avoiding him so hard. Maybe it’s the embarrassment. The fact that you kissed him first. That you dragged him into the bathroom like a fucking hormonal maniac. That you wanted him. That he let you want him. You replay the way he looked at you in the mirror. The way he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. But maybe that’s just how he kisses. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You feel sick. And then there’s the other thing. The gnawing guilt of knowing this isn’t just some random guy. This is Seiko’s older brother. You practically grew up knowing him, teasing him, getting teased back. She’s known about your stupid little high school crush—but she never knew it’d turn into this. And even though she’d never be mad, a part of you feels like you broke a silent code. Like you crossed something.

So now you smile extra wide when you’re with her. Laugh too loud. Ask too many questions about Suguru, just to keep her focused on anything else. You don’t mention Satoru. You never do. And she doesn’t bring him up either, like maybe she senses something’s off. Satoru, on the other hand? He’s not playing pretend. By Wednesday, he’s straight-up glaring at you in the kitchen. You enter to grab a water bottle and find him already there, shirtless, hair tousled from sleep. He glances up from his mug of coffee, and his jaw tics when you avoid eye contact, grab the bottle, and turn around with barely a “Morning.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t ask what he means. You just shut your bedroom door behind you again and let your back make contact with your bed, heart racing in your ribs. Thursday at campus, he walks straight past you outside the lecture hall, pretending to text. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hi. You’d feel relieved, but instead you feel… a little sick.

By Friday, you start catching him staring. Not the playful stares he used to throw when you were snarking at him on the couch, or the amused glances during group study when you used to roast Seiko. These are different. Sharper. Tight-lipped. Like he’s trying to understand what the fuck your problem is and fighting the urge to demand answers. In the library, he walks in with two friends and pauses when he sees you sitting alone. For a second, your eyes lock. Your heart jumps. You go cold. He raises his brows just a little—like a challenge. Like he’s asking, So this is how it is now?

You immediately lower your gaze to your textbook.

You don’t look up again until you hear him walk away.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You know the creak of every floorboard by now. You time your kitchen runs for when he's in the shower. You fake calls on the walk home if he’s in the distance across campus. You’ve perfected the art of silence—of vanishing just before your name could leave his mouth.

You’re not proud of it. But you're not ready to talk either. Every time you see him—or almost see him—your stomach knots. It’s not just the fact that you had sex with your best friend’s older brother. It’s the fact that it meant something. At least to you. And now you don’t know if it did to him.

You don’t know what he thinks. You don’t know if he regrets it. You don’t know if he wants to do it again or pretend it never happened. You don’t know anything, and not knowing feels safer than asking. You avoid the kitchen unless Seiko’s there. You don’t ride in Suguru’s car anymore. You take the campus loop bus—even if it’s late, even if it’s raining, even if the seats are soaked and the heater doesn’t work. At least it keeps you away from him.

Every day, you pretend like you're fine.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to throw up when I mention Satoru?” Seiko teases lightly one afternoon when you’re curled up on the couch scrolling on your phone. You blink too quickly. “I do not,” you lie. “Yeah, you do,” she laughs, “like, every time. Are you two fighting or something?” You force a smile, heart thumping. “I just find him annoying. You know that.” She shrugs, unconvinced. “Okay, but you used to like him annoying. Now you look like you’re allergic to him.”

By Saturday, the tension is visible. Even Seiko’s starting to pick up on it—on how quiet Satoru’s become, how he doesn’t crack jokes like he used to, how the apartment suddenly feels like it has an emotional landmine buried under the carpet. And he’s not being subtle either. He slams more drawers. Leaves the fridge open longer than needed. One morning, you hear him mutter, “She’s literally acting like I murdered her family,” through the wall after you ducked out of the bathroom the second he walked in.

You curl into yourself. Guilt swarms you. Guilt for sleeping with him. Guilt for liking it. Guilt for making it weird. Guilt for hiding it. Guilt for lying to Seiko. Guilt for how you can’t look either of them in the eye anymore.

And the worst part?

You miss him. You miss the sound of his dumb laugh from the couch. The way he stole your fries off your plate. The smug smirk he gave when he caught you staring. You miss him when he's in the same room, and you miss him when he's not. But you're too afraid to fix it.

Too afraid of what it could become. Or worse—what it won’t.

It’s Sunday evening when it finally happens. You’d just gotten out of the shower, damp hair sticking to your neck, hoodie slipping too far off one shoulder. You’re halfway through towel-drying it in your room when you hear the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging shut and keys being dumped into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.

And your stomach sinks. You know who it is.

You freeze, listening. It’s late—Seiko’s staying at a friend’s dorm tonight, which means it’s just you. And him. In the apartment. Your heart starts to thump like a speaker at a frat house—deep, rhythmic, inescapable. You think maybe if you stay quiet, if you keep your lights off, if you just wait it out, he’ll go straight to his room.

But then—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp, deliberate knocks against your door. Not frantic. Not tentative. Just controlled. Frustrated. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Open the door,” he says through it. Calm. But not neutral. There’s heat simmering just beneath it. You don’t move. Another knock.

“I know you’re in there.”

A pause.

“And I know you’re avoiding me.”

You grit your teeth, lips parting. For a second, you contemplate telling him to fuck off. But you can’t bring yourself to say it—not when your whole body still remembers his touch, his voice in your ear, the way he’d held your hips like he couldn’t get enough of you. “I’m not,” you lie weakly, and it sounds like you’re underwater. A dry laugh.

“Right. You’re not.”

You stand frozen for a moment longer before your body acts for you. Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, turning it slowly until the latch clicks. You pull it open just enough to see him—his hoodie slung low over his head, eyes darker than usual, like the week of silence has worn down even his confidence. There’s a long silence. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“Look, I—I don’t think we should talk about it, okay?” you mumble, eyes flicking away. “It was a party. We were drunk. It happened. Let’s just… not make it a big deal.”

His jaw flexes.

“You think I’m making it a big deal?”

You flinch. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, his voice dipping lower. “You’re the one pretending it didn’t happen. You’re the one who’s been acting like I don’t fucking exist.”

You glance back toward the darkened hallway, heart pounding.

“I’ve just been busy, Satoru.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice is low but harsh now, the syllables snapping through the space between you.

“I text you, you leave me to read. You see me on campus, and you bolt like I’m some fucking stalker. You won’t even look at me. What the hell did I do that was so wrong?”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s not—it’s not about what you did,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.

“I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know what that was, okay? I don’t know what it meant.”

His eyes narrow. “Why does it have to mean something?”

You blink. “Because it does.”

The words come out louder than you meant.

And then it’s quiet. Heavy.

You suddenly feel very, very tired.

“I just…” You swallow. “It’s hard. You’re Seiko’s brother. And you’re you. You’re, like, Satoru fucking Gojo. And I’m just—me. And I don’t want to be some… joke you tell your frat friends later.”

His face tightens.

“Is that what you think this is?”

You flinch. He takes a step forward.

“You think I’d fuck you in a bathroom at a party and then just go brag about it to Suguru or some shit?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, voice cracking. “I don’t know what the fuck to think!”

You feel it bubbling up now—hot, sharp, impossible to contain. A week’s worth of bottled-up emotion, self-doubt, mortification, and frustration bleeding into your voice.

“I’ve liked you since I was seventeen and you used to sneak Red Bulls during our tutoring breaks at your guys’ house—I didn’t even like Red Bull, by the way—and now we’re living in the same fucking apartment, and you’ve seen me in my pajamas and kissed me like you were starving for it and then we had sex, and then I had to wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t make my whole world tilt sideways!”

Your breath comes out shaky, chest heaving now.

“And you—God,” you choke out, eyes stinging, “you said nothing the next morning. Not even, like, a normal-person ‘are you okay’ or ‘hey, about last night.’ No. You made some dumbass joke about not knowing they’d have spin the bottle at the party—like that was the most significant thing that happened!”

You throw your hands up, exasperated and hurt all over again.

“And I just stood there like an idiot, laughing it off, because I didn’t know if it was casual for you or if I meant nothing, and meanwhile I spent the whole week overanalyzing every single second while you probably just carried on like it was any other night!” Satoru is silent. Frozen. Jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on you like he can’t believe you’ve been holding all of this inside. That you’ve been carrying it around like this pain belonged only to you.

“I felt like a fucking joke, Satoru,” you say quieter now, voice trembling. “And I didn’t know if I was allowed to be hurt. I didn’t know if I was overreacting. So I did the only thing I could do—I avoided you. Because if I didn’t, I think I would’ve cried or worse—told you I still wanted you, even if you didn’t feel the same.” The air between you two is thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. He takes a slow step forward, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse—real. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say,” he admits. “I woke up and I panicked. I thought if I made it casual, you’d feel like you had an easy out. Like it wouldn’t be weird for you.” You look up at him, throat tight. “Yeah?” you say bitterly. “Well, it was.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I know. And I’m sorry.” A pause. You don’t move. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds quietly. “I was trying to be cool about it, and I ended up being a complete fucking idiot.” You say nothing. He sighs.

“I should’ve just said I liked kissing you,” he says simply. “Because I did. I liked it too much, and it freaked me out.” You blink hard. Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He takes another step closer. “You weren’t a one-night thing,” he says, voice low. “You’re not a joke. You never have been.” A breathless silence. Your heart is pounding again—but for a different reason now. “So, we’re good now?,” he asks lightly. You manage a small smile. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes, and then his voice drops again—quiet, careful. “Can we stop pretending it didn’t happen?” You take a breath. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. Your skin feels hot. You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

He smiles—slow, crooked, a little relieved.

“Cool,” he murmurs, stepping past you with a brush of his fingers at your hip. “Now come out and eat. You’ve been emo all week.”

“Don’t call me emo,” you groan.

“Don’t ghost me, then.” You pause in the doorway, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. And despite the pounding in your chest, for the first time in days, something eases in your shoulders.

–

It starts off subtle. A shoulder bump in the kitchen. His fingers brushing yours when he passes the remote. You stealing sips from his drink even though you said you didn’t want one. But over the last few weeks, it’s become undeniable. You and Satoru have gotten so close. Not in the subtle, barely-speaking, ‘are-they-even-on-good-terms’ way you were for that agonizing, slow, emotionally repressed stretch of time—but in the obnoxiously familiar, joyfully flirty, constantly-hovering-near-each-other way that screams something happened, and they’re definitely doing it again. There’s no dramatic sit-down. No DTR talk. But it’s in everything you do. It’s the way he stretches out across the couch just so his legs rest over your lap when Seiko’s watching TV next to you, unfazed. The way you lean into him during group hangouts, like he’s a magnetic pull you don’t even fight anymore. Today, it’s the three of you again—Seiko, you, and Satoru—on a sunny late afternoon, draped across the living room in varying states of half-productivity and snack-crunching. He has his head dangerously close to your thigh on the couch, while he himself is sprawled across on it, flipping through something on his phone, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. You’re seated with your legs crossed, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to smile every time his ivory hair glints in the afternoon sunlight.

Seiko’s half-watching a show but keeps glancing, suspicious.

“Okay,” she says suddenly, pointing her spoon at the both of you, “I swear to God you two were being emo little freaks like two weeks ago.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You literally wouldn’t even look at each other at breakfast, and now you’re basically spooning on the couch like that’s normal.” Satoru doesn’t look up. “I am a very cuddly person,” he says, flipping to the next Instagram story. You nudge him in the side with your foot. “He is not,” you tell Seiko, grinning. “I was gaslit,” she says. “You both made me think I was imagining the tension.”

“You were,” you and Satoru say at the same time. Then you both glance at each other and immediately start cracking up. “Unbelievable,” Seiko mutters, digging her spoon back into her cereal. “I should’ve known when he voluntarily washed a dish that something was up.” Satoru reaches up and steals a spoonful of cereal straight out of her bowl. “Hey!” she swats at him, “Get your own! Don’t touch my food, you asshole.” The rest of the day is just like that—subtle teasing, casual touches, too-long eye contact that gives everything away. When he gets up to grab snacks, he asks if you want anything with this easy, domestic sort of confidence. When you hand him your phone to look at a meme, his fingers graze yours on purpose. And when you walk back from the kitchen later, he slides over on the couch without a word, making space for you in that casual, of course you’ll sit here next to me kind of way. At one point, you’re both squished together, sharing the same blanket, knees knocking under it—and Seiko just stares.

She mutters, “I’m living in hell.” You and Satoru both just grin.

–

You had the apartment to yourself.

Lectures had moved online because of some water damage in the psych building, so you were living the absolute dream: cozy hoodie, panties, blanket burrito, Modern Family playing at low volume, and a warm mug of tea in your hands. It was gray outside—light drizzle tapping at the windows—and you had zero plans to leave the couch bed you made in your room. That was, until you hear the apartment door slam shut. You freeze. It’s too early for Seiko to be back. And she would’ve yelled something dumb the second she walked in. Which means—

“Yo,” Satoru calls out, voice echoing down the hallway.

Shit.

You panic for half a second, adjusting your blanket like you’ve been caught watching porn instead of a sitcom. “I’m in my room!” you shout back, hoping he takes the hint. He doesn’t. Your door creaks open without hesitation, and you barely sit up before he’s leaning against the frame, one brow cocked, his stupidly gorgeous face framed by the light behind him.

“Seriously?” you groan. “Ever heard of knocking? What if I was changing and I was naked?” He just grins, blue eyes flickering over you—messy hair, oversized hoodie, bare thighs, popcorn-stained blanket and all. “I've already been inside you,” he shrugs casually, stepping in like it’s his room. “What’s the difference, really?” Your mouth drops open. “Satoru—!”He plops down beside you before you can finish, laughing to himself as you bury your face in the blanket in mortified silence. “You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, trying to will away the heat crawling up your neck. He nudges your leg with his knee under the blanket. “So what’re we watching, sweetheart?”

You hesitate, because saying Modern Family out loud just feels embarrassing now. “...Modern Family.” Satoru squints at you, unimpressed. “Again? You’ve seen every episode like twelve times.”

You turn to face him, making a point of shoving popcorn in your mouth like it’ll shut him up. “And? It’s comfort TV. Sue me.” But he doesn’t argue. He just shifts lower, stealing a handful of popcorn and tossing a few pieces into his mouth while kicking his shoes off. You watch him stretch out beside you, long limbs taking up all the space, thigh pressing up against yours under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you. Not until his hand slips under the blanket—just resting on your bare thigh this time, warm and casual, but very much intentional. You shoot him a look. “Seriously?”

“What?” he murmurs, not even glancing over. “It’s cold. You’re warm. Let me live.”

“Your hand is on my skin.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Oh, is that what that is?” You elbow him lightly, but it doesn’t make him move. If anything, he just sinks further into your side, his knuckles brushing slow, lazy circles against your thigh like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which—of course he does. “You’re the worst,” you mutter.

“I’m your worst,” he says, soft and teasing. You swallow. The blanket suddenly feels a little too warm. A long moment passes with the two of you just… lying there. Watching Cam and Mitch bumble through fatherhood while Satoru’s fingers trace delicate lines higher and higher on your leg, never quite crossing the line, but dancing at the edge of it. He’s so casual about it—like this is normal now. Like it’s his right to touch you, to be here, stretched out in your bed and smirking at you like you’re already his. But this time, he leans in and kisses your jaw—soft, slow, and maddeningly smug—you don’t pull away. You’re kind of surprised, you didn’t think he’d just… do that. Your face is still warm from his jaw kiss, but you try—try—to keep your attention on the TV. It’s useless. You can feel him watching you now, feel the soft trail of his fingers inching up your thigh again beneath the blanket. Barely touching. Barely even real. “You’re nervous,” he says quietly, amused. “Don’t like me touching you?” He hums playfully, squeezing your thigh.

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes.

“You are,” he insists, voice dropping. “You’re so twitchy. What, am I distracting?” You glare at him, but he just grins.

“God, you’re annoying.”

He leans closer, chin resting on your shoulder, lips right by your ear. “You didn’t think I was annoying when you were moaning my name in that bathroom.” You freeze, body going still all at once. Then you punch him weakly in the arm, because what the fuck is he even trying to do right now. “That was so unnecessary.”

“Was it?” he hums. “’Cause you sound a little breathless right now.” You hate him. You do. Especially when his hand starts tracing the hem of your oversized hoodie, pushing it up so slowly your brain short-circuits. It’s featherlight, like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Instead, you clutch the blanket tighter as his fingers drag higher up your thigh, brushing over the edge of your underwear like he’s not doing anything at all. “Satoru,” you whisper, a warning—or a plea, you’re not sure. His mouth is back at your ear. “Mm, I love when you say it like that.” Then, casually, he lifts the blanket and looks. You panic. “Hey—!” But he’s smirking now, pupils darker, lips parted a little as he eyes your bare legs, the little black cotton panties with a small lace trim that were not meant for an audience today. “Cute,” he murmurs, like he’s impressed, like you planned this. “Didn’t take you for a lace girl.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary.” you whisper-shout, trying to tug the blanket back down—but he catches your wrist. His other hand slides fully under your hoodie now, across your stomach, warm and flat, and you whimper when his thumb brushes just under the band of your underwear. You shouldn’t let him. You really shouldn’t. But his voice is so low, so goddamn casual, as he says: “Want me to help you relax?” Your breath stutters. He shifts closer, practically between your legs now, his face inches from yours, and that cocky smirk is gone—replaced by something slower. Hungrier. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and your eyes flutter shut because this is so bad, but you don’t want him to stop.

And then—

You feel his fingers press down through the fabric, right against your core. You gasp, one hand flying to his chest like you could push him away—but you don’t. You curl your fingers into his hoodie instead.

“Still watching Modern Family?” he whispers, like it’s a joke, like he’s not circling you over your underwear with unbearable gentleness. “You’re the worst person alive,” you hiss. “Mm, maybe,” he murmurs, lips grazing your cheek. “But I’m making you feel so good right now, aren’t I?” You don’t answer. You can’t—not when he’s pressing a little harder, rubbing small, unhurried circles into your clit above your panties, and watching your face like he wants to memorize it. And then—then—he moves down. You squeak, trying to grab at him, but he pins your hips with both hands and laughs into your stomach, breath hot against your skin as he pulls your underwear to the side.

“Relax,” he says again, and this time it’s softer. “Let me take care of you.” You suck in a breath, the kind that gets trapped in your throat and goes nowhere. He has your thighs spread, his palms anchoring them down to the mattress as he looks at you—really looks at you—with that ravenous kind of amusement. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your hipbone, lips brushing it like an afterthought. “No, I’m not,” you breathe, even though you definitely are. One slow kiss, then another, lower now, until you’re arching just a little, just enough. You try to close your legs, try to pull the hoodie back down, try anything to regain a sliver of control—but his hands just tighten around your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you. “Settle down,” he says again, voice dropped to something filthy.

“God, you're always so wound up. Gonna eat that pussy so good you’ll become nice ‘n easy f’me.” And then you feel him lick a stripe up your inner thigh. Your whole body jolts like it’s been electrocuted.

“Satoru—”

“Shh,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like he’s focused. Like he’s thinking about what he’s going to do to you and not much else. His fingers trail back up, slow, pushing your hoodie higher, letting his knuckles brush your ribs. He mouths at your skin the whole way up—your stomach, your side, your breasts, paying extra attention to your hardened nipples—before dragging himself back down again with that same dizzying patience. "You're not stopping me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over your soaked underwear. “So either you really want me to behave badly or you're just shy about asking.” You cover your face with one hand. “Oh my god.”

He chuckles, dragging his tongue over your inner thigh again. “That’s not a no.” And then he finally—finally—slips your underwear to the side and drags a single, long finger through your folds. You gasp—loudly this time—and his grip on your thigh tightens.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re so wet.”

You can’t respond. You can’t even think. He takes his time, thumb pressing against your clit as his fingers prod at your entrance gently, teasing, but not thrusting them in. And then his mouth replaces his fingers. You cry out—like, actually cry out—as he licks you, slow and indulgent, like he's tasting dessert. One of his hands stays on your thigh, firm and possessive, and the other slips up to squeeze your waist, your breast, anything he can reach. And his mouth—god, his mouth moves in unhurried circles, like he’s savoring it, like he missed this. He drags his tongue up, swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving it a little suck, before dragging his tongue down to circle against your entrance torturously. You’re squirming again. But this time, he lets you. “Yeah,” he murmurs between licks, “that’s more like it. You sound so sweet when you stop pretending you don’t want me.” You bite your knuckle to keep quiet, but he catches your hand and pulls it away. “Let me hear you,” he says, more serious now. “I want you to be loud for me.”And then—he uses his fingers too. He slips one inside, knuckle deep as he pumps it in and out, adding a second one when he hears you whine his name.

“That’s it, baby.”

