theplacetoputfics

[theplacetoputfics]

Careful, Birdie.

[theplacetoputfics]

the strongest (fake) boyfriend | gojo satoru x reader [one shot]

❀ pairing - fake dating trope | gojo satoru x fem reader

❀ summary - all you needed was a fake boyfriend to get your family off your back. enter: gojo satoru. queue: corny rom-com movie.

❀ warnings/tags - 18+, canonverse, fake dating trope, clan politics/family drama, one bed trope, semi-public kissing, mutual pining (kinda), enemies to lovers (kinda), acquaintances to lovers (kinda), smut, plot with porn, cum play lite, vaginal sex, praise kink, dirty talk, reader pov, fluff, unprotected sex, kinda comedic if u squint, flirting but not rlly, creampie

❀ wc - 13.8k

a/n - hi guys! my first official one shot so pls be nice lol, its a lot i am a certified yapper i fear. saw this fanart of gojo and couldnt resist tbh hes so yummy, hope u all enjoy! creds to @/naznaz122 on x for fanart

2012

The great hall feels almost suffocating as you quietly step in, footsteps drowned out by the sound of kimonos rustling and conversation as clan members drifted past in clusters. The lanterns hung, casting a glowing golden light over the polished wooden floors, light catching the wooden frame of carved screens. The air hung heavy with expectations and clan politics, something you’ve grown used to from years and years of attending similar events. A glance up at the railing along the stair landing reveals banners of crests hung, a heavy reminder of the bloodlines that are present tonight as the most powerful sorcerer clans in Kyoto met in this building. 

You anxiously smooth the fabric on the sides of your kimono, inhaling a sharp breath as you begin to make your way through the crowd of elders. Most of them were involved in their own conversation, while you were already searching for an escape route before you could even hold a full conversation. Familiar faces of distant family members pass by, offering the very typical questions that always got the same rehearsed responses. A bow, a smile, a side hug while they bombard you with questions.

“Wow, you’ve grown up so beautifully.”

“Thank you,” accompanied by a respectful bow.

“How are your parents? Are they here tonight?”

“Yes, they are.” An excuse for an escape, “I’m actually looking for them now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I haven’t seen you since you were thiis small.”

“It has been a long time,” they saw you no less than six months ago at the last clan gathering, but you offer a small smile anyway.

These questions were tamer in comparison to the,

“And have you found a suitor yet?” No

“Are you planning on settling down soon?” Definitely not

“You shouldn’t be taking all those solo missions, don’t you get lonely?” Not really no

Every question pricked under your skin like a tiny wooden splinter, just irritating enough to be difficult to dismiss, forcing you to hold your expression steady and tight and spit out some diplomatic yet vague answer. 

Everything had always been decided for you from when you were young. When your clan discovered you had cursed energy during your adolescence, a switch had flipped, and suddenly the world felt like it was heavier around your small shoulders. The same sentiment followed through your teenage to young adult years, which led to where you found yourself now, running away to any extended assignments available to sorcerers of your level, anything that would relieve the feeling of being under the l/n clan’s thumb.

You hadn’t realized the tightness in your shoulders or the pursing of your lips until you found reprieve in the landing above the ballroom, shoulders dropping back and facial muscles relaxing. You lean against the carved railing, breathing out a slow, measured sigh as you watch the whirl of movement below, the taste of unspoken words sitting on your tongue. It felt heavy to be back in this room, the weight of familial pressure laid on your shoulders, and you were already looking forward to another assignment that would hopefully take up a decent amount of your time. The hall shimmered beneath you, full of laughter and calculated smiles. The exhaustion of being amongst the clan members hung over you like a dark cloud, but from up on the staircase landing, it felt easier to pretend this was all just a painting–flat, harmless, and far away. 

A flicker of white catches your eye, and you glance over to your left. Six–maybe ten feet away– stood Gojo Satoru in a similar position, leaning over the railing. He raises his left hand in a lazy wave, barely flicking his wrist for the movement. You rest your cheek on your own shoulder and sigh, lifting your own hand back with hardly any energy. Social exhaustion had already set in, and you certainly didn’t have the energy to entertain Gojo Satoru at this moment. As if he can sense that fact, he saunters over in about three long steps. 