You writhe, head falling back into the pillows, one arm flung over your eyes as he builds you up with an obscene kind of precision—his tongue, his fingers, the soft praise he keeps murmuring in between. “You’re doing so good for me.” He harshly sucks at your clit again, all while his fingers are pistoning in and out of you, causing you to clamp down. “Feel how hard you’re clenching?” You're dripping. You’re trembling. You're seconds away from falling apart, and he knows it. But he slows down. You whine, hips rocking. “Satoru—”

He pulls back just a little, breath warm against your thigh. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you want.” You blink at him, dazed. "You're literally—inside me—"

He grins. “Still. Say it.” Your face burns, but your voice is desperate now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Satoru,” you choke, “please don’t stop eating me out.” And he doesn’t. He keeps going until you fall apart for him, loud and shaking and so far gone that the only word on your lips is his name. You come, his name falling off your lips like a mantra while he continues licking and slurping until you quite literally yank his head off from between your thighs. And even then—he doesn’t move. He kisses you once, soft and slow, like he’s easing you back into your body. Then again, higher up this time, then again, like he can’t quite stop. Your hoodie is bunched under your arms. Your thighs are limp. Your body’s still trembling—soft and flushed and pliant—when he presses a kiss just below your navel and murmurs, “Told you I’d take care of you.” You barely manage to lift your head. “I hate you.” He grins against your skin. “Liar.” You want to respond. You do. But then he’s kissing his way up, slow and lazy, nudging your hoodie higher until it bunches just above your tits. You whimper into his mouth as he moves up to kiss you again, deeper this time, and while you’re distracted—dazed and gasping—he grabs your thighs and pulls them apart, slotting himself between them like it’s his god-given right. His hands palm at your breasts lazily, grinning when he feels you buck your hips against the bulge in his sweats, canines out on display as he grins down at you. “Satoru,” you breathe, but he just smiles.

“Round two, baby.”

You’re still in your hoodie and panties—just tugged out of place—and he doesn’t bother taking them off. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the band and pushes them aside again like it’s easy, like it’s familiar now. And then he’s grinding down against you, hard and slow, through his sweats, and you moan so loudly he laughs. “You that sensitive already?” he teases, rolling his hips again. “Shit—look at you. Still twitching.”

“Shut up.”

“No,” he purrs, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw. “Not when you’re soaking through your panties like that. You think I’m gonna shut up now?” You try to glare at him. It fails. He grabs your hand, his plush bottom lip between his teeth, white lashes fluttering when you take the hint and squeeze him through his sweats.

“Mmf– Not that I’m pressuring you or anything, but sweets I need you–”

“You are not pressuring me, so please, hurry up before I genuinely explode.”

“Wow, so eager for me. Having my tongue in you wasn’t enough?”

“Just put it in already before I punch you—”

“Fine! But I don’t have condoms on me right now, used the last one up to fuck you on that sink, remember?”

“I don’t care, I’m on birth control anyways—”

Then he’s pushing his sweats down just enough, lining himself up—and you gasp, grabbing his shoulders as he slides in so slowly you think you might cry. He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—still so tight. Like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“Maybe I am.”

He laughs again, shaky and breathless. “Too bad. I’m not going anywhere. Other than this pussy.” He sets a rhythm—slow at first, deep and dragging, rocking into you like he wants to take his time—but the moment your nails dig into his back and your breath hitches, he growls and picks up pace. His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your collarbone, your lips—and all the while he’s muttering filth against your skin:

“You feel that? How good I fill you up?”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all week, huh?”

“Say my name again. C’mon, baby. Say it while I fuck you.” You do. Over and over. At some point, he shifts—sits back on his heels and pulls you with him, dragging your hips into his lap. The new angle makes your vision blur. “Oh my god—Satoru—” “There she is,” he groans, watching where your bodies meet, sweat-slick hair falling over his forehead. “So fucking pretty like this. Gonna come again for me?” You nod helplessly. He just grins and thrusts harder. And when you fall apart a second time—loud and breathless and clinging to him like you’ll never let go—he follows with a broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he shudders and pulses inside you, the warmth seeping from his cock making you shudder. For a long moment, there’s only your breathing. Then, finally, he flops onto the bed beside you, tugs you into his chest, and says, “So… no head?” You groan. He laughs. And somewhere beneath the covers, his hand is already sliding down your thigh again.

“Round three?” he says, hopeful.

You smack him with a pillow.

He still ends up getting round three.

And then round four.

And then round five, until you both are so exhausted and sweaty that he almost falls asleep instead of getting up to wipe the copious amounts of him trickling out onto your thighs. Once you’re cleaned up, he flops next to you dramatically, limbs sprawled across the bed like a starfish, chest rising and falling. “I’m the love of your life,” he murmurs, trailing a lazy hand across your stomach. “You just don’t wanna admit it yet.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not filing a restraining order first thing tomorrow.” He fake gasps, curling into you like you mortally wounded him. “You’re evil.”

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. “And you’re much more evil than me.”

“And yet.” He kisses your shoulder. “You let me hit five rounds.” You shove him again, but it’s gentle this time. Less of a shove, more of a pat. He takes it as an invitation to climb on top of you, settling there like a smug human blanket. “You’re heavy,” you complain, breath catching when his nose brushes yours. “You’re soft,” he says, grinning. You smack his arm again, and he laughs like this is the happiest he’s ever been—like lying half-naked on you, sweaty and spent, is the best part of his day.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, quieter now, eyes still a little mischievous but softer at the edges. “I meant it, y’know. Earlier.”

“Meant what?”

“That I wanna take care of you.”

Your breath hitches. He kisses your forehead like he’s sealing a promise. “Not just when I’m being disgusting.” You look up at him—this boy with starlight in his eyes and trouble in his grin—and your chest does a weird little flip. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he echoes, and grins so wide it hurts. “But just to clarify, I am still gonna be disgusting.” He’s tracing shapes on your back with lazy fingers. Random squiggles, probably. Or maybe dicks. It’s Satoru—you can never be sure. But then he pauses. And says, softly, “I’m serious though.”

You blink against his skin. “About being disgusting? Yeah, we all know.” He chuckles, but it’s a breath short of his usual dramatics. “No,” he says, thumb brushing the curve of your waist. “About you. About this.” Your heart stutters, because the air suddenly shifts—goes tender and quiet and a little fragile. You pull back just enough to see his face. He’s looking at you. Not in the way he usually does—like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, or a joke he’s waiting for you to get. He’s just looking. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

“Satoru…”

“I like you,” he says, simple as anything. “Like, actually. Not just because you’re hot and I’ve seen your underwear drawer, totally on accident, I came to drop your take out in your room—although, bonus.”

You huff a laugh. “Wow. You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m being vulnerable, asshole.” You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Sorry. Continue.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you, messy hair falling into his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he says, voice lower now. “Didn’t think I’d end up catching feelings for my little sister’s best friend who constantly calls me a freak.”

“You are a freak,” you murmur.

“Right, but now I’m your freak.” You stare at him.

“Satoru.”

He snorts. “Okay, fair. But I’ve been gone for three years, and then I come back and suddenly you’re all grown up and hot and stomping around the apartment like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning. “And then,” he continues, brushing his fingers along your cheek, “we actually start talking again and you’re smart and annoying and make me laugh, and you’re just so perfect… Like, I genuinely cannot express it in words, and I was stupid to think that you were like a sister to me. Because you're really not. You're so, so far from that assumption of mine that I wanna write it out in an essay just to prove to you how badly I want you in the most romantic way possible and in the least sisterly way possible.” You blink. He looks down, lips twitching faintly. “And now I’m totally fucked, because I don’t not want you anymore. I just want this. You. Always.”

You swallow, heart in your throat. “You mean that?”

“Dead serious.” He grins, but it’s gentler now. “Unless you’re about to reject me, in which case I was absolutely joking and this never happened.” You laugh, a real one this time, and you kiss him before he can keep talking—soft and lingering, your fingers curling in his hair. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes. “Okay,” you whisper. “You win. I like you too. A lot. But for clarification I always liked you in a very non brotherly way.” He raises an eyebrow. “So… you’re saying I’m your freak now?” You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Regret.”

But his arms are already around you, holding you tight. “Too late,” he murmurs into your hair, smiling like he just got everything he’s ever wanted. “You’re stuck with me.” You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep, dickhead.”

“I will,” he says, pulling the blanket down to kiss you. “Right after I cuddle the love of my life.”

“Gross.”

“You like me.”

“I do not.”

“You let me do unspeakable things to you thirty minutes ago.”

“…Shut up.”

“Love of my liiiiiife.”

“Seiko’s gonna murder me.”

“She’ll have to kill me first.” You roll your eyes, but when he finally lays down properly, arm slung around your waist, legs tangled with yours, you realize you're smiling again. Like an idiot. A very, very satisfied idiot.

You wake up the next morning, tangled in Satoru’s arms and covered in way too many bite marks to explain away, when—

“HEY—have you seen Satoru—”

The door bursts open. You jolt upright. Seiko stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her mouth dropping open in real-time. You barely get out a squeaky “Wait—!” before—

“OH MY GOD!” She SCREAMS, turns on her heel, and is sprinting down the hallway. You immediately start panicking. “Satoru. Satoru. Wake up. She saw—she SAW—oh my god, we’re so done, she’s gonna KILL ME—”

He groans and pulls the blanket back over his head like a child. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, I fucked your sister’s brother! Wait—I am your sister’s—whatever! It’s over! It’s—”

“Relax,” he says, tugging you back down to the bed effortlessly. “C’mere. If I’m going to die today, I want to die cuddling.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums, nosing into your hair. “Good morning, girlfriend.”

“You’re gonna make me throw up.”

“Speaking of,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, “any interest in morning sex? I feel like I didn’t fully appreciate round four last night. Too much of my blood was in my ears.” You slap his chest. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious—”

The door SLAMS open again.

“MY CHILDREN!” Suguru’s voice rings out, loud and unrepentant. “I WIN!”

You both sit up in bed, tangled in sheets, wide-eyed. There stands Suguru, holding up a phone like a camcorder. Seiko is beside him, arms crossed and pouting like you just ruined her birthday.

“Suguru what the fuck—”

“Say hi to the camera!” he beams. “I bet Seiko fifty bucks you two would be together by the start of the month. Thank you for not making me lose money, I really needed this win.”

“SUGURU,” you yell, diving under the blanket like you can hide from your sins. “DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW.”

Seiko flops dramatically onto your bed like it’s her dignity that’s been compromised. “Couldn’t you have waited one more week to bang my brother? You had no self-control?” Satoru is laughing. Fully laughing, his head tipped back like this is the best morning of his life.

“Why are you mad at her?” he asks Seiko. “I’m the one who did all the—”

“NOPE!” Seiko shouts, throwing a pillow at his face. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving with the footage,” Suguru smirks, zooming in. You lunge at him with a second pillow. “SUGURU I SWEAR TO GOD—” Satoru just sighs contentedly, dragging you back into bed. “Honestly? This is better than morning sex.”

“You’re the worst person alive.” He kisses your cheek. “Love you too, sweets.”

–

Dating Gojo Satoru is somehow exactly what you expected and also nothing like it at all.

Because yes—he’s still cocky. Still dramatic. Still flirts with you like it’s a sport and throws your shared laundry onto the fan when he’s bored. But he also brings you coffee before your 9AMs, lets you wear his hoodies even though he grumbles about you “stretching them out with your cute little shoulders,” and texts you things like “missing u like crazy. come home and bully me 😞” when you’re gone for more than three hours. Seiko, naturally, has not let you live. “I literally can’t believe you,” she sighs one morning over brunch, watching you and Gojo bicker over who gets the last pancake like it’s her personal sitcom. “I brought him into this house and you betrayed me by falling for him.” You blink at her innocently. “Technically I was in love with him before I moved in.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“She’s gonna be your sister-in-law one day,” Satoru says with a grin, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “You should be happy.”

“I’m going to be sick,” she deadpans, sipping her coffee. “I don’t know who disgusts me more—you for dating her, or her for dating you.” You and Satoru just exchange a look. Then you make out across the table.

Loudly. Seiko drops her fork.

“I’m leaving the country.”

Later That Week — Somewhere in His Car, 11:42 PM

It’s a warm night. The kind that clings to your skin and makes the windows fog up, even though all you’re doing is eating ice cream in the backseat of Satoru’s ridiculous Lexus like teenagers who just discovered kissing. You're wearing one of his shirts. He’s got his arm lazily around your shoulder, legs stretched out, cone half-melted in his hand. Music hums softly from the speakers—some dreamy indie song he said reminded him of you once.

“I used to wear bras that were too big just because I thought you liked girls with big tits,” you say, out of nowhere.

He chokes.

“What?”

You shrug, licking your spoon. “Yup. Used to stuff socks in them sometimes too. And I tried wearing eyeliner in like… freshman year. I looked like a raccoon. But I was like, ‘he likes girls with winged liner.’ So.”

Gojo is crying. Literal tears are in his eyes as he wheezes, “You wore sock boobs for me?!”

“I was thirteen and stupidly in love with your furby looking ass,” you grumble, face burning. “Nooo,” he says through laughter, clutching his stomach. “No way. You were cosplaying as a B-cup for me??”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I’m honored. I feel chosen.” You roll your eyes, fake sulking. “And you didn’t even notice. Wow.” He wipes his eyes, still smiling like a menace. “Okay but to be fair, I was like… what, seventeen? If I had noticed, it would’ve been a little criminal.”

You groan. “Fine, I guess you’re right.” He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “But I notice everything now.” You narrow your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Did it work?” You nod, slow. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sit in silence for a second, ice cream long forgotten. His thumb grazes the side of your jaw as he looks at you like he already knows every version of you—the teenage one with stuffed bras, the sarcastic college version who screamed at him in group projects, the current one who’s still a little awkward when she’s vulnerable but learning to let him in anyway. “You’re my favorite person,” he says suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And you can’t even pretend to be cool about it.

“God,” you whisper, burying your face in his hoodie. “Don’t make me cry while I’m holding a fudge sundae.” He laughs, pulling you closer, arms wrapping fully around your waist. “No promises,” he mumbles into your hair. “But I’ve got napkins.” You kiss him, soft and unhurried. He tastes like vanilla. The windows fog up a little more. Somewhere in the distance, your phone buzzes. Probably Seiko texting a third reminder that you “better not be defiling her brother in public.” But you ignore it. Because for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Just you, him, and a car that smells like waffle cones and warm cotton and a hundred what-ifs that have all finally, finally become yeses.

–

Bonus cause I’m the world’s best author or whatever

Five Years Later

It’s a warm spring afternoon. The kind of day where the sky’s cloudless, the flowers look fake because they’re so stupidly perfect, and everyone you love is slightly too drunk and happy. You’re in white. Obviously. Satoru’s in a custom tux, sunglasses perched in his snow-white hair like he thinks he’s a celebrity—which, okay, fine, he kind of is, judging by the way your cousin nearly fainted when he winked at her. Your fingers are still linked as you sit at the wedding table, watching the crowd buzz with post-dinner energy. The string lights are glowing. There’s champagne in your glass. He keeps leaning over to kiss your shoulder because he “can’t help himself,” and you keep swatting him away because the photographer is still here, but you’re smiling like a fool.

And then—

“Alright, alright, everyone, shut up—” comes Seiko’s voice from the speakers. You both freeze. Satoru immediately grins. “Oh god.”

“She’s giving her speech,” you whisper, gripping his knee.

“I should be scared,” he whispers back. “She’s your best friend and my sister.”

Up at the mic, Seiko clears her throat. She looks gorgeous, by the way—an elegant dress, her ivory hair so similar to her brothers glinting underneath the lights, champagne in hand, and a very pointed expression on her face. “So,” she says. “Hi. I’m Seiko. I’m the bride’s best friend… and unfortunately, the groom’s younger sister.”

Laughter.

“I just wanna say—when I was little, I always dreamed of giving a speech at my best friend’s wedding. But I definitely didn’t think it would be this one.” More laughter. You bury your face in your hands. “Let me paint a picture,” she continues dramatically, starting to pace the stage like a stand-up comic. “It’s a regular Tuesday morning. I come out of my room, ready to microwave my sad breakfast. I’m on my way to the kitchen, when I suddenly spot my brother’s shoes and think, ‘Huh, why are Satoru’s shoes here, in front of (your name)’s room?’ Because my brother wasn’t supposed to be home. He had told me he was gonna be out with friends until the next morning. And his shoes sure as hell had never been outside my best friend’s room.”

Gojo groans next to you, forehead hitting the table.

“And I think, ‘Oh no. Oh no no no.’ So I walk down the hallway. I open her bedroom door. And what do I see?”

Seiko pauses. The crowd leans in. She lifts her glass. “My brother,” she says, tone flat, “in my best friend’s bed.”

The room erupts.

Satoru’s face is in his hands. You’re laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “I screamed,” Seiko says dramatically, over the noise. “She screamed. He didn’t scream, because the bastard was asleep. And then I lost fifty goddamn dollars to Suguru, who bet me they’d get together before the end of the month.” Camera pans to Suguru in the crowd, smug as hell, arm around Seiko’s waist, raising his glass. “ And now,” Seiko says, grinning, “I’m standing here giving this speech, engaged to the man who profited off their hookup, and forced to admit that... I guess love wins. Or whatever.” Laughter. Cheers. Satoru clutches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Seiko softens. Just a little. “But in all seriousness,” she says, voice a bit shakier now, “you two are it. The real thing. And I’m so happy that my best friend is now officially my sister-in-law—even if I had to walk in on her mid afterglow to get here.”

Groans. Cheers. Chants of “SISTER-IN-LAW! SISTER-IN-LAW!” You’re laughing through tears now, forehead pressed against Gojo’s. “I love you guys,” Seiko finishes, raising her glass high. “Now go make out or whatever. It’s your wedding.” You blow your best friend a kiss, before leaning into your husband, his arm snaking around you to pull you to his chest.

“She really brought up the bed thing,” you mumble against his chest. “She absolutely did,” he murmurs, nose in your hair.

“And the socks in the bra thing didn’t get a shoutout? Unfair.” He laughs, holding you tighter. “Maybe we’ll save that one for the ten-year vow renewal.” You tilt your head up. “Think we’ll make it to ten years?”

He smiles, wide and stupid and glowing. “We’ll make it to forever.”

You kiss him, slow and full of everything. And the lights twinkle above like they’re cheering you on.

authors note: hi everyone! i hope u liked it LOL i sacrificed my sleep for this i hope it was worth it! i can finally prepare for my exams without the looming anxiety of posting this ^.^

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coffee-and-geto · 9 months ago

Text

HAVE YOU SEEN MY PANTIES?

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

summary: in a lazy, hot summer afternoon, it’s your boyfriend’s turn to do the laundry. but why doesn’t he respond when you’re asking where’s your panties?

warnings: +18, smut, nsfw, gojo is your boyfriend, needy! gojo, cute! gojo, fluff, nipple play, panties sniffling, masturbation (m), oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, sex (p in v), also based on a @/yunonoai’s comic!

wc: 2,128

“Babe, can you do the laundry? I have a call.”

“Sure,” Satoru replies, standing up from the couch where he was lazily lying down, chilling out in front of some tiktoks.

He steps towards the bathroom, the laundry hamper waiting for him to be emptied and washed. With a resigning sigh, he looks down at the heap of dirty clothes. One of them overhangs them all: your favorite panties — the one he bought you last month.

The lace surrounds with finesse the satin fabric of your favorite color.

So how can he not be hard at the only sight that reminds him how long you both haven’t had sex?

Fuck.

His breathing becomes heavier, each inhaling being a trial to not pay attention to the prominent bulge swelling down his gray jogging pants. Of course, the memory of your whimpers will always be like music to his ears, the fwap sounds of his cock buried deep, so deep, inside of your wet pussy, and his balls, so much filled with his cum and tightening when he's about to climax, slapping against your ass at each pound into you.

He is grouching now, at the edge of whining in need of your full attention — but of course, you needed to have a call at this very moment.

His hand twitches to his crotch, palming his already hard erection through the soft fabric of his pants, electricing at quiet moans, Satoru’s beautiful face wincing in pleasure. He swallows thick, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and gives in. With messy movements, he lifts up his black shirt to grab the hem at his watering mouth and muffle his cute sounds between his clenched teeth and jaw. The fresh air blow at his hard abs, making him tensing his belly with scorching skin.

His big, calloused hand fiddles with his erection, so ready to free himself from the torturous sensation of your pretty panties, which he holds between his fingers and brings to his nose to inhale your scent, which makes him like a little puppy for you. Satoru utters a desperate whimper and finally buries his hand under his clothes to release his quivering cock.

It’s much bigger than usual, beads of precum glistening on the angry red tip, and veins sinuating the flesh. Of course, it’s perfect. That’s why it will never seem strange to anyone to see him stroke himself. He lazily fucks his tight fist, picturing your sweet pussy as he closes his eyes, beads of sweat leaking from his temples a flush spreads all over his cheeks.

His length girth throbs between his digits, coursing waves of lust through him as Satoru quickens the pace, as the same as his heartbeat. Saliva damps the fabric of his black shirt, and the idea of substituting the hem of his shirt with your panties carries out straight away, increasing his arousal until it’s twitching in a maddened way. With each stroke, the pre spreads along his shaft to allow it to be lubricated, at the point that if you all of a sudden show up in the bathroom, you both can skip the foreplay but damn!

“Toru? Did you see my panties?” Your voice echoes through another room.

But he doesn’t answer anyway.

“Fuck,” he grunts in a quiet whine, “miss you so much, babe.” His balls tighten, following the next moment — and it doesn’t take that much time he expected, because a few seconds after he twists his wrist in an upstroke movement — the exact way you’d do to him — he’s already cumming on the heap of laundry, dirtying them even more they already were, puddles of a viscous liquid, spreading out in droplets as the orgasmic peak subsides.

Panting heavily, he doesn’t hear you burst into the bathroom as you exclaim, “Satoru? You serious? Look at the state of the laundry now!”

With a swift gesture, he removes your panties from his mouth and turns his head suddenly towards you. He’s unable to justify himself and simply watches your disapproving pout ruffle your pretty lips. “Sorry babe, I'll clean it up.” He also notes how your mere presence makes him hard immediately despite having softened a moment earlier with the moment of “relief” he wished to provide for himself.

“Where are my panties?” you ask a second time as you rummage, eyebrows furrowed, through the basket of dirty laundry.

Satoru rubs the back of your neck nervously and hesitates to hide your underwear in his palm. “Uh... here,” he murmurs softly, slightly discomfited as you pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation.

“You’re that much needy?”

Satoru looks down, a little boyish pout on his lips that breaks your heart. “Sorry...”

Your frown softens. “Oh, um— No, Toru, please don’t gimme that look,” you whisper, walking over to him, your hands instinctively cupping his cheeks to make him look down at you. “I’m sorry, my love. You need to tell me when you need me, okay?”

Satoru nods slowly, still guiltily pouting. “Can I have you? Please? Just one round, I swear I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs.

His request makes your lips curl up. “My boy does want me? You’re cute, almost begging like this.” You graze a kiss on his cheek. “Get on your knees.”

“Like that?” His knees make contact with the floor, his cock still outside his dangling jogging suit. He so fucking cute, listening to you so obediently.

“Good boy,” you coo, sliding pants down your thighs. Your black panties hug the swell of your hips, your intoxicating scent spreading toward Satoru’s nostrils.

He moves towards you using his knees to grip your hips and sniff your scent once more. The action makes you giggle so much that it makes you suck in a breath when he pulls down your underwear to kiss your groin. “Love you,” he whispers. “I want to taste you, please.”

“Satoru, just wait I—” But he cuts you off, darting out his tongue to lick a strip enough to feel your bundle of nerves. A moan escapes your lips, driving your breath as crazy as he’s doing with his skillful mouth.

“You’re dripping,” Satoru comments, kissing your lower lips swiftly before grabbing you by the thighs and lifting you up, dropping you off the washing machine. “Spread your legs,” he mumbled, all needy and flushed to eat you out.

And how long he hadn’t—

It’s like he’s drunk on you, ignoring your moans and whimpers as he rests his cheeks on your inner thigh to wrap his wrist around your thighs. His fingertips dig into the flesh of your thighs, trapping you firmly. “Keep ‘em spread, baby,” he purrs, lapping your soaked core and sensitive, puffy clit. “It tastes s’good, I’ve missed you.”

His dick twitches and throbs afterward, your sweet sounds re-hardening him and making him more swollen than he was even after the few rubs he did to relieve himself.

“Hmm, ah, Satoru, you—” you trail off, throwing back your head against the wall, your hands grabbing the washing machine’s edge until your knuckles turn white. “I’ll be close, I—” you babble, and the realization of how much not having sex with him for so long is turning you into a virgin-like. And also, the clenching feeling of your pussy, lips parting and closing around nothing hits you so hard.

You need to cum on his cock.

“Satoru, stop,” you gasp, your fingers snaking gently through his white lock and tugging them carefully.

He stops the moment after your whine reaches his ears — a sound ringing like music to his ear. “But… I haven’t made you come yet,” he murmurs, rubbing your clit slowly with his forefinger and middle finger. His cute pout is now begging you to give him grace.

“I want to cum on your dick,” you clarify, leaning in, your lips pressing down a gentle, loving kiss on this beautiful forehead of him.

“You sure? I haven’t stretched you beforehand.” He rises from his former crouching position and holds his sensitive length closer to your core.

“I don’t mind, I just want you right now,” you blow out, kissing his free hand.

Satoru blushes — and oh, how can anyone fall in love with this cute little face you want to madly shower with cuddles and kisses? “Can we put it in while I kiss you?” he requests, bringing his lips closer to yours.

You let out a little laugh, pressing a first kiss on his lips. “You’re so cute.”

But something makes your eyes drop lower, and you feel it. Satoru’s hand holds his shaft enough well to tap the tip and the length below on your core, teasing your squelching cunt.

“C’mon, don’t tease me, I want you n— Ah!” He shuts you down by crashing his lips on yours and sliding himself easily in you, stretching you impossibly wide. “S-Satoru, you’re bigger than usual,” you whimper.

Your hands grab his broad shoulder, nails sinking in his compressed black shirt, lips moving on their own to taste yourself on his wet lips. His tender tongue asks to enter you, and you allow him, soft strokes on each other’s tongue.

Satoru moans in the melting kiss, waiting for you to adjust, and starts gentle back and forth hips moves, hissing through his teeth by the sweet, delicious tightness of yours. “You feel so good,” he squeals between kisses. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You gasp, swallowing hard because of the different paces your brain can’t focus on — stolen kisses and perfect pounds into you. It’s so deep, so mastered, that it’s driving you mad and making you see stars.

Breaking the kiss, Satoru wraps his muscled arms around your back and encircles you flush against him, your heartbeat matching with his, and your fingernails slide down his back as you almost lose strength and balance every time his tip brushes against your cervix, etching red scratch marks for sure on his back as soon as he will remove his shirt.

With another buck before pulling out fully, he slides back in and manages to reach your deepest point, making your back arch and cry out. “Satoru, please, I’m so close,” you whine, wincing because of his hips rocking in you faster and harder.

The washing machine sways to the same rhythm, threatening to give way under your weight. Your heavy, ragged breaths fill the air in a kind of steam room. Blood beats at your ears, your gummy walls clenching around his long, big dick without ceasing and have mercy for you.

But as if that wasn’t enough, Satoru slides your top off with a swift movement of his hand to free one of your breasts and taste the nipple. He sucks hard, tongue pulling and swirling at the nub like no other. The action makes you roll your eyes, the overstimulation engulfing you like a wave would.

He then uses his head to tease your nipple with a gentle tug, his cerulean-blue eyes captivated by your curve. You squeal, your walls swallowing up his thrusts inside you, tightening more and more until he gives in and takes you back into his arms, but this time with a hand under your thigh to lift it up and enable him to reach an even more precise and deep angle, making you scream out his name.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Satoru warns you, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and his jaw tense from clenching. “Please, where—”

“Inside me, Satoru,” you whimper in the hollow of his neck, closing your eyes before the following ride crashes the two of you.

Pussy clenching around his length, you squirt on him with a small cry, and Satoru does likewise, twitching as he grunts and his hips jerk to reach your womb and fill you up with his cum.

Muscles trembling from the aftermath, you pant against him, as weak as after an intense workout. “I’ve missed you so much,” Satoru whispers in your ear, in the same state as you. His large, quaking hands stroke your hair, soothing you.

White strings escape from your full, swollen-lipped pussy, the sound of trickling filling the silence of the room.

“I promise I’ll do the laundry, but please, can we have cuddles?” Satoru demands, blinking down at you with puppy-dog eyes.

You rest your cheek on his shoulder and nod, a smile stretching your lips, as you reach out to stroke his cheek.

“Of course, my baby.”

DING DONG.

The ringing of the front door echoes in your ears and a memory pops into your head, slapping you in the face.

“Wasn’t Suguru supposed to come to borrow the washing machine here because his is broken?”

Satoru froze, flickering his eyes. “Huh?”

a/n: feelin to write something cute and smutty haha! i think writing things easy like this is unwinding me.

see how he’s so cute? 🥹 pls God give me one…

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422 @whathappenedtobees @drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t

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chososcutie · 3 months ago

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could you write something where fem!reader is a horny lil pup please 🙏

#HE WANT A BREAK, I’VE BEEN RIDIN’ HIS FACE SIX HOURS!

synopsis: the jjk men as hybrids.

featuring: gojo, toji, nanami, sukuna, & geto

tags: oral (fem!recieving), unprotected sex, big dicks, overstimulation, spitting, degrading, dry humping, riding, premature ejaculation, squirting, dacryphilia, praise, dirty talk, dumbification

a/n: hiii luv, thank you for the req!! this inspired me, and you didn't specify which jjk man you wanted, so i decided to experiment with all of them and how they'd deal with a horny puppy hybrid gf!! hope u like!!

SATORU GOJO ── SNOW LEOPARD

leopard!satoru who whenever you're feeling hot n' heavy, is grinning impishly, unable to help teasing you as he manspreads, his thick muscly thighs bunching while his tail flicks languorously back and forth, watching with slitted eyes how your mouth waters, scenting out your dripping cunt easily.

"what's wrong baby?" he'll innocently tilt his head, noticing your frustration as he eyes the way your thighs rub together desperately, licking his lips in anticipation for your next move.

"i... i need you 'toru." you breathe out, puppy eyes wide and desperate, your panting turning fervent.

leopard!satoru who knows what's coming by the way your little tail is wagging eagerly and the smell of your arousal only grows thicker, straddling his big lap in one graceful movement.

you gaze up at him, rounded doe eyes locked on his as you coax him through it, freeing his pretty cock from his pants, and beginning to bounce on him, riding with a feral need as you cover his face in puppy licks.

he'll whine and whimper shamelessly, throwing his head back as your hips never falter, pleasure thrumming through him and tipping him closer n' closer to the edge.

leopard!satoru who cries when he cums, small hiccuping sobs with tears streaming down his face, you eagerly lapping them up while hushing and praising him for "being such a good boy".

his veiny girth will only seem to swell at your words, growing bigger n' thicker inside you, and prodding all your sensitive spots easily, your high quickly approaching as you arch your back and moan loudly at the obscene, squelching between your legs, and how dirty it all feels.

in fact, when you go into your puppy heat, it's almost impossible to get you to stop once you've become intimate, your libido heightened and pussy always pulsing and needy for more, so as a result, you and satoru always end up going at it for hours on end.

leopard!satoru who you're on the verge of overstimulating, big glassy tears pricking in his azure eyes while being on his umpteenth orgasm.

"b-baby.. hah.. s-slow down, y'er so eager, fuck!"

underneath you, your powerful hybrid with his rippling spotted coat and lashing tail was rendered nothing but a whining squirmy mess, his jaw slacken with pools 'n pools of hot drool pouring out as his sharp fangs gleam, ears perked up and whiskers twitching to signify his oncoming orgasm.

leopard!satoru whose ears are incredibly sensitive, and as you tug on them, stroking the fur softly, can only whimper before he's cumming, and cumming hard, gushing sticky white ribbons n' ribbons of cum deep into your stomach, filling you endlessly while his big chest heaves up and down, purring in content.

TOJI FUSHIGURO ── WOLF

wolf!toji who is so big and buff, with his broad chest and rippling pectorals, that when you're ovulating on your puppy cycle, you truly cannot resist him, clambering and pressing yourself against him with small whines.

"now now, pup.." his deep, baritone rumble sounds as his big palms roughly cup your tits, causing you to mewl with need. "what's the magic word?"

“pleasee..” you beg, shuddering as he begins to lay you down, sharp claws digging into your wrists as you writhe eagerly, trying to push your desperate hips upward.

he growls at your squirming, leaning forward to bite at your neck, before laving his thick, wet tongue over the mark, fluffy cheek tickling you.

and finally, you feel his girthy cock, veins thumping erratically and thickened, smearing tip tapping on your entrance, his smug smirk plastered to his face as he observes how your eyes roll back at the simple gesture.

“open.” he demands, and you obey, watching as he leans over you, letting a warm glob of spit drop into your mouth, and distracting you as in one motion, he buries himself inside you to the hilt.

you squeal, and he clamps a hand over your mouth, shushing you while beginning to rock his hips back n’ forth and back n’ forth.

his hips are absolutely killer, as he brutally plows into you, marking every inch of you as his, your hands desperately digging into anything you can reach while he has your ankles up to your ears, folding you in such a nasty mating press.

his reddened mushroomy tip repeatedly bumps your g-spot, coiling your stomach tighter and tighter until you’re panting as the smack! of his hips into skin echoes.

in fact, his monstrous wolf hybrid cock is so big, so swollen, that with every harsh thrust, it gives you a stomach bulge, the obscene outline of his veiny shaft and feel of his hefty balls slapping your ass making you cum, screaming his name as you cream all over his cock.

he only relents after he’s ravished you in every position, and made you cum on his fingers, his mouth, and most importantly, his cock, satiating your little puppy needs.. for now.

KENTO NANAMI ── BEAR

bear!nanami can smell when you're going into a heat, so he practically knows it before you do.

"awh, is m'pretty girl horny?" he'll coo, laying you down on your back while his big fuzzy snout comes to sniff curiously between your legs, tickling you as you squeal.

he noses apart your thighs, big beefy arms holding you pinned in place to the bed as he slooowly starts to lap his wet, long muscle against the dampness of your panties, small round ears twitching with excitement at the small moans you let out.

bear!nanami is hefty and a bit chubby with a soft belly but still very muscular. when he lays on top of you, you can barely breathe but instead of fear overtaking you, you seem to like it, snuggling up as close as possible to your warm hybrid and licking anywhere you can reach in gratitude.

but now, it was his turn to make you nice and cozy, and satisfy the aching need you felt when you were on your cycle.

"lemme taste you.." he mumbles, squishing your knees up to your plump breasts as he pulls your panties to the side, drooling strings of arousal connecting you together, and fully buries his face deep into your weeping cunt.

you yelp, tail thrashing behind you but no match for bear!nanami's pure size as he determinedly holds you down while eating you out, hot slithery tongue lapping your honeyed juices while the tip of his wet, black nose presses on your clit, stimulating you even more.

huskily, he groans between your thighs pressing his face impossibly deeper as he makes out with your slobbering pussy, gathering every dewy slickened slosh! of essence pouring out with grateful little sighs and mwahs! of his sticky lips against your entrance.

"ken' m’so.. hah.. close.." you keen lowly, whimpering as the coil in your tummy grows tighter n' tighter, threatening to snap with every breath.

"i know, puppy.." he whispers, not stopping in his slurping as one big paw comes to splay out against your tummy. “just hold on f’me for a lil’ bit longer..”

you whimper, your legs closing tight around his head as you shudder, moving your hips until you’re practically dragging your cunt across his face, smearing translucent slick all over him.

bear!nanami who is tracing circles on you with his tongue, licking every drop of your candied essence until you’re whining to cum, begging in a small voice; “ken.. hah.. please please please!”

bear!nanami who murmurs out a “cum baby. allll on my tongue, cum for me,” before adding a single chubbed finger to your greedy pussy, curling deep inside your gummy walls.

and oh, you do, babbling his name like a prayer as your orgasm races through you all at once, soaking his lower chin in your glossy sheen, his resounding groan of approval rumbling through you.

bear!nanami loooves when you're in heat, because it means you'll go for round after round, and he can lap at your little pussy, making you cum for hours.

RYŌMEN SUKUNA ── TIGER

tiger!sukuna is instantly able to tell when you're in a rut, because of the way you're always on top of him pressing your puppy face into his chest and whimpering as you hump his plush belly, while snaking a hand downward to feel his chubbed cock, stroking at it with no particular rhyme or reason.

"tch pup, so pathetic." he'll rumble at you, but still allowing you to continue your desperate attempts to get the two of you off, soft little growls leaving him as your hand tightens or your finger presses particularly hard on his leaking slit, oozing pools of pearlescent precum all down your wrist.

you whine, grinding harder as the heat in your belly increases, slickness pooling in your panties with every passing second.

but just when you're about to relieve your poor, needy pussy, he stops you, pushing you backward roughly while pinning your wrists high above your head.

you protest, yelping softly as you wriggle in his grip, but he simply leers over you, sharp canines glinting as he settles against you.

"aww, calm down you'll get to cum little puppy." he sneers, watching you gulp as he finally frees his massive cock, twitching between his legs, reddish divot smearing gooey white across his striped tummy.

"just lemme have my fun first.."

tiger!sukuna who will spare you no mercy, hips thwacking! into you ferociously while his slacken maw hangs open, spit dribbling into your awaiting mouth.

his cock is heavy between your legs, and hits deep into your walls, bruising your cervix and french kissing your g-spot with every punctuated thrust.

his tail will wrap around you tightly, keeping you in place for him while he repeatedly rams into you, thickened mushroomy head bumping so hard it has you seeing stars, while drool, tears, and cum pool underneath your limp body, as he coaxes you from one orgasm to the next, never faltering as he fills you to the brim with endless spurts of milky white seed, until your tummy is sloshing with it.

tiger!sukuna who when he cums, cums hard and cums long. his orgasms seem to stretch on for minutes, each gushing so much, it overspills out of your poor, stuffed cunt while he curses low, rocking his hips steadily as he rides it out, creamy white pouring out of you as you cling to him with soft whimpers.

he's so rough with you in bed, but you know he'll take care of you later, gently cleaning you up with his tongue before tucking you in cozily to his chest and purring soundly.

SUGURU GETO ── PANTHER

it's a well known fact that panthers have an excellent sense of smell.

and panther!geto, sprawled out and watching you with slitted eyes as his tail flicks back n' forth lazily was no different, keenly aware as your cheeks flush with heat, thighs rubbing together for more friction when you glance over at him every so often.

finally he rumbles out a sultry, "something on your mind, darl'?"

you turn to him, swallowing thickly, sweltering and feverish. "i-i don't know, i feel hot all over an'.."

your breath is short and ragged, and the look you give him is one of pure carnal need.

he smirks slyly in response, flicking his tail over his spread legs, bulge printed clearly through his sweatpants to beckon you closer.

you're panting at this point, unsure how much more teasing you can take, but before you get any closer, he lunges for you, pinning you down with his tail wrapped tightly around your upper thigh, the fur just barely brushing your core.

"legs up." his words are a slow purr, and he watches with amusement as you obey instantly, gasping fervently as you urge him closer to you, pawing at his thick cock.

he simply laughs as you pull out his enormous throbbing member, the tip a darkish red hue and so big you can hardly fit your hand around it.

"want me to fuck you? yeah?" he encourages as he watches your eager head nodding along. "hard and fast? heh.. such a slut."

true to his word however, he pushes your legs up high, slotting himself in between, heavy length resting against your thigh.

he gives himself a few strokes, luscious black hair hanging over your head as you watch impatiently, already trying to squirm and align your hips with his.

"alright, ready?" he exhales while starting to push in slowly, thick inches stretching your tight pussy, even as your walls clamp and suck him in for more.

hiking your legs up higher with his big hands, they're practically by your ears as he starts to mount you, rolling his hips in n' out with precision.

"mmph.. so tighttt baby, you're killing me." he groans when you tug on his hair softly; his sensitive scalp has always been his weakness, and as a result, his thrusts grow sharper, deeper, hitting directly into your cushy sweet spot.

you cry out and moan, nails digging in sharply to his back as he huffs curses into your ear, angling himself juust right to push up against your cervix, rough palm coming down to smack! on your sensitive, puffy clit.

you squeal, and he bites down on your tender, floppy puppy ears, your stomach growing taut, and your release so close you can practically taste it.

"don't cum yet, doll, not 'till i tell you.." he hoarsely moans out, skin meeting skin with echoing thwacks!

you quickly whine in protest, wriggling your hips as you try to hold off and obey him like a good puppy, but knowing with a few more seconds, you weren't going to be able to stop yourself from coming undone.

urgently, you jerk and twist, trying to push him off, but he simply chuckles, thinking you're playing rough.

"stop moving, and take this fucking cock, baby." he whispers out, voice low and breathy as he thrusts his thick inches in you particularly harshly for emphasis, blunt tip ramming so hard into your sweet spot, you're dazed for a second before you realize you're cumming.

your vision turns white and spotty, and your legs twitch weakly beside you as you squirt, absolutely drenching his abdomen and pelvis in your shimmery slick, saturated and pouring out of you in gushes.

he pauses for a second, taken aback as his eyes survey your quivering form.

"oh? did i say you could cum yet?" he chuckles, the sound low and menacing, and your blood runs cold. "let's see if you're still so eager after ten more.."

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

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tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father.

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close?

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was.

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you.

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.” he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you.

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting.

And oh was it interesting.

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion.

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second.

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was.

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought.

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were.

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh.

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often.

“Ah! Wha- Sato-”

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart.

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards.

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach.

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment.

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son.

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again.

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined.

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop.

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not.

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner.

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again.

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you.

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom.

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat.

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting.

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have.

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and-

Oh. Shit.

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door. Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily.

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously.

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins.

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.”

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing.

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way.

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.”

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb.

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.”

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him.

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full.

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that.

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming.

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again.

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed.

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father.

But that was exactly the problem.

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out.

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself.

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right?

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy.

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice.

Success.

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.”

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n’ wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you.

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck.

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips.

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth.

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission.

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find.

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight.

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away.

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy. Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet.

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.” he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting.

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds.

And then it was like something snapped.

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams.

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue.

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before.

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him.

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it.

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls.

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face.