“Madam l/n,” he drawls, grin crooked and voice teasing. You glance up at him as he occupies the space by your side, head tilting in mock formality, “Escaping your familial duties already?”

Your patience–already worn thin from the bombardment of personal questions in the hall below you–began to fray more than it already was. You purse your lips, “Don’t you have more important things to do, Gojo?” Your tone a bit more biting than you had initially intended.

If he noticed, he did nothing to show it, already tilting his head downwards at you, bright blue eyes glancing over the edge of his dark sunglasses frames. His grin widened, curling at the edge of his lips as he was ready to toss something flippant back until a shrill, familiar voice cut through the low hum of the crowd below.

“Oh! Is that my dear Y/N?”

You stiffened, turning halfway. Your aunt beams at you, rapidly approaching with a tall man at her side who is already moving towards Gojo. He claps a strong hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder that would have made you flinch but Gojo remains still, offering a warm smile to your aunt and to who you presume to be his relative. The man announces himself as a distant uncle to him and earnestly shakes your hand.

“What an unexpected–but lovely–couple!” his low voice booms. 

You blink. The implication regarding just how unexpected your pairing would be almost makes you roll your eyes because you presume it has absolutely nothing to do with Gojo so much as it has everything to do with you. 

A man chooses not to be involved in a relationship and throws himself into his work, he’s seen as an independent leader who’s focused on his career but when you do it, you’re a reckless, immature girl who’s probably gonna die alone, or even worse, won’t pass on inherited clan techniques. 

Your aunt clasps her hands together, nodding along eagerly, ”Truly, what a beautiful couple!” Then, in a lower tone as she leans into you, “Posture, dear.”

The urge to roll your eyes comes back along with a sharp snap of irritation that burns your throat–which you swallow down and will your shoulders back and your spine straight– until you realize the context of the conversation. Couple. Your first instinct is to vehemently deny until a thought pops up in your head.

From the corner of your eye, Gojo lifts both hands in an easy denial, fingertips pointed toward the coffered ceiling and a respectful smile on his mouth, uttering the words, “Oh, no, you’ve got the wrong ide-”

Before he could finish, your arm shoots out, looping through the crook of his arm and taking just the smallest step closer to his body. An unnaturally wide and tight smile on your face as you chirp, “Thank you!” You will your eyes forward and glance between both his uncle and your aunt, who have a pleasantly surprised expression on their faces. “It’s … um … a new development?” Your voice cracking against your will. 

You risk a glance over and up at him and find that he’s already peering down at you behind his sunglasses. You look up at him with almost pleading eyes, still tightly attached to the crook of his arm and stiff as ever. You almost miss the way his stiff smile fades, his expression faltering before a wide grin finds its way on his face easily, delight glinting in his gaze. 

He effortlessly pulls you just the tiniest bit closer, “Thank you, Miss L/N, Uncle,” he says smoothly, “We haven’t had the chance to properly come out as a couple yet, so tonight seemed perfect, didn’t it?” 

Your pulse stutters at the sudden closeness, the heat from his arm searing into the hand you had wrapped around his bicep. Gojo easily steers the conversation, laughing with his uncle and trading polite quips with your aunt, who briefly places a hand on his arm while laughing at a joke he made. For once, you’ve found yourself quiet, watching how they were both so easily charmed by his confidence and relaxed demeanor. 

It’s not until your aunt pats your arm, cooing at you both, that you realize you’ve tuned out the entire conversation. “It was so nice to see you both,” she smiles and reaches to pinch your cheeks and you begrudgingly let her, “especially together,” she tacks on with a sly wink at you. 

You blinked, a beat too late, before chirping back, “Nice to see you both as well!” As your aunt and his uncle drift back and blend into the crowd, you hesitantly turn your head up towards the sorcerer to your right. Gojo is already looking at you with a crooked grin and blue eyes glinting with mischief. A beat. You immediately move to untangle your arm from his like he was on fire, heat prickling your face. 

“Wooww,” he draws out, voice teasing, “Who knew little Miss L/N has been secretly in love with me this whole time?” 

You huff in response, smoothing down the material of your sleeve as if brushing off the contact and returning to your usual posture. You’ve known Satoru your entire life but you could hardly count him as a family friend or even someone you grew up with. You saw him at the occasional clan gathering, similar to the one tonight, and it became less and less frequent as the two of you got older. Your training got more and more intensive, especially once you started reaching your teenage years and from what you heard, he was shipped off to Tokyo to study at a specialized Jujutsu school. But, on the rare occasion when you did see him, he was nothing short of the worst migraine you’ve ever experienced. 

Gojo leans back against the railing again, clearly unbothered, tucking his hands into the wide sleeves of his haori. “Y’know,” he starts and the urge to roll your eyes comes back. You should really stop that. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m not really on the market for a wife right now,” he pauses to look down to make eye contact with you, grin curling a bit wider, “And, trust me, I get it and I’m sure you’re devastated right now which, in all fairness, makes sense. I mean, I’m tall, the strongest sorcerer, strikingly handsome, charming—“ 

You wrinkle your nose, scrunching up your face in disgust. “Ew, be serious,” you mutter, allowing yourself to roll your eyes for the first time tonight. “I just needed them to leave me alone.” You cross your arms over your chest despite the restraint from your kimono. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in, your shoulders relaxing with the exhale. 

A beat.

“Thank you,” you say a little quietly, struggling to make eye contact with Gojo. 

He blinks at you, presumably a bit surprised by the sudden change in your rather tense attitude. “You’re welcome.”

-

Soft sunlight peeks through the blinds of your Tokyo apartment as the violent buzzing of your phone vibrating against the nightstand pulls you from your sleep. After a long night of fighting a rather difficult curse, it would be nice to be allowed to sleep in. Your eye is already twitching from irritation as you groggily fumble for your phone. You squint at the brightly glowing screen, tapping the answer button before pressing it into your ear. 

“Hello?” Your voice rasped, thick with sleep. Squinting again, you pull it from your ear to double-check the caller ID when the sound of your mother’s voice blaring through the phone speaker shocked you. 

“Y/N!” 

You wince at the sound, jerking the phone further from your ear. You peel some hair stuck to your cheek from sleep as her words begin to blur together in a tirade far too fast-paced for your still half-dreaming brain to comprehend. You rub your free hand over your face again, attempting to rub the sleep away so you can at least try to make sense of the noise. It sounds like a jumble of nonsense to your half awake consciousness, something about your father and the clan, something else about—

“—seeing Gojo Satoru—“

And that causes your eyes to snap open. You’re fully awake and shoot up in bed, blanket slipping from your shoulders onto your lap. “What?” you ask almost incredulously. You’re simultaneously shocked and confused, unsure of where she could’ve heard something so outrageous. “I’m not—“

Oh. Oh.

You think of the chandelier-lit ballroom, your aunt’s shrill voice and his uncle’s booming laugh. You had honestly only planned to use Gojo as some sort of scapegoat, an out to the otherwise nagging conversation you would have had with your aunt. It was such a ridiculous conversation that you had honestly completely disregarded the entire situation the second you walked away rather awkwardly.  And now it’s all coming back to bite you in the ass. 

You press the phone mic to your shoulder to cover your childlike tantrum as much as you could while you groaned and kicked the blanket off your body. You look at the time. 8:12 am. Definitely too early for you to deal with all of this right now. 

“Y/N, are you listening?” your mom’s voice snaps, drawing your attention back to the conversation, utter disbelief in her tone, “I just cannot believe you didn’t tell us you were seeing Gojo Satoru out of all people!”

“Yeah, Mom,” you clear your throat, trying to will the rasp from sleep away. “I- um- it’s really nothing serious. I don’t even know if you could call it … seeing each other.” 

Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. You definitely couldn’t call it seeing each other. 

“Don’t be silly, y/n,” your mother shot back immediately. You start to tune her out again while she rattles off. Something about settling down, finding a suitor, having an heir, passing on the clan’s cursed technique. You stare at the space on your wall, mostly focused on how you’re planning on handling the Gojo situation while your mom continues on about clan politics sandwiched between personal criticism. 

You sigh, breaking her lecture, “Okay, mom, I have to go.” Your fingers absentmindedly rub your temples as they threaten to split open. 

“Alright, sweetie. Bye, love you! Don’t forget!”

You blinked. “…Forget what?”

“Dinner with the Gojos!”