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him.

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high.

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do.

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip!

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one.

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you.

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed.

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin.

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.”

Shit had you said that out loud?

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you.

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs.

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh.

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need.

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan’ you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now.

Of course, you were not one to be out-done.

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle.

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth.

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet.

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard.

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards.

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips.

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust.

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch.

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in.

“No.”

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.”

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing.

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all.

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you.

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life.

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high.

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you.

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough.

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams.

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven.

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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osaemu · 2 years ago

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GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ YES, I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND, AND YES, SHE'S REAL! ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: what happens when your gamer boyfriend brings you on-screen for the first time?

contents: fem!reader. use of she/her pronouns + reader is referred to as gojo's girlfriend. toji slander bcs he deserves it.

author's note: everyone welcome streamer!gojo to the world! he'll be here for a while...

"oh, please," satoru laughs, leaning back and grinning at the screen in front of him. he tosses his hair, but it falls back into his eyes just seconds later. "no way you guys all thought i would lose that one. c'mon, have some faith in me!"

you watch satoru reply to the hundreds of comments lighting up the side of his monitor, smiling endearingly at the way he laughs at some and practically chortles at others.

it was only after the two of you started dating that satoru disclosed his streaming hobby, and to your surprise, he was pretty popular. thousands of people tuned in to watch him play some game or another every night, and well, it paid better than you'd expect.

satoru whistles, hands resting comfortably behind his head as a particular question catches his attention. "ah, do i have a girlfriend?" he muses, grinning as he shoots a quick side-glance at you. "yeah," he continues, snorting when what looks like a flurry of no fucking way's flood the chat.

he clicks his tongue disappointedly, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "what, did all eight thousand of you think i couldn't pull? thanks a lot," satoru deadpans, waving his hand and sighing dramatically. "i don't know what any of you mean. i'm a catch!"

you snicker at that, and your laughter only increases when satoru turns and gapes at you. he juts his bottom lip out, face sinking into an adorable pout at he crosses his arms. "even my own girlfriend's laughing at me," he mumbles petulantly. "hmph!"

satoru sticks his tongue out at you childishly, and you blow a kiss back. he pretends to faint before turning back to his monitor, quickly skimming the comments before he gasps. "what do you mean, she probably doesn't exist?!" he sputters, clutching his heart exaggeratedly.

the look on his face is priceless — imagine getting told by thousands of people that one, they think you can't pull, and two, that they don't even believe your significant other exists. naturally, satoru reacts as dramatically as ever. he pretends to ignore everyone in the comments before calling them out individually.

"oh, i see you, toji... fishy-guru," satoru gripes, wagging his finger at his screen. "my girlfriend exists and she's mine! don't even think about it." he pauses, squinting at the chat before correcting himself with an eyeroll. "fushiguro. whatever. either way, she's real and she's all mine."

satoru swivels his chair to face you, making an incredulous face as he gestures to the screen. "can you believe this?" he grumbles, ocean-blue eyes focused on you. "these guys don't think you're real."

you shrug, toying with the corner of his sheets as you smile back at satoru. he's so childish, but that's just one of the many things you adore about him. sure, he's an annoying brat, but at least he's a total sweetheart too.

your boyfriend extends his hand, beckoning you to come over to him. "c'mon, darling," he cooes, scrunching up his nose at you. "wanna help me prove these losers wrong?" satoru mouths please, and the puppy eyes he gives you are cute enough to convince you.

so you hop off his bed, running a hand through your hair as you stroll over to where he sits in front of his monitor. beaming like a kid on his birthday, satoru takes your hand and twines his fingers with yours.

smiling smugly, satoru pulls you on screen and into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you watch the chat erupt with she's real's and how did he pull a girl like her's and smile, flicking satoru's forehead affectionately.

he ignores the thousands of dumbstruck users in his comments and holds you close to his chest, adjusting his grip on your waist to make his lap as comfortable as possible for you. satoru's adoring eyes are fixed on you, only you, even as his chat explodes.

suguru-geto: haha i already knew

toji-fushiguro: how the fuck did a loser like him pull her?

yuuji-itadori: gojo has a girlfriend??? what did i miss??

30K notes · View notes

twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 8 months ago

Text

FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3

a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3

”what are you listening to?”

your seat is close to the heater.

it was nothing but a lucky draw, on your part. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks on your first day, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching onto the chair in the very back, right by the window. right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes.

so there you sit. warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs; your feet tap and tap on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, planets out of orbit.

through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones safe and snug and covering your ears, muffling all grating noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.

”… hey. did you hear me?”

gojo is being particularly chatty, today.

out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.

with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. just to meet his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.

”what are you listening to?”

you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper. monotone. loud.

it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.

gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.

with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.

”… do you like music?”

the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.

then he gives you a shrug.

”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”

ah.

your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.

silence overtakes you both, once more.

”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”

(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)

before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats.

on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street.

and then he’s strolling away.

gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.

but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams.

”page 27, from the top.”

your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.

but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.

without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.

nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.

then he’s leaving, again.

that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.

though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.

(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)

the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.

but now you wish you had.

(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)

with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.

”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”

you nod.

geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.

”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”

…

you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.

”… what kind of music does gojo like?”

silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.

then he parts his lips.

”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.

”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”

you can’t help but deflate, at that.

geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”

a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him.

”… huh?”

”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”

…

(you haven’t got a clue.)

geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”

(… that’s a good question.)

he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing.

thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.

”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

but that’s where he’s wrong.

satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour.

geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.

when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world.

that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…

(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)

”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?”

geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.

… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.

”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.

”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”

geto rewards you with a full smile.

”don’t mention it.”

spring is closer than you thought.

it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw.

in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.

”did you bring your card?”

your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence.

it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.

”huh? was i supposed to?”

”… are you kidding me?”

you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers.

someone taps your shoulder.

geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.

a silent cue.

he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.

and then you realize what he’s done.

gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing.

more importantly…

it’s just the two of you, now.

you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.

”… that’s so unfair.”

gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.

”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”

you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.

he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.

”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”

”… mm.”

from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again.

”… i can buy some for you, though.”

(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)

he clears his throat.

”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”

you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out.

”… why?”

it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.

(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)

gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.

gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does.

”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”

another series of blinks.

gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.

”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”

you stay silent.

he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be.

geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.

(why do you think that is?)

gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so.

(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)

geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway.

if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?

would that be okay with you?

(words that should be left unspoken.)

”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck.

all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —

” — i don’t listen to anything.”

gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.

he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him.

”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”

you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down.

”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”

the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.

but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.

white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side.

if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.

”i see!”

a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.

”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”

a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.

(… if you can even call it that.)

geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.

”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”

”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.

you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.

spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.

you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter.

you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay.

”i’ll take it things went well, then?”

geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.

you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.

”i’m glad.”

the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.

”won’t that moron get cold?”

ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing.

you’re wondering the same thing.

geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders.

”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”

you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.

an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”

… another tilt of your head.

geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.

”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”

ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe.

ah.

gojo can keep himself warm.

the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…

(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.

gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)

…

you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks.

as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.

in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.

spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in.

(but you aren’t worried.)

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo fluff #jjk fluff

4K notes · View notes

fushitoru · 7 months ago

Text

trouble a gojo satoru fic

pairing ⸺ bully!satoru gojo x reader

summary ⸺ an unexpected tutoring session with your bully satoru gojo leads to somewhere...unexpected

warnings ⸺ SMUT (MDNI), fluff, slight angst, college au, porn with really mid plot, bullying, humiliation, PANTY INSPECTION, p i v sex, unprotected sex, aftercare, creampie, he whimpers a lot but also degrades you a lot, gojo satoru king of dirty talk it might not make sense lolz, this is not edited in the slightest, didn't even do it a once over, implied that reader is a virgin but not really art by the goat 3-aem

a/n sorry for being so ia. will be answering asks after the ao3 author ahh events that went on this past week T-T as a result this is kind of mid, might delete later, based on this req

general masterlist

This could not be happening to you. NO, no, no. You must be dreaming, right?

Because Satoru Gojo was sitting right across from you in your math professor’s office, looking akin to a kicked puppy, ears drooping as your professor continued ranting about his late assignments, his efforts to cover his grades up, lost potential, laziness, how he should learn from you—but you were only dreading the aftermath of this conversation, when you were left alone with Gojo.

Because he was your college bully.

It didn’t get as violent as in those Asian dramas, but you were often left humiliated from the nuisance he was. For example, take the instance when you both first met.

Head deep in the textbooks you just bought, you were scanning the formulas in an effort to get ahead; after all, for someone like you—dependent on a scholarship to attend university—slacking off was not an option. Only for the nepo trust fund babies—which you were not. There, in the prestigious university you had fought tooth and nail to get into, you were at peace.

But it all went out the window as someone moved to tap you on your shoulder, making you turn your head towards possibly the most handsomest boy you’ve ever seen but undeniably a spoiled kid. Because what came out of his words were definitely grounds for sexual harassment.

“Are Asian people your type? Because I’m China get in your japanties.”

If crickets could make their way into the study room you were sitting in, their chirps would be LOUD. You blinked, heat creeping up your face as he leaned closer to your face, eyes flirtingly honing in on yours and your lips. Abruptly—-flustered—you stood up, gathering your belongings and apologizing profusely. “I”m so—sorry—I don’t—-you might be talking to the wrong per—” because there was no way in hell he was addressing you. From what you could see, he looked like a rich kid, the kind with a lot of money—something that could land you in trouble. You booked it the hell out of there, ignoring the confused look on his face and missing the disappointment flicker across it as he saw your retreating figure leave his sight.

And thus, your love story with Satoru Gojo—who you soon found out was the most popular boy on campus—started.

Small encounters with Gojo kept plaguing your first semester. They would be chance encounters, where Gojo would catch your eye in the middle of a crowd and make his way towards you, a snarky grin creeping up his face as he cornered you into a hallway with less traffic. Sometimes even in a closet.

It wouldn’t be anything grave, to say. All he would ask is how your day was, all sweet nothings and cute smiles made to woo you. And they definitely did—but you couldn’t let it show, couldn’t let him woo you.

“What’s your next class, baby?” The both of you were in a janitor’s closet, him having cornered you in the room and locked the door. You kept biting your lip nervously, the edge of it red and swollen as you peered at him somewhat nervously.

“Uh—I don’t know,” you whispered, darting your eyes somewhere on the floor, so he wouldn’t see the avoidant look on your face.

Let’s get the record straight: you weren’t scared of Gojo. Sure, at 6’ 3’’ with piercing, glow-in-the-dark sapphire eyes, he made you nervous, but you knew you could pine for him at best. Because god knows what would happen if you ever cross him or his dozens of fan girls, some with considerably more power than you on campus. Putting a target on your back while you were trying to graduate wasn’t one of your goals, but trying to pass your math classes with honors was.

And you hated the fact Gojo could read you like a book. Because in the cramped, dark space, his eyes were almost..soft as he put his forearm across the wall on top of your head, effectively caging you in as he steps toward you. You hug your big and heavy books closer to your chest, the squish of your breasts over your top not lost to Gojo who eyes them with lidded eyes. Then, they make their way to meet yours, and it’s like he can see the pining in your eyes. The fact that he’s a carrot dangled in front of your head, something you want but if you ran, you would never have him. A perpetual race to make him yours.

He smiles, gives a soft chuckle. “You don’t know?” he teases you and your blatant lie. “C’mon, let me walk you there.”

But you blurt out an immediate “No!” and then regret it, because hurt flashes across his face. “I mean–” you falter, “please don’t. You’ll be seen publicly with me.”

A quizzical look, one that is so innocent that it makes you want to cry, because how could Gojo ever understand your problems? “What’s the problem?” And then he pouts. “You embarrassed of me?”

“No–no—” you shake your head, squirming slightly from where you were both standing. “It won’t be good for you, for me.” Then, you swallowed, waiting and screening for his reaction.

Praying to whatever gods that were listening to you that he would understand, it seemed that they were answered because an emotion you couldn’t place etched its way on his face until he nodded. A resolute one, yet something that made you a bit…uneasy was in his eyes. Because it meant nothing but trouble.

Then on went your days. Seven days, in fact, because it only took a week for you to be walking across the hallway, daydreaming about a boy without a face cuddling you in the winter, eating cookies in Christmas. You hated being single and hated the fact you were confined to your academic responsibilities; quickly, your professors caught onto your potential, assigning you to tutor your peers during recitations. You preened at the attention and validation but felt lonely because it occupied all your time to catch up on others’ expectations. In your rumination of your upcoming responsibilities, you didn’t notice the hand shoot out and firmly grab your arm until you were in a janitor’s closet. Yet again.

Shocked, you resisted the unknown person who had led you in here, instincts flaring up until said person turned on the light.

Gojo.

“Gojo, what are you—” You didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence, as Gojo had covered your mouth with his arm, one to avoid causing too much commotion before you were discovered there.

“You said no one could see us, right?” A mischievous—yet yearning—look flashed across his face and it was then you realized his play. “So this is okay?”

No, this stubborn man wasn’t going to let you go—he was going to torment you. In secret.

The only response you could conjure your brain was a whimper because a tentative hand was creeping its way up your thigh, softy caressing the insides of it. All you could feel was pleasure and how it was so right despite it being so wrong that Satoru Gojo, the campus sweetheart, had cornered you into the janitor’s closet to give you the most dizzying touches, some you couldn’t deny.

So when he moved his other hand that was at your mouth to grab at your pink skirt, he lifted the hem with both his hands and then paused. Looked at you with darkened eyes. “Let me do this.”

You could only close your eyes in your flustered state, pinching them shut as you gave him a slight nod. It only took him a millisecond to move, using both of his hands to uncover what was between your thighs, eyes focused and widening as he inspected your panties.

“Pink with hearts, huh?” You could hear the chuckle in his voice, the cockiness basically oozing out and you could only continue to heat up deeper. “I like it, baby.” Jumping as you felt his hands roam and trace the edges of your panties, he hooked his finger in the crotch, your thighs tightening slightly as his index just oh so grazed your bare folds as he pulled and pulled, until he let go of the tension and it snapped back in its place. “Look at me.”

As per his instruction, you opened your eyes, only to be taken aback by the intensity in his. Then, his lips moved. “Be my girlfriend.”

The moment broke as clarity hit you. This shouldn’t have happened. “I’m sorry, Gojo, but—”

“Don’t call me that,” he groaned, stepping back and raking an arm through his hair. “What’s even your problem? Did I do something wrong?”

Incredulous, you utter out a “Something wro—you don’t think you did something wrong?”

He looked at you for a bit, made to say something, but you cut him off. “You know what Gojo? Get this through your head. We can’t do this. I don’t know how many girls fall for this, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” With that, you made to move, but he quickly reached out, pleading for you to stay. You wrenched his hand out of your grip and said, in the most serious voice you could muster, “Don’t ever talk to me again.” And you walked out, pretending you weren’t scared of what would happen after you retaliated against the Satoru Gojo.

Surprising, all went well for the rest of the semester. You did get some whispers and stares because of the stray rumor or two passing around about you and the mysterious instances when the campus king stared at your figure for a flicker too long. But it wasn’t nothing but passing because you didn’t share any classes with Gojo, and he respected your wishes. You didn’t miss the bitterness in his stare when you passed by his friend group in the hallway, speeding up to shake off the weight of his eyes on you.

So, you were at peace. Until second semester’s Calc III.

You soon realize that with gradients and vectors comes an additional burden, one specifically sporting white hair. Because as you’re pulled into your math professor’s office and see him, you oh so desperately want to book it.

“And this, Satoru,” your professor pauses and looks at him sternly while gesturing towards you, “is your ticket out of failing. Miss Y/N here,” he gives you a comforting smile, one that does nothing to ease the stiffness flooding your body at the thought of Gojo right next to you, “has the highest grade in the class. She’s a seasoned teaching assistant too, helping a lot of people in her classes next year.” You silently curse, your smile growing more strained as you realize Gojo’s looking at you. “I trust that you’ll be in good care.”

Once the professor finally dismissed you both, you braced yourself, shoving your notebook back into your bag with far more force than necessary. The prospect of *actually* tutoring Satoru Gojo—the one person who seemed hell-bent on making college a gauntlet for you—was absurd.

You didn't look up as you pushed past him, but Gojo kept pace, following you out of the office and down the hall with that easy, unbothered stride of his. "So," he drawled, “how's this tutoring thing going to work? Are you coming to my place, or am I coming to yours?”

You stopped, turning to face him. "My place," you said firmly. The thought of seeing him lounging in some flashy, high-end apartment was insufferable. Besides, at least in your dorm, you could set some ground rules.

He blinked, looking surprised. "Your place? Bold move, Miss Perfect," he teased, that trademark smirk flickering onto his face. “Didn’t think you’d be so eager to have me over.”

"Trust me, Gojo, I'm only doing this because I have to. And there will be rules," you said, crossing your arms. "No messing around, no games—just math."

“*Just math,*" he repeated, his tone playful as his eyes glinted with mischief. “Got it.”

You swallowed, hoping he meant it. "Fine," you said briskly. "I’ll see you tomorrow at six. Don’t be late."

“Oh, wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, and with a little salute, he strolled off, leaving you with a sense of impending doom.

The knock came precisely at six.

You opened the door, and there stood Satoru Gojo, surprisingly punctual, hands shoved into his pockets and a playful grin on his face. You gestured to the small study area you’d set up by your desk, filled with neatly organized notes and textbooks.

“Take a seat,” you said shortly. “We’ll start with the basics.”

He slid into the chair, his gaze flitting from the textbooks to you, an amused glint in his eye. “You weren’t kidding about tutoring. You’re all set up like a professional.”

You ignored the remark and opened the textbook to the chapter on derivatives. “Alright. Let’s go through this. If you understand derivatives, the rest of Calc III will start making sense.”

For a while, he seemed to actually pay attention. He followed along, asking a few questions, which you answered as patiently as possible. But as the explanations went on, his attention started to drift. After one too many halfhearted nods, you frowned, putting your pencil down.

“You’re not even trying, are you?”

He leaned back in his chair, that smirk resurfacing. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to spend time with you.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting off the blush creeping up your cheeks. “You needed my help. I didn’t force you to come here. If you don’t want to do this, then—”

He held up a hand, the teasing gone from his face. “Alright, alright. I’ll focus.” He paused, then added, “In fact, to show you I mean it, I’ll do you a favor. Whatever you want. My way of saying thanks.”

You eyed him warily. “A favor?”

“Anything,” he said, leaning in with a grin that spelled trouble. “What’ll it be? An escort to class? Carrying your books around? Name it.”

“I’ll let you know when I think of something.” You’re dismissive, knowing he’s not that serious about this, playful about this like he is everything else.

He chuckled, nodding. “Looking forward to it.”

And with that, he finally settled into his chair, this time with genuine focus, leaving you both in the kind of quiet that held a new, unspoken promise—a favor, an IOU hanging in the air between you.

You don’t know how you ended up under Gojo on your bed.

Satoru sat close—closer than you’d expected. His knee brushed yours as he leaned forward to study your notes, and every few minutes, his arm would brush against your hand as he reached for the pencil you were using to write equations. Each little touch sent a jolt through you, and judging by the lingering glances he kept giving you, he didn’t mind it either.

“Okay, so the derivative here is...?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady as you pointed at the next problem.

Satoru leaned even closer, squinting at your notebook. “I think I get it,” he murmured, his face inches from yours, his breath warm as it brushed your cheek. But instead of looking at the math, his eyes flicked to yours, lingering just a second too long.

Your heart hammered as you forced yourself to focus. “Right. So you should get… uh… that answer,” you managed, feeling his gaze still trained on you.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, not breaking eye contact. His hand shifted on the table, the back of his fingers grazing yours.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. Your fingers stayed where they were, brushing against each other, the soft, deliberate touch making the silence between you feel louder. Finally, you broke the tension by clearing your throat, quickly pulling your hand away to grab a different textbook.

“So—um, yeah, you’re almost there,” you stammered. “But you missed a step here.” You pointed to another section, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight shake in your voice.

He noticed, of course. You could see his smirk in the corner of your eye.

“Is that all I missed?” he asked, leaning so close that his shoulder pressed against yours. His voice was lower now, more intimate.

You nodded, trying to focus on the page but finding it impossible with him so close. “Yeah. Just… that,” you said softly.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice dropping even more as he shifted his hand, his knuckles brushing against your knee now. It wasn’t intentional—at least, you thought it wasn’t—but neither of you moved. You felt frozen, caught in a quiet, charged moment, where all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

You swallowed, forcing your gaze back to the problem on the page. “Maybe, um… maybe we should take a break?” you suggested, needing a second to breathe.

He tilted his head, an amused, knowing, intense glint in his eye. “A break sounds nice.”

Your breath caught as he looked at you like that, his hand still warm where it lingered just a little too close. And in that brief moment, you wondered just what kind of favor you’d end up asking of him—or what he might ask of you in return.

And it seemed like he knew what you were thinking. “Hey,” he said oh so breathlessly, in the way that made you want to throw yourself at him yet simultaneously bludgeon his head in, “wanna fuck?”