The line went dead before you could protest. You fall backwards onto the bed, dropping your arm with the heavy weight of the phone onto the bed, both arms fully extended. You comb your fingers through your hair in an attempt to tame the mess that sat on top of your head, letting out a deep exhale. You stare at the ceiling as if it would offer some sort of divine intervention and at this point, you really hope the sky would open up and swallow you whole. 

Dinner. With the Gojos.

You sit up again as an almost outrageous idea came to you. Not quite divine intervention, but you’ll take it.

-

The cafe was overstimulating to say the least. The pastel colored walls, decorated with hand-painted fruit, were enough to give you a headache, but paired with the little white lace doilies under the plates, it was all a bit overwhelming. The display case near the register was littered with intricately decorated cakes, and the smell of sickeningly sweet desserts clung thick in the air. Yet somehow, you were not surprised that this was Gojo Satoru’s meeting spot of choice.

You sit across from him at a small heart-shaped table that hardly has enough leg room for you, let alone a six-foot-three freak. You look at the plate in front of Gojo, a white and baby blue elaborately frosted cake slice, adorned with sliced strawberries. He’s already got a fork in hand. You glance down at the drink in front of you, colorful swirls and whipped cream stacked high in one of those warped, wavy milkshake cups. You absentmindedly begin to use the plastic straw to swirl the drink around, mixing the bright colors into something muddy. 

You blink at Gojo across from you. “You like this place?” you mutter, unable to hide the genuine surprise behind your voice. He’s practically beaming at the slice of cake in front of him, and you watch as he moves the piece of cake on the fork to his mouth. He lets out a dramatic hum of pure enjoyment and you can tell his eyes are shut behind his sunglasses.

“Oh yeah,” he manages to get out between chews, nodding as he’s still chewing. “Had a girl take me here once.” 

You want to roll your eyes. Of course, he had. You could practically see her now–head over heels and hopeful, probably so excited to take him to what was likely one of her favorite cafes in Tokyo just for him to eventually dump her. And then, in typical Gojo fashion, he stole it from her and claimed it as his own. That poor girl probably never set foot in here again, nursing her wounded pride every time she unfortunately had to pass this street corner. All because the cafe was forever branded with his name now. Like a man would. You feel bad for the girl.

You watch as he shovels another bite of cake into his mouth, blissfully unbothered, and let out a sigh. “Word got out that we’re dating,” you lower your voice, raising your fingers to do air quotations, “Which, by the way, was probably from your uncle.” That just gets you a nonchalant shrug from Gojo. “Anyways, I was just thinking-”

“Ooh, dangerous,” he teases, mischief glinting in his eyes over the rim of his sunglasses.

“Look,” you continue, ignoring his comment and crossing your arms over your chest, “And please don’t let this go to your head but I feel like this may work.” He sets his fork down with a soft clink, one eyebrow tipped upwards. “I just,” you glance around the cafe, refusing to make eye contact, “It just gets a little exhausting, y’know? Everyone’s so focused on clan politics and passing on cursed techniques. I just kinda want everyone off my back and it worked in that conversation with my aunt so maybe if we just.. I don’t know,” you take a sharp inhale, “pretend to date–just for a little while��they’ll back off.” 

You purse your lips as he looks at you, expression almost unreadable, nodding silently while you talk. You start fidgeting in your seat a little, hands toying with the lace doily placed under your slowly melting drink. “And only for a short amount of time. And then we can have some crazy natural-disaster-level breakup and they’ll never bother us again.” You add the last part for drama.

Surprisingly, he listens without interrupting and you almost want to make a comment but decide to bite your tongue. He leans back in his chair, relaxed and shrugs, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

You blink, a little caught off guard, fully expecting some theatrics from him. “That’s it…?”

“Mm,” he hums, shrugging and draping an arm over the back of his chair. “Simple enough.”

“It’s not simple.” You scoff, a little defensive.

“Isn’t it?” He suggests easily, eyebrows raised in mock curiosity.

Something about his response causes irritation to prick under your skin. You tighten your crossed arms around yourself, “Well, no, it’s not. There’s… um,” you purse your lips again, glancing down at the table before making eye contact with him again, “I have terms and conditions.”

A lopsided grin finds its way onto his mouth, “Okay. Shoot.”

“No touching,” you state firmly.