You reeled back, incredulous, but he quickly grabbed your head with both his hands, gently drawing you in. “What?”

“I mean,” and he giggled, “what better use of a favor for than me to rid you of your virginity?”

You gasp, struggling in his hold to no avail. “Why would you assume I’m a virgin? I have plenty of experience, thank you very much—”

All the man does is snigger, despite your glare at him and looks at you, peering at you through his eyelashes with an oh-so-adoring smile. “It was clear how much you soaked through your panties that last time you’re a virgin, baby.” And you can’t help but whimper, reduced to a melting mess because of his sweet words.

He laughs meanly. “If you’re not a virgin, you better not be soaked right now, baby. I’m kind of excited to see what panties you’re wearing this time” He moves his hand between your thighs, and you pliantly spread your legs for him, clenching as his hands rove over your panties in between your skirt. And he’s right, because it’s almost like you’ve wet your panties with the way your slick was flooding out of you because of your proximity with Satoru. “Look at that,” he coos and he pulls his hand away, much to your dismay, to examine his fingers. They glisten vulgarly in the fairy lights in your dorm, and Satoru turns his head to look at you. “So you gonna let me fuck you?”

And that, dear reader, is how you find yourself face down in your plushies on your dorm room bed, clutching them for dear life as Satoru spews dirty talk as if he was born doing it. “Satoru, faster!” you sob, having gone past the initial discomfort of having something in your pussy.

“Satoru, faster,” he mocks you, grabbing your hips and drilling into your heat, groaning at how you’re just so tight. The tears flowing down your face make you even more beautiful as you succumb to your pleasure, one that no one other than Satoru has ever made you feel. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to fuck you?” You don’t answer past your moaning, and that annoys the fuck out of Gojo. He slaps your ass consecutively and can’t help but be more aroused looking at the red handprints he leaves. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you moaned, anything to stop his assault on your ass, “I wanted this is sooo bad.” At that—rather than being satiated—Satoru sped up, hitting your spot with the accuracy of a sharpshooter.

“Yea, baby?” He laughs, meanly, leaning down to grab you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. His fingers squished your cheeks, thereby pursuing your lips as he tried not to cum from the sight of your eyes rolling back with each stroke into you. From the way you were clenching and pulsing more regularly around him, he could tell you were close. “Gonna cum?”

You whined, nodding while sobbing into his hands, trying to focus on the feeling of orgasming. It was so close, you could feel it coiling in your belly—

Just for him to rip out of your cavern, leaving you in shambles due to the emptiness you were feeling. “What—”

He tutted, his hand now slowly stroking his cock while he was sitting on his knees, looking down at you. “I’m only letting you come if you agree to be my girlfriend.”

“Gojo, what—”

“It’s Satoru,” his eyes flared, looking at you with an intensity you hadn’t noticed before. “And say it. Say you’ll be mine.”

For a moment, you searched his eyes for any signs. Signs of insincerity, of humor. But all you could find was desperation and yearning. Ever since you kept having your chance encounters with Gojo, you couldn’t help but deny the fluttering in your heart; the way his eyes unconsciously looked for you, a mere stranger he had taken interest in, in every crowd made you feel seen in a world where you were otherwise invisible.

And you couldn’t help but want to continue being in that world, in his world.

“Fine,” you whispered. “I’ll be your girlfr—”

Before you could finish, he smashed his lips into yours, joining them in a messy, wet embrace. His tongue explored your mouth in a way that made you leak even more while he aggressively laid back down on the mattress, effortlessly lifting you onto his crotch and onto his dick. As he thrusted into you, desperately, he couldn’t help but continue blabbing sweet nothings.

“I’ll treat you so well—haah—take you out on dates,” he heaved, eyes watering as he thrusted slowly into you in long, deep strokes. His eyes never left you as he made love to you, his face going up to nuzzle in between your breasts, peering at you through lidded eyes lovingly. “Fuck you well every night, show you off to the world.”

You could only sob Satoru as you looked at his face through your tears, him doing all the talking for you. “Every day,” he groaned, his cock pulsing and twitching in your walls, “I’ll love you like you’re my wife and fuck you like you’re my slut. So—” and he took a sharp intake of breath, one that you could interpret as him getting close with the way his hips were continually getting more and more sloppy, “so proud of you, baby. Gonna take care of you.” Then, he meets his eyes with yours as he starts to speed up, hand moving to gently rub at your clit in circles, with such prowess that you know you’re not going to last long. “Pull you—haah—pull you aside and see what panties you wore for me that day. Coming inside—coming inside and making you walk around with my cum leakin’ out of your panties.”

And then he whimpers as he loses control. “Gonna—” he utters in between short breaths, “gonna come baby. Come with me.”

“I will, Satoru,” you whine. “Please, I wanna—I wanna kiss!” That’s when Satoru can’t hold himself back anymore, his cum shooting in ropes inside of you at the innocent gesture you wanted him to do while he was doing such filthy things to you. You come alongside with him, everything so overwhelming as you ride out your orgasm on top of him.

As you’re both settling down from your orgasm, he pulls you off—the both of you wincing at the sudden emptiness—as he lays you down next to him. Without a word, he nuzzles in between your breasts, giving a content sigh as he literally melts like a cat, relaxed in your embrace. You can’t help but giggle at his antics, and he takes his face out of your cleavage to give you a boyish grin. “What’re you laughing at?” “Nothing,” you shake your head. “Just the fact I’m chained to you now.”

“Hey!” he pouts, moving his arms so he’s embracing you tightly, effectively trapping you in. “Say that again and I’m going to sleep on top of you and never leave.”

“Can’t believe I’m chained to y—”

Satoru plops on top of you, making a show of tickling your ribs and stomach as you gasp and laugh in surprise. “Satoru!” He doesn’t relent, until you feel a familiar liquid ooze and leak out of your pussy.

This time, your shriek of Satoru’s name doesn’t go unnoticed. At the murderous look on your face–as well as the sheer messiness in between your thighs—he gets up. Smiles sweetly. “Should just leave you like this, leaking my cum. It’s only fair for how you ignored me!”

At that, he gets a pillow to his face, reminiscent of a kicked puppy as he trudges to your bathroom to clean you up.

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comment and reblog your thots! <3

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inupibaldspot · 1 year ago

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Walk him like a dog

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader

Note ₊˚⊹♡ : The first year trio are watching Gojo who is completely head over heels for you.

To the world, Gojo Satoru is the strongest but to the people who know him Gojo Satoru is a menace.

When he was in high school, he was a different breed. Yaga could not sleep at times from all the stress Gojo would cause; be it either an earful from the higher ups or checking the news only to find out there had been an explosion conveniently where Gojo’s mission was assigned.

Sometimes he would get pictured sent to him by the problem student himself, a picture with a beaten up enemy and Gojo winking at the camera with a note saying ‘Yay~ another victory! I mean it’s as normal as breathing for me (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ’

Even when Yaga would use his authority and lecture him, sometimes Gojo Satoru would not listen; be it simply ignoring or rebutting it with his opinion— an opinion no one asks for.

And when that happens, Yaga would pull out his secret weapon ‘You’! He didn’t use this card all the time but at time Gojo was simply so uncooperative, he had to! Any word coming from you would be listened to by him as if it were law. Right now, at the age of 28 he seemed to have matured- no stopped acting as childish and Yaga didn’t have to rely on you so often.

That same Yaga watches from the window at his new first years— Kugisaki Nobara, Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi— behind a bush, hiding peeking over to you and Gojo who were on a bench.

“Ah…” Kugisaki sweat dropped at the pair. “Gojo-sensei is so smitten.” She said observing at how you were simply reading a book, as Gojo yaps away but one thing very obvious was the gentle look he gave you.

When you finally looked Gojo’s way, their white haired teacher suddenly stops, they notice a faint blush peeping under his blindfolds and when he does starts talking he stammers. THE Gojo Satoru was stammering, biting his tongue simply because you were looking at him.

“Kugisaki, let’s leave.” Itadori covers his eyes, his right eye peeps through the cracks of his fingers. “Sensei is doing such a bad job at flirting with y/n, I’m getting embarrassed.”

Kugisaki lifts her hands and grabs the collar of Itadori’s and starts shaking it. “This is the closest we’re getting to romance in this school and I want to be the witness.” She grits her teeth.

Just then Nanami walks along the path, making the pair look over. You smile as you call out. “Nanami-kun.”

Nanami stops and waits as you stand from your bench, walking over to greet him. The students stare; as soon as you got off the bench and walks Gojo follows suit not even a millisecond later.

Kugisaki cringes. “He is like a puppy…”

They could vaguely hear Gojo start to make fun of Nanami, but when you think his ‘joke’ was a slight bit too harsh; they watch you give Gojo a side eye and almost immediately their teacher shuts up.

‘y/n has the strongest sorcerer at the palm of their hands .’ Kugisaki and Itadori collectively thought.

Before Kugisaki could comment she senses a small wet feeling on her forehead, then another and then she was drowning in it. Suddenly it started raining.

“Geh. Let’s get out of here.” Kugisaki says as she quickly brought her hands up to cover her bangs. “I don’t want my hair to frizz up.”

Itadori and Fushiguro follows her lead as they walk away to the nearby building and when they did reach shelter, Kugisaki quickly turns around to check on their teacher and you, a fellow sorcerer.

Her mouth drops slightly taking in the situation at hand, Nanami was no where in sight. She assumes he left because of the rain too.

But that wasn’t the focus.

Her eyes were focused on Gojo and you, holding hands smiling fondly at each other, she also noted that he was using ‘Infinity’ to not get wet from the rain.

Gojo laughs as he raises one of your hands high which makes you let out laugh, but complies as you proceed to twirl. As soon as you make two twirls, their teacher places his hands on your face as his leans down, his lips on yours.

Kugisaki and Itadori squeal and blushes at the intimate scene infront of them, jumping. “Sensei, finally did it! He kissed y/n—!” Itadori smiles.

They watch you smile into the kiss and you bring your hands up behind his neck, slowly trailing them into his hair, deepening the kiss.

“I’m so happy,Kugisaki.” Itadori wipes his tears with the back of his hands, extremely happy for his teacher’s happiness and success in his love life.

“I don’t know why you guys are making such a fuss.” Fushiguro finally decides to add into the antics of his classmates.

“Huh?” Kugisaki quickly turns and glares at the dark haired man. ”Is your heart made of stone or something,Fushiguro?”

“Yeah! I heard Gojo-sensei basically raised you.” Itadori chirps in. “You should be more happy for him.”

Kugisaki nods in agreement.

“I mean…” Fushiguro sighs as his hands are up massaging his temple, mentally preparing for the outburst to come.

“They’re married…”

“Ehhhhh???”

Reblogs, like and comment are appreciated! Love this work? out other here

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo imagines #gojo imagine #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #gojo saturo #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jjk

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sanemistar · 9 months ago

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᧔o᧓ satoru x fem!reader, established relationship (married with a son), lots of fluff, i’m just so obsessed with dad gojo he’s living in my head rent free

you never expected to get a call from your son’s school on his very first day, you were pretty sure he was just fine before satoru had taken him to school this morning. you walked out of the house and quickly headed to your son’s school, worried about him.

the moment you arrived, you were shocked to see satoru was still there, with his arms tightly clinging onto his son’s body as he sobbed against his ears, refusing to let go until you had to intervene and pull him away.

“mrs gojo, we’re very sorry to call you so suddenly. but as you can see, mr gojo has been like this for the past 30 minutes, and classes have already started.” the principal said and you politely bowed your head, you grabbed your husband’s head and forcefully made him bow in apology

“let’s go to class now, baby. listen to your teachers and be a good boy, okay? if you do well today, mommy will get you a treat.” your son nodded obediently and you kissed his forehead before dragging satoru, and walking out of the school.

“toru, i can’t believe you would cling to your son like that. you could’ve made him miss his classes.” you scolded your husband, who was still sulking about leaving his son alone. his head drooped down in discouragement.

you knew your husband was so clingy, which was why you were skeptical about letting him take your son on his first day of school when he asked you to this morning. but he begged you so much with his irresistible puppy eyes so you couldn’t say no. if you knew he’d act like that, you wouldn’t agree to it in the first place.

“but babe, what if he gets scared or hurt when i’m not there to protect him?” he tried justifying his actions, you were aware of his good intentions and his fear was reasonable considering the fact that it’s a completely new environment from home, and you too wished you wouldn’t have to leave him. but it was bound to happen anyway and you had to brace yourself for it.

you sighed and patted satoru’s head, your fingers running through his soft, white locks in soothing motions. you couldn't stay mad at him any longer.

"i understand how you feel. it was hard leaving him there, i miss him already. but toru, it's a part of his growing up process. one day he's going to grow up and have his own life, so until then, let's protect him together while he explores life." you said with a smile, entwining your hand with his as he grabbed your hand, kissing the back of it softly.

“not only is my wife beautiful, but she’s also very wise. i love you, y/n.” satoru murmured gently before leaning in to leave a sweet kiss on your forehead.

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xazse · 3 months ago

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helllooo! can i request hybrid goio x fem hybrid reader whos new to the house (geto adopted them^^) and reader and gojo have a good bond it hasnt really been much sexual (gojo doesnt know what sex is) until reader goes into heat and she ends up using one of her toys and leaving it on the bed when she went to go wash up or smth.. and gojo ends up smelling it and shit and they boombaya🤯

i had several strokes writing this thank u for listening 💔

Cw: SnowLeopard!Satoru x PuppyHybrid!Reader + fem!reader + heats + crying + mentions of Suguru

Hello!! I am sorry this took so long I hope you like this! And everyone else who’s been waiting more puppy!reader!!

Satoru and you were instantly locked together the first week you were brought to the house, he instantly fell in love with your jumpy fun personality, he freaking loves you so much. You and him do everything together, refusing to go anywhere without one another is absolute.

Suguru even has a hard time separating the two of you, he doesn’t try to but the on the occasion he needs to it’s the hardest thing in the world.

Like now, he’s had to have you completely separated from Satoru because he’s acting strangely, strange in the aspect that he’s started to sniff at you a lot more, Satoru will sit for hours just simply content with smelling you. Going on and on about there’s a sickly sweet smell coming from you, he has yet to place his finger on where the smell is coming, that was the cue for Suguru to throw you in a spare bedroom alone.

It’s absolute hell for you that week all the toys Suguru supplies you with become thrown against the wall in frustration, the tears on your part are endless as you beg Suguru for something he just can’t give you, all he can do is rub your soft fluffy ears and offer reassurance while you fuck yourself wild on your toy. The room is encased in a thick layer of just pure warmness, you’ve been going at it for at least a few hours, he feels terrible for not being able to fully understand what you’re going through.

Satoru’s still acting strangely, he’ll sit at your door and whine for his fun companion to come back out, but everytime he tries to open the door he’s quickly met with Suguru’s swift hand upon his, letting him know that you’re off limits for right now. He’ll trudge back into the living room with a sad sag of his shoulders looking back at your room with an even sadder expression, Suguru’s heart rips in half when those blue eyes look at him.

Ever so innocent Satoru is as hardheaded as they come, regardless when Suguru is sleep in the dead of night he slips out of the room and makes his way to yours, it’s been too long without a word from you and Suguru isn’t helping to calm his mind at all.

He tries your lock and finds it doesn’t budge, so with the smallest amount of strength he breaks it, he can already picture Suguru��s livid face going on and on about how expensive that’ll be to replace.

When he steps into the room he’s hit with a wave of a sweet smell, the same one he’s been smelling on you but it’s at an all time high now, he covers his nose but the smell still penetrates deep. He could turn around right now since he can hear your shower running but he hasn’t seen you in so long, how he is supposed to stay away without making sure you’ve been fine?

He makes his way towards your bathroom but something out of the corner of eye catches him, it’s on your bed and with his sense of smell he knows that’s where the scent is the strongest. His heady head tells him to get closer: to investigate. Without even properly thinking he’s walking towards the toy, he’s kneeling in front of it and with a slow cautious hand he’s picking it up.

Every sense of Satoru’s is immediately heightened as he zones in on it, his breath doesn’t seem to be keeping up all that well. He realizes he’s breathing out of his mouth rather than his nose, it smells so fucking good he can hardly contain himself, no he feels he won’t be able to contain himself if he doesn’t leave this room, his legs feels shaky when he grips the edge of the bed to help him stand.

He comes crashing right back down to the floor with the toy in hand, he sniffs at it, almost salivating. He’s never felt like this before, his body runs hot and feverish in almost an instant, now all his mind is telling him to do is to find you.

“Satoru?” You. Your voice travels within his ears and he’s really about to lose it, the short shorts and the mini tank top don’t help whatever this feeling is, he zones in on the droplets of water deploying from your body. You stare at him with an unreadable expression, a fire burns within your eyes as you realize what’s happening to him.

You don’t think he knows that his cock is standing at full attention, that his tail is swishing behind him like he’s looking at prey. You walk towards him as slow as you can and like a burning man Satoru stares so intensely, watching every step you take towards him, also feeling just as hot as he is.

You know Satoru’s strength is nothing to play with but the way his hips are meeting your ass are just downright stupid, ever since you laid your lips upon his he’s just been like an untamed animal, fucking into you for at least a good hour, he’s cum so many times but he recovers just as fast, pumping another unprotected load into you. You’re equally as slutty with the way your pussy grips onto him and pulls him right back into position.

The room smells like sweat, you know that. Your cunt has been begging for release like this since your awful heat had started and now she’s finally getting what she wants and is absolutely being greedy about it. Satoru kisses you just like a virgin would, messy and uncoordinated but you know he loves it, loves you and loves how good you’re making him feel.

His balls tighten once more and he spills liquid hot into you for the however time today.

He moans shamelessly in your ear, resting in the crook of your neck, begging for another release, he’s probably also begging for the hot feeling invading his being to stop as well, it’s all your fault, poor Satoru, he can’t stop the filt of his hips all because you and you’re heat but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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getouyuri · 2 months ago

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r/Marriage: am i (24m) overly obsessed with my wife (24f)? — satoru gojo

౨ৎ pairing — oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader

summary — all work and no play makes the fearsome oyabun of the gojo-gumi a tremendously dull boy. since you're a saint, you come into his office with no panties and a mission; to let your puppy play.

word count — 13k

౨ৎ content & warnings — mdni 18+, pwp, mlw, fem!reader, normal modern au, yakuza au, humor, smut, fluff, pet names (baby, sweets, sugar, princess, pretty, wifey, hubby), gojo and reader are married, whipped gojo, gojo is actually insane, dark themes, violence, mentions of murder, p in v, submissive top gojo, sub!gojo, dom!reader, femdom, mommy kink, semi-public sex, pussydrunk gojo, office sex, mild pet play / puppy play, oral (f! receiving), cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, spanking (both receiving), reader uses gojo’s tie like a leash, MEN WHO WHIMPER >>>

author's note — i love yakuza aus and i love sub top wife guy gojo what can i sayyyy. this is my first fic on this account and it's just self indulgent as hell tbh. this is Not necessary to read, but if you want a little more background on this au, you can find info here. more notes at the end! hope u all enjoy 🫶🏽

It’s not even 12pm on a Friday, 95 degrees, when the white flag swinging from his person is finally brought to his attention.

“Boss,” Choso says, completely straight-faced as he cleans a gun and stares imploringly at Satoru. Waxing and waning. “There's… something hanging out of your pocket.”

“Oh?” Satoru looks down, snags his fingers into the panties that are peeking out from his slacks, and rubs his thumb over the delicate embroidery in the hem. Interesting. “Oh, sweet.”

A completely normal, well-adjusted member of society would turn into a bumbling, blushing maiden and stuff these goodies away, mortified. Too bad he’s a shameless certified freak, seven days a week.

Like he’s playing cat’s cradle, he pulls at the inner hem and spreads the lingerie open to get a good bird’s eye view down into the panties. Satoru tests the stretch of the material. Turns it this way and that. Examines the gusset for any exciting stains and clicks his tongue when he finds none.

The air of the group at his beck and call sours into something painfully awkward, almost disbelieving. When he clears his throat, all eyes look away from him. Satoru takes the opportunity to crumple the fabric and press his nose into it in order to breathe your scent in.

Delectable. 10/10.

Outside the nearest window is the familiar buzz of typical Tokyo afternoon activity and traffic. Sitting in a loose ‘v’ around him in the ten-seater van they’re packed into are the men he’s tagging along with to swing by the red light district in pursuit of Ryomen’s trail. It’s rare that Satoru himself gets involved in tasks like this that are far below his pay grade, but he’ll take any opportunity he can get to get close to that fuckface and give him hell. He can practically smell his rival’s scent on the breeze.

“Huh,” he finally remarks. Choso is the only one that dares to look at him. “My wife must’ve planted these on me earlier.”

That morning, Satoru regretfully had to pull himself from his comfortable bed and his wife’s soothing warmth, though he promised you (with cuddles and kisses to further convince you and wipe the frown off of your face) that he’d wrap things up quick and meet you at the Gojo-gumi’s main headquarters for lunch. Unfortunately, hours later and worn ragged, he knows now that there was no way he would’ve been able to head over there any earlier than now. He texted you to let you know the change of plans.

Pure fucking chaos was unleashed on Tokyo this morning, all of it carefully orchestrated by Ryomen. One of the Gojo-gumi’s bigger warehouses that they use as storage for black market weapons and drugs was ransacked and then bombed by Tora-gumi shitheads. Many of Satoru’s men that stepped in to try and defend the warehouse’s stock were killed.

At the exact same time there was a shootout in one of the strip clubs— fittingly named Hell’s Paradise— that Satoru owns as one of his many, many business fronts. He and his men arrive on the scene soon after the fact and find the bodies of some of the women that worked there, all of which were personally beneath his unwavering protection that he failed to give them today, alongside some civilians that got caught in the crossfire.

Shoko herself isn’t here, but the traces of smoke linger around her girlfriend— and Satoru’s friend— like a protective ward when he goes to speak with her. Clearly, Shoko was either in the building or cat napping with her not too long ago.

Satoru isn’t labeled as the most terrifying oyabun in Japan for no reason; he handles all of it coldly and clinically to make sure many, many people pay the price for daring to threaten the syndicate, his family, that he’s worked so hard to maintain and provide for. He personally beats the fuck out of and kills the Tora-gumi’s members that were involved in both incidents, and what Satoru doesn’t do with his own bare hands, he sends Choso out like an angel of death to take care of.

While Choso ‘cleans up’, he calls Shoko and sends her out on the prowl to feel out if there’ll be any more planned attacks on the Gojo-gumi.

Fucking Ryomen.

Stepping out into the alleyway behind Hell’s Paradise, he fishes his good luck charm out for the fifth time today and takes another long whiff.

But hey, at least he has a piece of his wife with him wherever he goes, right?

Satoru gets a ride back to the Gojo-gumi headquarters. There’s a bathroom attached to the room with a shower that he had installed years back, so he strips off his bloodied clothes, showers and changes into a fresh suit, meanders back into his office, and tosses himself into his chair.

“God, what a pain,” he whines to himself.

If Satoru could pawn this monstrosity of a paperwork pile sitting in front of him off to one of his secretaries (like you, for example), he so would. Alas, things of this caliber are delegated to the boss man, and the boss man only.

His blue eyes linger on the skyline outside of the window. The Gojo-gumi headquarters is located in the heart of Tokyo and it’s not exactly a secret; hell, even the police know where this place is and what goes on behind its closed doors. Unlike his various business fronts, this establishment is strictly a hub that his syndicate directly operates out of. Organizing all their criminal operations, managing businesses, holding meetings, it all goes down here.

Years ago, it was rare that Satoru could be found sitting here. He used to just swing by the main room, get shit done, not spare his office a glance, and leave. Now, though, he has extra incentive to frequent his office. You’re here every day of the week.

The room feels filled to the brim with your presence despite you being conspicuously absent. The dark wooden surface of his desk is topped with a framed picture of you and him at their wedding, and next to it are various trinkets that you’ve bought with him in mind. His sweetheart.

Satoru lounges back in his plush leather chair (because he likes that it makes him look like royalty, thank you very much), man-spreading with a faint pout. The beginnings of a migraine buzzes right behind his eyes the longer he stares at the work calling his name.

There’s that deal he needs to finalize with Suguru that’ll leave them with a 20% increase in profits by the end of Q1. The Gojo-gumi's gonna be swimming in cash, and the Sutoraifu-gumi will have a steady supply of the goods their members need. Lord knows Suguru and his men need it after the whole Kenjaku debacle that went down a while back. Satoru’ll get to those papers soon and send them off with Suguru’s biker girl whenever she swings by again to hang out with you.

Then he has to look at the letter from the chief of police, which, yawn, that’s the least of his concerns. The detective— Kusa-something, whatever, he always forgets his name— must’ve tattled on him again for his, ah, unsavory way of handling business. That damn rookie Kusachi has a nasty habit of getting in his way and trying to take him on. Satoru could just try to pay the chief off again… and maybe he could visit Kusada’s home, set him straight. And by set him straight, he means chatting to Kusabuse’s family and telling him that their man’s extracurricular activities are gonna get him killed. His family can handle it from there.

And then—

A soft knock at his door pulls him out of his reverie. “I’m busyyy, Kento, Ijichi!” he calls just in case they’re here to hound him, fingers adorned in rings absently adjusting his tie.

It opens to reveal Kento’s unimpressed stare. He glances over Satoru’s unorganized desk, important documents scattered all over and clearly not finished. ‘Organized chaos’ he calls it. You tell him that it’s just shit on a platter.

“… cat’s outta the bag, I guess,” Satoru says glumly, his pout unbefitting of an oyabun further deepening.

Apparently, by the little entourage that Kento has with him, his second-in-command isn’t here to scold him, though. Because you, his gorgeous wife, enters his office next with Ijichi shuffling in behind you, who closes the door behind the group of three.

Satoru perks up like a meerkat and leans forward, fingers dropping away from his tie to instead interlace as he regards everyone, you in particular harboring most of his attention, with a cheery grin that’s at odds with his reputation. Though he’s the epitome of lax playfulness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his gaze as he looks them all over. You have a folder tucked beneath one arm and you look bored.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," Satoru drawls, his tone as smooth as silk. "My three favorite people, alllll in one room. It’s a little too early to be throwing me a surprise birthday party, isn’t it? My birthday isn’t for another few months,” he jests.

Ijichi not so subtly checks the date on his phone even though he knows damn well it’s April, not December. On the other hand, Kento’s eyes flatten slightly. One of his hands goes to his hip while the other massages at the bridge of his nose as if he’s already getting a headache; as he usually does in the oyabun’s presence. “Now isn’t the time for jokes, Satoru,” Kento inserts, dour as ever.

Your poker face twitches.

A blown raspberry echoes in his office. “You always say that, Kento. Would it kill you to pull that stick out of your ass and smell the roses? Experience joy and whimsy?” Satoru dramatically intones. His hand splays across his chest. “You wound me.”

Kento doesn’t even bother to entertain him. Back straight and thumb practically digging into his skin, he rattles off his report; the Gojo-gumi were able to intercept Ryomen’s ploy to undercut the Gojo-gumi’s control over the heroin trade. When he finishes, he promptly turns and makes like Scooby Doo, not wanting to be there a second longer. Ijichi hurriedly scurries at his heels.

The door clicks shut behind them and he puffs out a breath of relief at his wakagashira’s and saiko-kommon’s departure, sitting back in his chair with a gentle creak of the leather beneath him. Satoru kicks his leg up over the other, the side of his calf resting on his knee, and looks you up and down. “And then there were two. Fancy seeing you here, wifey,” he drawls.

“You say that as if we don’t work in the same building,” you snort. Then you soften, closely examining him. “You okay? Your texts worried me earlier, so I texted Choso and his partner to get more details. I heard things got pretty hectic earlier.”

He smiles at you, feeling all warm and fuzzy. Satoru doesn’t get how couples just faze out of the honeymoon stage. Years later and you still have him wanting to kick his feet whenever he’s in your presence. “Things are peachy, pinky swear. I’ve got it covered, sugar. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he assures you. He crosses his fingers over his heart.

You eye him for a moment longer, but whatever you spy on his face makes you relax. Thwacking the folder against the wooden surface before scattering it among the pile, you then round Satoru’s desk and plant yourself in front of him. He inhales unsubtly, catching a whiff of your perfume that makes him go a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and your lips twitch as you take your throne on the lip of his desk.

Everyone here at headquarters is required to follow a certain dress code. Satoru outshines them all, of course, fitted in finely tailored slacks and dress shirts with either a crisp light blue waistcoat thrown atop it or an ironed suit jacket. And as one of the many secretaries flitting around the building keeping the well-oiled Gojo-gumi machine chugging, it’s important for you to look just as professional. Especially since you’re his wife.

Which is why you look like an infuriatingly sexy librarian, decked out in a tight black pencil skirt that hugs your hips, a blouse with the top two buttons undone and the collar pressed open to flaunt the designer necklace he bought you swinging from your neck, sheer black nylon thigh-highs that he’d kill to feel around his head, and stilettos, cute little charms on the buckles giving your outfit a whisper bit of cheer.

(The thought of you making yourself look extra pretty today just for him has Satoru internally busting on the spot, his blood simmering beneath the fine layer of his skin.)

‘The oyabun’s wife’, his men always dreamily sigh when you walk past them— only to whip around and stare at the wall when he slinks by not even a step behind you, his blue eyes cold and caustic when he glares at them in warning. Gorgeous, breath-taking, a prized jewel— and you’re all his.

“Normally I’d only be here to scold you and make you do your work, hubby,” you hum.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in my near future,” Satoru muses aloud, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“No. Just a ‘however’.” Instead of being two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyy’, they’re two smartasses fashioned in the same factory, complete with warnings labels.

“Yeesh. Can I ever be right with you?” He plasters his hand over his heart yet again and gives you a simpering moue.

You roll your eyes, a wordless ‘duh’. Satoru's lips slant upwards into a Cheshire cat smile as you reach forward and loop his tie around your fingers before giving it a tug, coaxing his chair to roll forward on the sleek hardwood floor. He uncrosses his legs and allows himself to be pulled up and out of it, heeled like a dog, stepping forward to stand between your legs after lightly kicking his chair away with a soft clatter.

Looking down at you through long white lashes that flutter like the first snowfall of winter, his gaze is a mix of playfulness and appreciation in its rawest form. Satoru has to admit, this view is far more pleasant than any document that he was pretending to give his attention to before you strode in.

Your perch on his desk gives you an air of sophisticated dominance that makes his cock give a very interested twitch in his trousers that he can’t help. Sue him for being horrendously attracted to his wife.

Though he towers over you by a mere head due to the slight height advantage that his desk gives you, there’s no doubt that he yields completely and utterly to you. His brain conjures up an image of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. Glorious and championing above the rest of them; victorious.

‘Woof’, he thinks unintelligently.

“However,” you finally continue, beginning to smile. You keep a hold on his tie and tap his nose with the pointer of your free hand, which he wrinkles at you. “I’ve decided that I’ll spare you the lecture for today.”

Satoru's hands come up to rest on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the sleek nylon covering them. Your inviting warmth bleeds through the thin fabric. He so badly wants to get on the floor, brush them down, and sink his teeth into your plush skin until your skin pinkens. He settles for giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I thank you, oh great and benevolent goddess of the yakuza underworld,” he proclaims, delighting in the fondly exasperated groan that rumbles low in your throat. “I gotta say, I'm grateful for the reprieve, sweets. Though I suspect your mercy is short-lived," he adds with a chuckle. “So give it up already. Spill.”

Fucking hell. There goes a tiny fraction of the element of surprise that you thought you were holding over him like an anvil in a cartoon.

You silently curse his eerie perceptiveness. And his newfound x-ray vision, apparently, since he leans back a fraction to take you in again, his focus lingering on your skirt. But hey, the ball’s still very much in your court, and you’re playing to win.

Not letting it faze you, you heft your legs up, his hands shifting with you, and drape them around Satoru’s waist. His desk creaks beneath you at the distribution of weight. “Yeah, yeah. What I mean to say is that your husbandly duties are calling to you, not your obligations as oyabun.”

Satoru’s blue eyes search yours and he tilts his head, adorably puppy-like in a manner that suggests he’s more innocent than his ruthless reputation paints him to be. Though he’s the epitome of laxness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his expectancy that’d make lesser men quiver and confess to their every sin.

You stare right back at him. “I don’t have any panties on,” you explain simply.

If Satoru was aroused before, he’s now hornier than a pent-up nun. He hardens so fast that it makes him dizzy. “So you’re on that type of timing, got it,” he notes through his suddenly dry mouth as if his brain chemistry isn’t actively warping with this new information.

He wets his lips. His attention darts to the door. “Ijichi locked it,” you confirm before he can ask his question.

Good. Now he can focus on what matters: no panties. No panties. No panties. Fuck.

"Well, as your husband, it's my duty to attend to your every need and desire. And right now, it seems one of those needs is to have me buried deep inside your pretty kitty,” he coos, voice dripping something sinful. “But wowww, I never thought I’d see my stern ‘business over pleasure’ sweet pie pulling this kind of stunt. Seducing me so shamelessly in my own office... for shame! What would people say if they knew you were on a mission to tempt your poor, innocent husband into sin?”

You sigh, long-suffering.

Suddenly curious to see if you’re hiding another surprise elsewhere, one hand leaves your knee and drifts up to the undone buttons of your blouse, popping another one open to expose more of your soft skin. Satoru bites his lip as his eyes snag on the lace of your bra. A shame that you’re not bra-less, but he’s fine with seeing you wear half of the set he commissioned for you from a designer in France that you like. He’s more than okay with this, actually.

You make no move to scold him or cover yourself up— you just amusedly stay fixed on him, your eyes gaining that telltale gleam when you’ve got him all tied up in knots. He’s walked into a honeytrap, hasn’t he?

Despite the clear desire emanating from him, there's a tenderness to his touch, a reverence for your body as the hand on your knee skirts up. He slides it higher up your thigh until the hem of your thigh-high gives way to skin, disappearing beneath your tight skirt to ascertain your bold claim. When Satoru’s knuckles graze your bare folds, which are slowly slickening, he whines as if he’s the one being touched. “Fuck, princess... you're actually not wearing anything at all, huh?” He groans softly, half surprised and half not that you were telling the truth.

“Duh,” you exhale. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you, though. Did you not see the—“

“The little treat that the panty fairy snuck into my pocket?” Now understanding, Satoru’s grin grows. Reverent… and, well, very perverted. “Sure did. I sniffed them, too.”

Your face contorts as if you don’t know what part to address first before you give up.

“But sometimes thiiis guy.” His eyes pointedly roll upwards in the direction of his forehead, then down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “Likes to take the backseat and let this big guy do all of the thinking. Can you blame me for being a little off my game today?”

“I can, actually. Do better. Even Yuuji gets more work done than you do, distractions and all,” you reply plainly.

Which says a lot. Yuuji’s one of the other secretaries here, though giving him that title feels… a little generous. You and Satoru see him regularly since Choso feels more comfortable going out and doing his job when Yuuji’s safe at headquarters. The teenager comes scampering into the building every day after school and Satoru pays him to do the class work that his teachers send him off with, play on his Nintendo Switch, and sometimes organize the racks of boxed files or make phone calls.

“Heyyy!”

Your cool breaks and you laugh. “You’re just easy to get to. That’s okay, though. It makes things more fun for me,” you tease in a slight singsongy lilt. You turn your head to worry his earlobe between your teeth, nipping then sucking for good measure before releasing it with an audible pop.

Breathing starting to pick up, he drops his face into the crook of your neck and drowns himself in the cocktail of the spritz of that floral perfume you favor and your natural scent. All the while, he blindly traces your slit. Up and down, entrance, clit, entrance, clit.

You cup your husband’s nape as Satoru nuzzles into your neck more urgently, feeling him shiver against you as your palm rasps over the short prickly hairs of his undercut, petting him. Your legs part a bit, skirt inching up as you rut your cunt against Satoru’s exploratory fingers and smear your wetness on him. Still, he doesn’t push in yet.

You’d think he’s teasing you if not for the obvious signs that he’s stalling. Either waiting for your permission or waiting for the best time to ask for it.

How well-trained.

"You make it sound like a bad thing, sugar. Like being under your thumb is a weakness and not a treat," Satoru says abruptly. "I prefer to think of it as... being very, very stupidly in love with my wife. I’m so far gone for you that I’d do anything that you asked of me.”

It’s so easy for him to say such devastating things from the heart without batting an eye; he’s as earnest as a child. It fells you day by day.

His voice is soft despite his low, raspy cadence, brilliant blue eyes bright with his eagerness to serve. At times, it’s almost hard to reconcile this man, the one who’s eating out of the palm of your hand, his nonexistent tail wagging the entire time, with one of the most feared oyabuns in Japan who could probably level half of Tokyo in an hour.

But you’re not forgetting his acts of what he calls ‘devotion’ any time soon. It’s rare that you walk in on him showing the full spread of his true colors, but there’s multiple incidents that stick out like a sore thumb. The one that clings to you like a particularly persistent burr occurred months before you even started dating.

It had been a fairly normal day, all things considered. Most of the men of the Gojo-gumi were preparing to intercept one of Ryomen’s ploys, banding together like sharks after blood in the main common room at headquarters. You remember frowning as you peered at each passing individual that was armed to the nines, searching for their leader so that you could deliver important documents before he could go gallivanting off to get his hands dirty, but Satoru was nowhere to be found.

You went to drop off the manila folder to his office but paused when you heard voices through the cracked door of his office. Sighing, you squatted to slip it under his door and leave, but Satoru’s voice in particular made your blood run cold and your joints lock up before you could lower yourself. “I should cut your balls off and feed them to you, you piece of shit,” he muttered with a scoff.

Apparently, one of his men, Hiro, had been coveting after you. His little work crush was fairly innocent to everyone who caught wind of it, but Satoru? He was the only one who dug into it and discovered Hiro’s… unsavory way of going about privately expressing his affections for you.

Unable to resist, you peeked through the crack right as Satoru unceremoniously tossed Hiro to the floor in front of Nanami and Choso, both of them passively watching. The easy, relaxed posture of Satoru’s lean frame hardened, his broad shoulders squaring as he stared down at the man’s mask of fear. His light blue eyes, typically vibrant and full of mirth, held a cold, calculating glint, like fake flakes fluttering around a snow globe.

You couldn’t watch much of what followed. You turned away when Satoru drew a wickedly sharp dagger from the strap around his thigh and stabbed it straight through the thickness of Hiro’s leg without so much as a warning. His underling’s screams echoed through the room as Satoru slowly, methodically twisted the blade, tearing through flesh and sinew. Blood pooled around the wound and spilled down the sides of his leg, staining the polished floor a deep, sticky red. Numbed to the violence, Nanami bent down at Satoru’s gesture and snatched Hiro’s phone from his pocket as he sobbed and sobbed, decisively crushing it and any evidence it contained beneath his shoe.

“Miss secretaaary, that you?” Satoru’s voice startled you for a second time that day. You forced your attention back to the cracked door, gaze locking onto Satoru’s pleasant, cheery smile that he gave you as if he wasn’t brutally torturing a man that he was planning to soon kill in cold blood. “Oh, good, it is. You can leave those documents on my desk.”

And that was that.

Satoru’s not exactly a good man. He’s done terrible things, will do worse still. This is a man that’s killed for you countless times and would do it again in a heartbeat. But if you asked him to give it up, he’d walk away from the Gojo-gumi and Japan as a whole without a word and give up the title of oyabun to Yuuta. He’d start fresh, wash himself of his sins, and build himself anew just for you. Not that you’d ever ask him to do that, but just knowing that you could and that he’d follow through… you’ve never felt so powerful, so needed in your entire life.

Satoru truly loves you.

“You know, I’ve heard that it’s good to air your privates out from time to time. For circulation and all that jazz.” The Satoru of the present interrupts. The tip of his finger curls, swiping up some of your wetness that spills from your entrance. “Clearly, though, you just wanna fuck nasty.”

You snort out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I need you or whatever,” you dismiss him. As if you don’t need this man to nut in you, like, yesterday.

You grab his wrist, guiding him to fully probe at you instead of skirting around the core of you like he has been for the last few minutes. Quick to take you up on the offer, he parts your folds.

Satoru’s pointer finger sinks into you knuckle-deep, hot and fast, and you moan. It takes him a moment to realize why the slide is so easy, and when he does, he whips his head up, suddenly wild and straining at his leash.

“Sweets,” he groans with barely concealed awe. “When did you do this, huh?” He crooks, searching, and you arch when the roughened pad of his trigger finger pets at your walls, so close to where you want him. Tightening around him does nothing to disguise how comfortably loose you are from prepping yourself earlier. Then, a little giggly, a little manic, “Did all those spreadsheets on your desk get you hot and bothered?”

“Mhm, you know I just lo-love payroll,” you hiss when he works another stupidly long finger into you, then a third, his wedding band gleaming on it, and finally massages your g-spot. Your nails flex against his nape. “Had a quick finger blast 1000 session in the staff bathroom.”

“Hot,” he says with feeling. While prying for the sordid details is tempting, there’s more important matters at hand. Like rearranging your guts on his desk to satiate yours and his neediness while you chant ‘good boy good boy good puppy’ before someone inevitably comes knocking to bother him.

Humming a jaunty tune, Satoru pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt, feeling you grow wetter and hotter with each slow lazy thrust. He takes his time, relishing the way your velvety walls flutter around the intrusion of his digits every time he perfectly hits his mark.

Artistically draped atop his desk, you’re beautifully flushed and your eyes are glazed over, lashes fluttering when they threaten to roll back. He can see the fondness etched into your expression, the love, even as you examine him with that imperious tilt to your chin. Your face says what you don’t speak aloud: 'I know I have you wrapped around my little finger, and I'm not afraid to use that to my advantage.’

He’s no art fiend, but he’d go scuba diving in an instant to find the missing head of the Winged Victory of Samothrace and gorilla glue the two parts back together to prove that you’re art in the flesh, a statue of a goddess made with blood, sweat, tears, and passion come to life.

There’s very little space between you. Your breaths intermingle. Pointedly, he glances down at your lips, and you do the same to him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, but you’re already hauling him in with the hand on the back of his neck.

You slot their mouths together with a low, happy noise akin to a purr. He kisses back eagerly, desperately, positively starved for your affection that he’s been yearning for all day. Satoru’s lips part with a shuddery sigh and he pushes his tongue past your pillowy lips to stroke along yours, tasting the sweetness of your mouth; a dash of mocha overridden by those matcha chocolates that he got you hooked on.

You squeeze tighter around his waist, milking a wounded noise from him. Gentle yet firm, you trap his tongue between your teeth, scraping over it and coaxing out the reaction you want. He predictably wedges himself closer and you drag your nylon-clad thigh over the bulge at the crotch of his pants, up and down.

The desk creaks beneath you again as Satoru leans into it and shamelessly dry humps your leg with obvious flexes of his hips. You’re no better, though, rutting into the cup of his palm and squirming in delight every time those delicious callouses of his chafe against your aching clit.

“Feeling good?” He mumbles into you. You nod, tilting your head and realigning your lips, making their kiss that much more heated. His ministrations briefly make your mouth uselessly part against his, too wrapped up in pleasure to function.

Satoru’s the first to break away. He hikes your skirt up, revealing more of your plushy legs clad in those sinful thigh-highs until he finallyyyy lays eyes on the prize. He cups your mound then pulls his palm away, just to watch how thin translucent strings chase after him before snapping and splattering on your inner thighs.

He lifts his hand and looks you dead in the eye, warming some of your gathered wetness between his forefinger and middle before sucking them clean. Ravenous. You know what he wants.

“Can I, y’know, take a proper look at your pussy up close?” Satoru asks, sly but not sly. “I wouldn’t be a good hubby if I didn’t make sure that my girl properly got herself nice and ready for m—“

“Satoru? Get on your knees.”

You have to give it to him, the man moves fast as fuck when given an order. Satoru swiftly drops down, making you worry for his knees that hit the rug hard enough that the wood below it audibly thunks.

And he stares. In an unabashedly perverted manner, at that.

“Let’s see this pretty pussy,” is all he mumbles, chewing his lips and fastening his thumbs into the skin around your folds, tugging you open with a filthy squelch of wet skin peeling away from wet skin. Spreading you wide enough that you prickle with pins and needles— or maybe that’s just because of his unnerving stare.

Your glistening cunt is swollen and enticingly slick with need. The sight of your pussy lips unfurling before him and your clit peeking out from beneath its hood has his mouth watering. Satoru’s cock jumps in his pants like he’s just had a live wire threaded into the slit of his cockhead, desperate to bury inside of you, balls deep.

He looks up at you then. His cerulean eyes gleam with a borderline manic light, wolfish in his intensity. “What next? Want me to heel? Chase my tail? Roll over?” He drawls, cocking his head. He’s more than ready to debase himself in any way you want just to get his back scratched.

You shrug, “I want whatever you want.”

Greed is a sin or whatever, he thinks dimly. But he can't bring himself to care. His fingers dance up and hook under the crook of your right knee, placing it on his shoulder. “Then lemme eat my meal.”

You hate that that makes you shudder. It also makes you wanna shut him up.

“Who are you asking?” You check, cupping your ear. “Try again; you know better, baby.”

The lilt you take on to simultaneously coax and rebuke him only serves to turn him on more, making his poor neglected cock press insistently against his zipper. Satoru knows that look in your eyes. It's the same one you give him when he's been particularly foolish— the ‘bouquet(s) incident’ instantly comes to mind— or when you want something from him. In this case, it's clear that his wife wants him to be good.

His cheeks flush a soft pink, his blue eyes growing hazier with lust, not embarrassment. You’d think that he’d rally against the condescension that coats your words like condensation pearling on a windowpane, but not an inch of his pride bristles beneath your firm hand. Not when he’d strip himself down to the marrow and hand all of himself to you on a silver platter. His pleasure, his pain, his heart and soul… it’s all yours for the taking.

“Mommy,” he moans as if the word itself does more for him than it does for you. And it probably does. “My sexy, gorgeous, take-no-shit-from-anyone, especially her husband, mommy. Can I taste you, please?”

You smile, pleased. Then, finally, because he’s been waiting so patiently, “Go ahead.”

Shit, you don’t gotta tell him twice.

Like a scenthound tracking a trail, Satoru instantly shoves his way between your legs and buries his face in your crotch, gulping down lungfuls of your scent with the desperation of an addict and making you huff out a shaky laugh. The heat radiating from you is staggering.

"You smell like heaven, holy fuck. Good enough to eat. Lucky for you, I’m starving,” he borderline complains. It’s a complete juxtaposition to how he purrs those muffled words into your skin. You shudder at the vibrations.

“That was corny as—“

Satoru was as menacing when it came to pleasuring you as he was as oyabun. There’s no shooting straight and simple with him; he’s reckless, skateboarding on the knife’s edge for the hell of it. He goes from carelessly smothering himself into you, eyes teetering back in their sockets as if drunk with each pass of your slick across his chin, lips, cheeks, to turning his head and dragging messy kisses into the crease between your hip and leg. His saliva and your wetness ooze down your inner thigh, akin to a ripe May mango being carved open and spilt on hot concrete.

But if he’s dangerous, then you’re terrifying.

Pain shears razor-sharp through his scalp. You snag your fingers into his hair, guiding and tethering at the same time, forcing him to stare into the mess they’ve both made of you. He whines, chomping at the bit for it.

“That’s not what I gave you permission to do. Down, boy.” You click your tongue. His teeth click together with how fast he shuts his trap. “I’m beginning to think that you can’t take orders after all. What a shame,” you sigh, the timbre of your voice gentle but your words condescending.

Though he gives you a guilty pout, his cock instantly spurts precum due to the way you’re speaking to him, further soiling his boxers. A teensy part of him wants to act out, harmlessly push against you until you round on him with the intensity of a thousand suns so that you’ll break him over your knee. Playing the part of the petulant brat is fun sometimes. However, his knee-jerk reaction to prove you wrong and take you up on your silent challenge that you’ve presented him with wins out.

Satoru can be a good boy without a doubt.

Sure, he was never the type to care about what other people thought of him, just as long as everyone knows that he’s the reigning king of the yakuza scene. That he’s the richest, the handsomest, everything in that vein.

But the idea of showing you how he could lend his ear to you and listen well, how he was only good for you, that he was only yours to kiss and love and fuck, was enough to drive him borderline crazy.

With his extremely selective hearing and all that corded muscle packed beneath his baby soft skin, you both know damn well that he could steer this situation however he pleased if he wanted to. Yet he goes pliant in your grip, watching, waiting, licking hungrily at his pronounced canines. A predator turned tame as he awaits your order.

It makes you feel drunkenly valorous.

You tilt his head up, angling him so, as if reminding yourself that you’re holding genuine gold and not any of that counterfeit bullshit. His blue eyes are half-mast and dreamy when you peer into them, pupils blown wide. He’s sitting back on his heels with a casual ease, too far away to kiss but not far enough that you can’t smell the intoxicating scent of him, a heady mix of vanilla and cinnamon and sandalwood.

This beautiful, arrogant, infuriating nutcase of a man. Seeing him like this makes your heart do flips. You live for moments like these, when he can let go and just be yours completely. The most feared man in Japan, brought to his knees by the woman he loves.

You tap your chin. “Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s improper to play with your food?”

His retort comes quick. “I think they cared more about making sure I could properly unload, load, and shoot a gun in less than ten seconds. And juggle multiple businesses at once. All of which I excel at, by the way.”

“Smart ass,” you scoff, but the words lack their usual bite. You sound affectionate.

“Mm, but you love my mouth.” Satoru, lecherous, wiggles his eyebrows. You can’t deny that.

“What was it that Suguru told me ages ago?” Satoru wonders aloud, glancing up at the ceiling as if it’ll come to him in a show of divine light. You’re incredibly unimpressed and almost want to shove him face first into you and do all the work yourself, but you wait. “‘Thanks should be given thricefold?’ That’s all I’m doing.”

He replants his face into your inner thigh, wetting the lacy top of your thigh-high with one indulgent lick, then latches onto your plump thigh and sucks and bites with a vengeance. The peachy pink of his shapely lips bleeds forth and mixes with your skin, producing the same color beneath his teeth. Once the hickey is dark enough for his standards and you’re writhing a little, he mumbles a faint ‘thank you’ and switches to your other leg, mauling your skin with obnoxiously loud slurps, leaving a second mark and professing his thanks again.

Then his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt and you’re a goner.

This is the same man that got you a little wet on their first date, you remind yourself. You remember sitting across from him, taking subtle deep breaths as if the very air in your lungs would break every piece of fine china in the five star Michelin restaurant that Satoru dragged you to, and stiffly cutting your wagyu steak.

Satoru knocked back the rest of his non-alcoholic drink like it was a shot, ice clinking against his lips, then sucked the single cherry between them. Grinning a little at you, he chewed into the cherry with crisp snaps of his teeth until only the stem remained. And the show-off kept his mouth open so that you could watch him tie the teeny tiny stem into a neat knot using only his tongue and the support of his teeth.

It’s safe to say that he’s really, really talented with his tongue.

He drags deep, open-mouthed kisses up and down your slit, sloppily making out with your cunt. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and firmly licks into you, and when he moans like a whore into your quivering pussy at the first taste of real, genuine ambrosia, the vibrations take root in your nerves and shake them fiercely. You keen as if you’ve been socked in the stomach, hands digging harder into his fluffy white hair and making him moan again.

“Oh, shit, yesyesyes, good boy,” you pant at the very sudden and very enjoyable onslaught.

From what you’ve learned, the best way to train a puppy is through positive reinforcement, patience, and rewarding good behavior. It works wonders.

Satoru's hand crawls to the underside of your left thigh and he tosses that one over his broad shoulders too, settling in to eat you out with single-minded focus. He feasts on you like a man starved, gathering the wetness that drips from your core, dipping inside your entrance that doesn’t resist him even a little bit to taste you more fully and nuzzling his nose against your clit, spurred on by the praises you keep singing. Three laps and he’s a swimmer. The cocktail of his saliva and your slick coats his chin and pools on the wood beneath your ass.

You dig the points of your stilettos just above his shoulder blades. Using your newfound stirrups and gripping the reins of his hair, you vigorously grind yourself against his face to try and unravel the knot in your stomach. Satoru loves when you get bossy like this, wrangling him so that you can take what you want. It’s so fucking hot.

“That’s what good pussy sounds like,” he groans, muffled by your skin, even though he can barely hear the lewd squelches of your responsive body himself, the wet clicks of his suckling. Your trembling thighs are firmly locked around his head— it wouldn’t be so bad to suffocate here. You squeeze harder, squishing his ears further against his head, as if telling him to shut up and stop quoting Vines of all things while buried in his favorite deep-dish.

He doesn’t stop running his mouth, though. “Tastes so good, f-fuck, bet you feel good too with how soaked you are. Keep moving your hips just like that, mommy, use me— just like that, yeaaah,” is breathed nose-deep into your folds that soaks every word up like a sponge. “Drag that pretty cunt all over me.”

His lips are lovely and warm, diligent in his ministrations. Choppy exhales ghost across your skin and make you flinch. He pulls back a little to lave over your clit, tasting the sweet, salty wetness that coats it, and he sinks into the bliss and into you. He gorges himself on the sweetness of your juices, swallowing it down and letting it trickle down his throat.

Satoru looks up at you, eyes frantic with adoration like he’s pleased to be doing this, just eating you out without any sort of gain for himself. There’s been countless times where Satoru’s pinned you down and munched for hours, languorous in his effort to coax noises and reactions from you. He’s done it in a changing room, during their movie marathons, on his private jet to one of their vacation homes, fresh from beating people black and blue, when you were sleeping in their cozy king-sized bed back at the Gojo estate… the list goes on. Earning gratification via your pleasure is enough for him.

Each stroke through your weeping slit elicits an approving moan or whimper from the beauty perched atop his desk, growing higher in pitch the closer you get to the edge. Your husband sounds just as wrecked, mewling babbled nonsense into you, ferally plunging his tongue in and out of your silken depths that he’d kill to stay swaddled in forever.

You screw yourself down onto him with equal fervor, your body heaving with the force of your pleasure, twisting and writhing and making the desk creak. Perhaps you’re being a bit too punishing with your pace and not letting him up for air, but Satoru takes it all with grace, not a single whimper of protest slipping past your hips that slap against his face.

"Cum for me, angel," he pathetically begs, his thumb seeking out your clit to trace circles against it. His tongue continues its relentless assault, determined to push you over the edge and into blissful oblivion. "Let me feel you. Want my baby to make a mess of me, c’mon.”

When it becomes too much, the fervent sparks licking down the sparkler too fast, you lightly bat his head away. Satoru goes quickly and obediently. Your hips itch to chase him. “Open, puppy,” you bite out.

His mouth falls open, whiny pants drooling down his pretty pink tongue. That’s all it takes to do you in. With his thumb rolling over your swollen rosebud and his eagerness on full display, you let the intensity of your orgasm sweep you away and you keen as you squirt all over his face.

Viscous fluid splashes on his tongue and he moans, looking utterly out of it as he watches you find your release. Slick coats his cheeks, chin, and lips in a glistening sheen and he licks up what he can. Satoru scrambles forward for more of it even as you try to physically hold him at bay with the weak hand fixed in his wavy strands.

“Please!” He basically cries. You’re a sucker for good manners. You’d try harder to keep him away if you actually didn’t want him all over you, so he takes your unspoken permission that comes in the form of a furrowed brow, as if you’re scolding yourself for giving in, and he runs with it.

He practically collapses into you. He seals his mouth back over your gushing pussy, fingers abandoning your clit in favor of clawing at the nylon smoothed over your thighs. Groaning, your shaking legs relax around his head and slip off his shoulders, splayed open for him to lick his plate clean. Satoru does just that, a little clumsy in his haste but no less passionate.

He keeps going until your erratic twitches turn into steady shudders, your nonstop moans quieting down, until his jaw aches from how hungrily he threw himself into the task. He doesn’t even realize that he’s palming himself through his slacks until his hips sway forward and he pulsates in his grip.

Satoru reluctantly draws back as if it physically pains him to not be buried beneath your skin when your high heel lightly kicks at his flank, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. His gaze drags over you, recommitting every fine detail to memory; trembling lips punctured by teeth marks, your expression dreamy, body curled halfway over him and ripe for the taking. He wants to remember you like this, wants to burn this image into his brain so that he can call it up when the long nights stretch before him and the weight of his duties threaten to crush him.

“You’re so pretty, mommy. My pretty baby,” he whispers.

He meets your eyes that burn into him. He can only imagine what he looks like. Pink from the tips of his ears down to his neck, face messily painted over with your slick, white hair fluffed up and a little frizzy from the sweat at his hairline. A pussydrunk mess.

You almost want to press your high heel to his chest, kick him to the floor, and then ride him until he cries. The lazier half of you wants to sit back and take the reins from below.

“Let’s get those pants of yours off, baby,” you gently coo.

Satoru exhales sharply and fumbles with his belt. The leather strap slips through the buckle with a sharp clink and he tosses it to the floor. His boxers drag along his erection almost painfully as he shoves them and his slacks down to bunch around his shapely thighs.

Flushed and dripping, his cock draws up now that it’s free of the confines and slaps against his abdomen, staining his pristine white button up with the copious amounts of precum that slicks it. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that he already blew his load in his pants. You sit up straighter to get a better look, looking as drunk as he feels.

“Please let me fuck you, mommy... I need it so bad. Need to make you feel good,” he pleads, blue eyes nearly rolling up to the light fixtures on the office ceiling as he finally fists his weepy cock. It feels so good that it hurts.

He was never apologetic about his spoiled golden child tendencies when it comes to you, even borderline proud of acting so shameless about it at times.

Still, Satoru needs a certain level of coaxing in order to be truly vulnerable. His obedience has always been fickle— difficult to coax out of him when his head is on straight, his thoughts moving too fast for him to melt like putty beneath you that easy. Pride is a wretched, untamable thing. An unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Yet he’s on his knees begging to get inside of you.

“Get up,” you breathe.

“Huh?” He mumbles stupidly, still fixed on you.

Your laugh is devastatingly fond. “Are we fucking or what?” You shove your pencil skirt up to your midsection.

Satoru gets a little distracted by the sight of your mussed up thigh highs, the tops of them soaked through, the splotchy hickeys dotting both of your legs, and your messy folds. His thumb stutters over his swollen cockhead.

“You don’t wanna leave mommy waiting, do you? Come get your dick wet.”

The second you finish speaking, he’s on you, flying up onto his feet and ignoring the smarting pain in his knees. He reaches past you and wildly sweeps at his desk, sending papers and pens to the floor. In the next instant, his hands are on the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs up and out to get a good look at your bare ass and glistening cunt.

While admiring the view, he risks his precious left hand by letting it come down to deliver a sharp smack to your ass. When you don’t bite his head off, he does it again, because damn, that’s a lot of movement back there. Your asscheek flares red like a warning. He’s of the opinion that you should get ‘Ms. Nasty’ tatted there, but you always shoot down the idea.

Fingers wrench at your hips to haul you forward, making you choke on air. Sweaty palms scramble for purchase on the smooth oak, stretching back behind you and hooking onto the edge of the desk at the last minute before he can send both of you falling to the floor in a heap.

“Gentle,” you scold. The flare of his nostrils gives away his uncharacteristic disappointment with himself, which you think is a little unfair to himself. He really has been so well behaved; one mishap is nothing. Humming soothingly, you pet at his cheek and his tension releases like a deflated balloon.

You shimmy a little, rubbing your velvety warmth all over his cock that he notches at your entrance. "Good boy," you purr, hooking your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles at the small of his back, tying them together with a cute little bow. "Such an obedient little puppy, following mommy's every command.”

Satoru groans, guttural and wet, and surges forward to connect their lips. The tangy taste of your own slick greets you, but you don’t mind, drinking down every pornographic whimper that drips from his mouth.

“Put it in,” you mumble between drawn out kisses. You rub your thumb just behind one of his ears and a pleased hum rumbles through his chest, which rises and falls rapidly as anticipation coils tightly in his gut. You shove his suit jacket off of his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, then loosen Satoru’s tie enough that you can get your fingers on the first button at his collar and work your way down. You leave his shirt hanging from his shoulders but you roll his sleeves up.

Arms that have snapped countless necks flex as Satoru plants his hands on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. You drag your hands up and down them, squeezing at the muscle of his biceps beneath his skin, shamelessly feeling up your husband. His cocky smirk is like a brand against your lips.

One, two, three more kisses are exchanged before he pulls back with a wet pop and you can finally peel your eyes open.

Lean muscle and pale scarred skin greets you, peeking from behind the curtain of his undone shirt. Not that you can see it from here, but you can practically picture the massive tattoo of a six-eyed, six-winged angel that he has etched into his back. There’s that jagged scar of his that always makes you wince in sympathy, the line of it running from one shoulder to his opposite hip that an assassin gave him when he was in high school. A smattering of fine white hairs races down his navel to the denser patch of hair curling around his cock. God, you wanna rub yourself all over him like a cat in heat— especially on those washboard abs of his.

With a deep breath, he begins pushing in, working just the tip in past the ring of your cunt. Instantly, Satoru stutters over a moan as if near tears.

Your velvety hole drenches Satoru’s cock with your syrupy slick and clamps down mercilessly as if trying to trap him inside. He shudders, a full-body tremor that starts at the top of his head and travels down the length of his body. Satoru has to grit his teeth to keep from emptying his balls right then and there like a teenager getting his first taste of pussy.

He’s genuinely delirious. His head is dizzy, stupid, because his wife is obscenely fucking tight despite everything and so damn warm. “My toes are throwing up gang signs,” Satoru coughs out as they curl in his Italian leather shoes and you bust out laughing. As responsive as ever, your cunt tries to wring his dick like a towel and he chokes.

You’re actually gonna be the death of him. Here he lies, Gojo Satoru, the deadly oyabun of the Gojo-gumi and the pride of the Gojo clan, dead via sex. May he forever rest in peace.

You’re not faring much better, though. Your previous orgasm left you raw and sensitive, so you’re fighting against the urge to run from his cock and the pleasure that crashes over you each time he throbs inside of you. “And I’m sending off Morse code signals,” you breathlessly joke. It’s a miracle that you’re able to manage a coherent sentence.

“Uh huh, I can tell.” Satoru licks his lips, staring down at where he guides another inch into you, then another, making you slap the desk to try and cope with the way he’s spreading you open. You feel full to the brim and he’s not even halfway there. “Your tight little cunt’s telling me that she can’t handle my cock.”

He needs his mouth washed out with soap. You have to hold back another peal of laughter.

Satoru brokenly whimpers, a sound that’s equal parts pleasure and pain, when you yank at his designer silk tie like a leash without warning. The expensive fabric pulls taut against his throat. Your next tug sends him stumbling forward, hips slapping against the plumpness of your ass with a heavy smack that echoes through his spacious office, forcing him to sink into your welcoming heat up to the hilt. The desk creaks, the wood protesting the rough treatment. Both of you moan when his cockhead smushes against your g-spot and your brain momentarily goes blank.

“You sure it’s not the other way around?” You try for a smirk and it wobbles around the edges.

“Hmph.” Satoru manages to pout at you, pursing his lips. He even rolls his eyes. This diva.

Attempting to dig up the dregs of your sanity and cling to it is hard. You’re one wrong step away from losing your cool, the sheer pressure and pleasure of being practically split in two overwhelming you. It's too much, too intense, and yet you can't stop from leaning into it nor stop the excessive amounts of slick pooling around him and dribbling onto the desk in a steady rhythm, spelling out your arousal. All you know is that you want more— more of Satoru and this perfect, mind-numbing ecstasy.

The man of the hour goes willingly as you wrap more of his tie around your fingers and reel him impossibly closer. He drops his weak head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck as he grinds his hips in tight circles that stir up your insides, practically humping your ass like a rutting canine. He only stops when you let loose an unsteady peep.

His breath shakes out of him in short, sharp gusts, lost in the sensation of being buried inside of you. "You feel so fucking good, sugar," Satoru slurs his words a little, nipping at the tendons in your neck that flex when you swallow before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. He inhales the lip-smacking scent of your natural scent and your perfume. "So wet and perfect. Can't get enough of this sweet cunt."

He kisses his way down your neck and to your collarbone as you both adjust to being so intimately joined, reveling in how you loll your head back to give him more skin to work with. He spies down your shirt that gapes open a little, showing where your necklace is trapped between your heaving breasts, and gets an idea.

The muscles in his arms bunch up right before Satoru rips at the front of your blouse, figuring he’ll buy you a prettier and more expensive one later. He doesn't care. All he cares about is getting his hands on your tits, plain and simple.

You can only watch in mild horror as buttons pop off and fly everywhere (one nearly takes out his eye), ping ping pinging off the walls and the floor, a shower of scattered stars. One goes skittering beneath his office door. Another bounces so hard off of a tiny lamp across the room that it goes careening off of the side table and the lightbulb smashes into bits on the floor.

Since everything’s already going to shit, he doesn’t bother with finesse when it comes to the front of your now decimated, but blessedly open, shirt. He simply yanks the fabric down your arms until it pools around your elbows.

“What the hell, Satoru!” You scold him. The subtle hitch of your hips and your dilated pupils betray you. “I swear to god, if you don’t learn the art of subtlety and figure out how to stay quiet, I’ll—“

“Relax, my men’ll probably think it was hail or something,” he says flippantly.

Your glare is withering. Shit, he needs to score brownie points all over again.

He nips at the soft upper curves of your breasts, burying his face between them as far as he can with the restriction of your bra holding him back, and innocently blinks up at you, trying to look as sweet as pie. “Wait, I’m sorry for interrupting you. Go on, wrap it up. Tell me how you’d shut me up, yeah? Would it hurt? I wanna know all the dirty deets,” Satoru simpers.

“Hit dogs holler.”

Ooooooh.

“Fuck, fuck, stop right there, I nearly came,” Satoru moans dramatically.

Your low, aggrieved noise turns into a wobbly inhale when he leans down to mouth at the swell of your cleavage, tongue tracing the edge of a cup before he pulls that down too.

Out pops your titty. His dick nearly busts inside of you as if saying hi. He quickly yanks down the other cup to let both of your breasts fully spill free, both of them begging to be worshipped. “There’s my girls,” he croons.

Your nipples quickly harden now that they’re exposed to the cool air chugging through the vents. There’s very few things better than anointing every inch of your pretty tits with kisses and licks and nips, which he does happily. He squishes them together to enthusiastically motorboat them (he misses the way your eye twitches), slaps your left tit to watch it jiggle and spits on the right one, watching the strand of saliva slip down the curve of your body. Satoru chases it down and sucks your nipple into his mouth. Being winded by all this stimulation does nothing to stop you from eagerly arching into him.

“Having fun?” You ask dryly. Teeth roll your nipple around, gently biting into it and eliciting a weak spasm from you. Your vision threatens to cross when that makes your body swallow his cock in further.

He pulls back, breaking the seal of his lips on your breast with a lewd pop. Just to ensure he’s covered all his bases, he openly sniffs your chest. You grimace at him. “Mmmmm. Yup. Can I move now, mommy?”

You nod.

“Good.”

You’re promptly fully laid down atop the desk. Before you can even blink, he’s screwing his shoes into the foothold of the carpet beneath him, gripping at your hips, and he plasters half of the weight of his upper half on you without crushing you.

Hips draw back with the tautness of a bowstring, a deadly instrument of war. The tension is suspended when he slides the thickness of him almost fully out, your folds just barely clinging to the underside of his throbbing cockhead.

He releases it. Driving forward, he hits his mark with military precision and you swear you can feel him up in your throat.

“Satoru,” you gasp, your voice nearly drowned out by the sticky squelch of his body reconnecting with yours. You’re leaking so much that your ass and thighs and his pelvis are finely glazed with slick, a concoction as thickly sweet as the one pasted over pastries.

“Shit.” The curse punches its way up his throat and out of the drooling seam of his mouth. Starting up a filthy grind drags more from his worn lungs. He rocks with the sensual finesse and purpose of someone seasoned in the realm of the red light district, dragging along each crevice of your heavenly warmth.

(Your stern, nonchalant facade nearly crumbled when you asked him if he’d ever been to the red light district back when you first started dating years ago, long before wedding bells rang. At the time, you kind of wanted to throw up even though it would’ve made sense and you would’ve understood. Why get jealous of what came before you? However, Satoru looked at you like you hit your head. “For Gojo-gumi business? Yeah, of course I have. I literally own a few clubs in those parts.”)

Every silky inch of you threatens to be his ruin. You’re pillow soft. Satoru has to screw his eyes shut in a futile attempt to handle it. “God, fuuuuck, baby. M’so drunk on this pretty body of yours, so addicted to you that it’s driving me crazy,” he warbles.

His fingertips dig into the soft pouch of your hips, keeping you in place so that you can release your death grip on the edge of his desk. “There you go, that’s— that’s perfect, right there. That’s a good boy. Mommy’s perfect boy,” you babble right back.

The way you praise him all sweet with your voice tuned to a higher pitch, your blessed hands finally petting over every inch of him that you can touch, slipping under his shirt to dance along the knobs of his spine, nails biting into the inked angel on his back, drawing your fingers back out to brush them along his face— it’s like a switch flips in his brain, reducing him to a needy mess incapable of doing nothing but pleasing you. You have him under lock and key.

The poor desk beneath you feebly creaks and wobbles, openly protesting their coupling. Drawers rattle in their slots from the force of Satoru's increasingly powerful thrusts, banging open in a chaotic cacophony and spilling papers and office supplies onto the floor. With a whine, Satoru changes the pace so that he’s battering his way in and out of your cunt to the rhythm of your pulsations around his cock, like a bass being plucked. Your joint moans grow borderline frantic.

“Open your eyes.” Satoru peels his eyelids apart to look at you as requested. He blinks back the spots lining his vision.

Your beauty is the kind that he’s sure artists would kill to put on paper. Sweat glistens enticingly on your trembling body, making it seem like you’ve been buffed in stardust, your abs fluttering every time his cockhead kisses that spongy spot deep inside you that drives you insane. The commanding pools of your eyes reel him in and it makes him melt.

“My gorgeous fucking wife,” he rasps. “Mine.”

The flat of Satoru’s palm smooths down to your stomach. He presses down right where there’s visible distension from the thickness of his cock embedding itself in you. Your lips fall apart in a lewd ‘o’ as the pressure adds to the hot sparks of pleasure flooding your body. “That’s how deep I am, huh, princess? It's allll in your tummy,” he crows breathlessly, trying to sound cocky but failing. Miserably.

Your nod is borderline frantic. “Keep fucking me just like this,” you insist, eyes rolling back, body jolting. And he obliges.

His face is dusted in a dark pink shade that L’Oréal would kill to make a lipstick out of and Satoru’s sporting a fucked-out, hopelessly giddy grin. Sweat marches down his temples, his snow-white hair falling damp and disheveled over his brow from his exertions. His once crisp button-up hangs off his broad shoulders, the tie swinging from around his pale neck.

Blue eyes hazy and wrecked, lust swims in the yawning voids of his irises as he stares down at where he’s joined with his wife. He watches, enraptured, as your stretched cunt greedily sucks him in, tight walls adhering to him and pumping out slick.

With the way Satoru’s sinking into you with heavy deep strokes, you matching him with frenzied ruts of your own hips, it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and never come out. This intimate closeness is what he craves, needs. Satoru’s long white eyelashes, clumpy and wet, veil his vision with how low lidded his eyes are. He blinks at you between the slits with raw, open affection.

Using his hold on your hips, he yanks you onto his cock over and over and over again. His chin drops to bump against his sternum, groans hissing through the barrier of his teeth as you cry out and squeeze around him. “Sosososo fucking good, swear on everything that you’re perfect. Use me for your pleasure. Juuust like that, pretty, I got you,” Satoru spews like a two-bit whore on the street.

He’s too loud. Any illusion that you may have been quiet enough to have gone undetected to the rest of the building has been long shattered, but schematics, schematics.

Your thumb draws at the plump swell of Satoru’s bottom lip, pushing into the slight natural divot of them. His eyes follow the movement, transfixed, and he opens up without hesitation when you replace your thumb with two fingers.

Satisfied, you sink them into Satoru’s mouth. “Stay quiet and occupy yourself with mommy’s fingers.” He lets out a muffled moan in response as you push them deeper, tongue instinctively curling to try and force them right back out, but he forces himself to relax. He draws his tongue lazily over your fingers, tasting his own saliva mingling with the faint flavor of your lotion.

Creeping over his soft palate, you press at the back of his throat, coolly watching him gag around the invading force for a moment before sliding them back out, back in with a wet noise. Drool escapes the corners of his stretched lips in rivulets and dribbles down his chin and onto your sternum, making him look more like a sloppy, over-excited puppy than the feared yakuza boss he is.

The points of his canines shrieeeek over the gloss of your nails when you stretch your fingers apart in a ‘v’ and nestle them between his teeth. Yet he doesn’t bite down. He holds your fingers there like a soft mouthed retriever, docile and tender.

“My baby likes having any part of mommy in his mouth, yeah?” You manage.

He dutifully nods. You indulge him until your fingers prune, letting him suckle and gag himself on you to his heart’s content. There’s a constant stream of gargled moans and whimpers flowing from him, all of his words running together until it’s just meaningless sound. Only then do you pull them out, allowing more of his saliva to splatter on your sternum and ooze down between your bobbing breasts.

It’s a little hard to secure a hold with your wet fingers, but you manage to snag the edge of his tie and once again use it to dictate the pace of his thrusts, pushing and pulling him around the same way one does with a toy.

By now, any semblance of coherency has all but been forgotten and he’s just rutting into you, mindless, puppy-like; the relief of fixating on you and your pleasure a thrilling change of pace from the constant demands and expectations that come with his position. He may be looming over you as he fucks you like his life depends on it, but he’s under no illusion that he’s the one in control here.

They’re moving in sync, two waves cresting and crashing and ensuring each other’s ruin every time they come together. Teeth chafe against skin, promising, before sinking in. Fingers grapple for proper leverage, smoothly trimmed nails sinking into warm thighs and scalps and sweaty backs. Your ass claps against his thighs so hard that it burns, sopping pussy ravenous in its efforts to envelop him.

“Shit, m’not gonna last long,” you heave. Your legs tighten around his slutty ass waist and cling there for dear life when one of his flexing hands drops away from your hip, hurriedly dipping down between you and frantically rubbing his thumb over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“You’re so close, I can feel it, f-fuck, squeezing me so tight. C’mon. Make a mess of my cock, please cum for me again, mommy. I’m all yours, I’m all yours, I’m all yours,” Satoru deliriously whines.

You see red.

It’s not the kind of red that comes from anger. No, it’s the kind that comes from having your brain cells fry from the sheer mind-numbing euphoria that bursts through your body like a supernova. You’re pretty sure you wail as your slick rushes wetly from your plugged up cunt, but it’s drowned out by the roaring blood swelling in your ears.

You babble a litany of nonsense, half of it praise and half of it mindless chants for more, for less, you don’t know. Satoru more than happily fucks you through your orgasm, thumbing your clit, driving wildly into you and making you mercilessly convulse.

"That's it, angel," he groans, feeling his own release fast approaching. A gooey feeling curls in his stomach, hotly insistent, and his balls draw up. It’s riding him hard.

Bowing further over you, he bodily pries your shaking legs away from his waist and tosses them over his shoulders, folding you in half like a lawn chair and making one sleeve of his shirt slide further down his arm. The new angle allows him to push impossibly deeper and your moan scratches it’s way out of the column of your throat.

"I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna cum, sweets," he grits out through clenched teeth, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. But it's a losing battle, his body trembling and tensing as he teeters on the precipice of ecstasy. Only you, his anchor, ties him down to earth. "Tell me I can... tell me I can cum inside this perfect cunt."

You don’t respond, either too busy drowning in the remnants of your climax or just blatantly ignoring him, and he releases a big shuddery whimper when he realizes his misstep. “Please,” he tries.

Big blue eyes watery and wide, he looks like a ruined angel above you. “I’ll buy you that new phone you wanted, or take you on a trip anywhere in the world. I’ll do anything, say the word and I will. Just— just lemme cum. Please, mommy.” His saliva-slick lips drag down your chest and seal around one of your pearly nipples, suckling gently and trying to appeal further to you.

He sounds so broken, so desperate, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. It almost makes you wonder if you could cum again just from hearing him like this. You know you could make him beg for hours if you wanted to, even demand that he halt completely, but he hasn’t done anything to warrant being on the receiving end of your borderline sadistic streak.

(Though, knowing this 6’3 eager to please masochist on top of you, he’d rock with it.)

“Go ahead, baby,” you tell him. Nails claw at his back, likely shredding along the feathery lines of the tatted angel’s wings, further spurring him on.

“Ffffuck, thank you, thank you, I love you so much,” he chants around your swollen nipple, voice breaking on each word. He pulls his mouth away, spit clinging to his lower lip and connecting him to your tits that sway every time he rocks his twitching hips against yours.

Satoru greedily paws at you, squeezing your pillowy breasts, tracing your curves, pressing into your navel, anything he can get his hands on. He's like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, determined to sample everything until he’s no longer allowed to.

Your neck strains as you thrash your head and he visibly wavers like a house about to fall. “What, can’t take it anymore?” Satoru pokes fun, but his question is really a ‘you good?’

“Shut up.” ‘I’m fine, I love you, go ahead.’

The perks of a married couple… telepathy.

Satoru drops his head, slams into you a little faster. The drawers continue rattling like teeth in a jar. Despite the euphoria clogging your pores and melting your brain down, you lift your hands, cupping his face, thumbs fanning outwards from the bridge of his nose and gently digging into the warming apples of his cheeks.

He leans into your touch, nuzzling into your palms as your thumbs brush away tears that he didn’t realize were escaping him. In his electric blue eyes that make your nerves sing with just a glance, you can see the depth of his devotion and trust in you, the way he's utterly handing himself over to you in this moment.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” you whisper. “Mommy’s perfect puppy.”

His vision goes black and his mouth opens. Then, suddenly, a searing and blinding white explodes across his retinas like a droplet of paint in a cup of water as he lets go.

His cock jerks, painting you over and over again with spurts of his spend. He pulses inside you with each aftershock that rumbles through his very bones, your pussy eagerly wringing around him in turn, milking him and siphoning his soul out via his cock, and forcing him to plug his load in deep.

The whole while, Satoru lets out watery whimpers, peppering your scrunched up face in sloppy uncoordinated puppy kisses and grinding into you. If you squint, you swear you can see a fluffy white tail wagging faster than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings behind him.

As he comes down and his movements peter off, stopping to mould his pelvis to the curve of your ass and leave himself buried in you, he nuzzles his way between your tits. Your perfectly soft, plush, pillowy tits. This is heaven. Needily, he rubs his cheek on the gentle swell of your right boob, drinking you and the smell of sex and sweat in.

Your hand sinks into his white hair, stroking the sweaty strands and trying to comb them into place between gentle scratches at his scalp to pacify him further. He practically purrs. In his wife’s presence, Satoru isn’t the almighty oyabun of the Gojo-gumi. Nuh uh, no sir. He’s completely and utterly your annoying husband that scrambles for your affection as if he’s a broke person on the street chasing pennies— and you always give it to him.

Together, the two of you slowly breathe and bask in the afterglow. Satoru, humming out sweet nothings, you, petting over him and probably tracking the fan above them that spins round and round. Minds blissfully blank.

(‘I need to buy this man a collar,’ you think to yourself. ‘And then peg the absolute dogshit out of him.’)

God, he’s so fortunate to be able to come home to you every damn day. He’s been counting his lucky stars since the day they met. A sudden burst of emotion swells in his chest, warm and golden like the summer sun.

“Love you, pretty,” he sighs dreamily. He catches your hand in his, planting a kiss to the back of it, then to your engagement ring and wedding band.

Your hands refix themselves on his cheeks with a gentle squeeze. “I love you too, baby,” you murmur, drawing him into a hopelessly sappy kiss. He pecks you one, two, three more times, chasing your lips, and you laugh softly.

Satoru jolts when skin cracks against skin in a sudden spank, a vicious throb skyrocketing beneath the skin of his ass. “Hey! Way to ruin the moment!” He complains with the most offended look he can muster. You smile with false serenity.

He’s sure it’ll bruise into a small reminder, one that will surely haunt him for days to come whenever he sits in his office chair and feels the bruise pulse beneath the pressure, drawing him back to this moment— Satoru breaking your back on his desk, waiting for you to give him permission to go ahead while he writhes, needy and wanting and begging with his body.

You pull back a little to scrutinize him. “That was for my shirt that you—“ he winces when you jab a finger at him, “destroyed.”

You yelp when he abruptly slots his arms beneath you and hoists you up off of the desk. Satoru drops down into his chair, sending them skidding back a few steps when it gets the wheels rolling, and cordons you off in his lap by squeezing you close, his stupid dick still buried in your guts. You widen your legs to properly straddle him then frown at the sensation of tacky drying cum, slick, and sweat between your bodies.

Behind Satoru, the sun peeks over his head and sets his white hair aglow. Towering buildings go on and on, stretching out before the empire of the Gojo-gumi.

He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and lets his touch linger a little before he snuggles you closer. In his arms, you’re utterly at ease. He’s equally at peace— always is, actually, in your presence. You quiet the incessant din of his life and fill it with you; your snark, your gentleness that you only ever show him, your authority that he leans on, your love and your dreams for you and him.

You’re intrinsically part of him now. Nothing can ever change that.

“I’ll buy you a new one, relaaaax. You can wear my shirt on your way out and I’ll just grab one of my spare suits for myself,” Satoru cajoles, puckering his lips and theatrically fluttering his lashes. You grumble something highly censorable. Trying to find a way to hush you up before you can let loose on him, he glances around the room, drinking in the pens, papers, the shattered lamp, random buttons, and half of their clothing littering the ground. A mess that he most definitely will not be cleaning up himself.

Then, once he finds it, he scoots them along a fraction in the chair and taps his foot against a certain paper. You look behind you. “Oh, good, I needed your signature on this. Now I can go forward with my plan,” Satoru says cheerily.

You blink, confused. You don’t hold any executive power in this building, not enough to warrant your signature. Nor have you signed anything of note in the last week, here at headquarters, at home, or otherwise.

Satoru taps his foot against it again. Dotted along the paper are dried splotches of what is most likely your wetness. Your supposed ‘signature.’ Heat rises to your face. “I got us a seventh vacation home!”

“Fucker.”

After he has a giggle fest over it and you quiet him down with more kisses and unserious scoldings, which leads to an overly heated make out session that has you evaluating the pros and cons of another round, a fist pounds on the door. You pause in the middle of mauling your husband’s neck, painting the smooth expanse in hickeys in revenge for the two fat ones throbbing on your thighs, and pinch his side to push him into action.

Satoru rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t get lodged back in his skull. “Does it look like I’m available? The door’s locked for a reason,” he hollers.

A beat. You hear Kento’s familiar, utterly exhausted sigh. “If you two are done in there.” It’s clear what he’s referring to. Your eyes flare again and Satoru tries for a smile. “Gojo is needed elsewhere. I’ve been made aware that Geto has been blowing up his phone for quite some time now. It’s urgent.”

Then, when neither of you answer, Kento adds, “There’s been an incident in Shibuya.”

Oh hell no.

Satoru’s about to show Shibuya a real incident for interrupting his moment with his wife.

author’s note: he will be collared in a drabble GOD WILLING

thank you all for reading this freaky ass shit, hoping to post more of my 1748282 wips soon :3 reblog and/or comment to let me know ur thoughts because i eat replies UP, they’re all greatly appreciated muuuah 🫶🏽

tags: @stuboo2053 @pvmpkingod @spirit-kat @skz8stay @loyalguma @amane1271 @irishiruuu @m1nrrva @onixsky @q2uq2u @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @libr4sonsa @kaitospo @n1vi @ieathairs

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