He hums again, tilting his head to the side a bit, finger tapping his chin as if he were in deep thought about a world-shattering problem. “Kinda hard to be fake dating if we can’t touch.”

You open your mouth, and then close. You hadn’t thought about that. Frankly, you hadn’t really put much thought into any details about this entire situation. “...Fine. But don’t go getting any ideas.” You narrow your eyes at him accusingly.

“Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn't.” He practically drawls his words mockingly and the irritation is back. You almost want to snap at him, asking what he meant by that, but instead you choose to roll your eyes, which, unfortunately, gets a chuckle out of him.

“And we only appear at clan-related events together. No extra stuff.”

“Okay,” he replies easily, too easily, that same playful smile tugging at his mouth.

“…And I get to break up with you.”

That earns a real laugh out of him, bright and unrestrained. “Is that really realistic? C’mon.”

You scoff, refusing to even dignify that with a response and take an angry sip from your straw.

“Alright, alright,” he lifts both hands in mock defense, fingertips pointed to the ceiling, “I suppose you can break up with me.”

“Okay,” you say, chin tilted high, satisfaction curling in your chest for some reason.

“Alright.”

“Okay.”

“Do you always need to have the last word?” he asks in that same teasing tone that you’re really starting to hate.

“Yes.”

-

The first time you and Gojo play couple is at your family home in Kyoto, a month after your scheme. You’ve honestly been trying to figure out how to get out of it for weeks but to no avail so there you find yourself sitting beside Gojo at the long, low table on a zabuton cushion. The shoji screens had been pushed open to reveal the carefully manicured gardens outside, allowing a welcome breeze to enter the room. Every elder, clan higher-up, even distant relatives with any sort of valuable opinion sit lining the table, stiff posture furthering the heaviness of formality in the air.

You sit on your knees, hands placed in your lap, twiddling your fingernails to anchor yourself somehow. Meanwhile, beside you, Satoru is fully lounging, long legs stretched out comfortably under the table and one elbow propped up lazily on the edge, supporting his chin. His sunglasses catch the warm glow of the lantern light, hiding his eyes but you can practically feel his stare. The first course comes out, a clear soup with vegetables, and you accept it graciously, hoping that it gives your nervous hands something to do. As you raise the soup spoon up, the voice of an elder cuts through the quiet clinking of porcelain.

“y/n, didn’t you grow up with Satoru?” he questions. Technically, you had but you would hardly consider each other acquaintances. Even now, as you sit practically shoulder to shoulder with him, you wonder if you could even call yourselves acquaintances. “What brought you two together so suddenly?”

You pause, lowering the bowl back to the table. Your brain is scrambling for anything even remotely acceptable to say. “Uh,” you manage to squeak out, “It was pretty sudden for me too. I guess, when you know, you know?” You glance over at Gojo who still has a lazy tilt to his head, hoping for rescue from your weak answer.

“Mm,” Gojo hums, tipping his head back like he was considering the question seriously, “I like to think she’s had a crush on me since we were kids, but it took her until now to come to terms with the fact that she’s been in love with me this whole time.” 

Your pulse spikes and you whip your head toward him. He has nothing to offer you but a lazy, playful grin. You give the elders a tight-lipped smile in agreement and return to your bowl. You hear some soft murmurs echo around the table and you’re unsure what the general consensus is.

You’re nearly finished with your soup by the time another elder speaks up, “Do you think your kids will inherit limitless like Gojo or the l/n clan’s technique?” 

The question about kids has you almost choking on your soup but Gojo answers smoothly, “We’ll be happy with either one.” You nod along, not trusting your voice after nearly swallowing a carrot.

By the time the second course arrives, the conversation has drifted from you and Gojo and there’s now the low hum of everyone engaged in their own private conversations. The servers bring out a new set of plates with slices of sashimi. You reach for your chopsticks and unfortunately, make the mistake of making eye contact with Gojo next to you. He’s already got a happy smile on his face, chopsticks in one hand. 

“Open up, my sweet princess,” he commands, far too loudly. Your eyes widen in surprise as he begins to lift a piece, moving it towards you with exaggeration. You worriedly glance around the table where all eyes are now locked on the two of you, silence falling on the room. You can feel the heat pricking at the back of your neck, rising to your ears, a nervous smile twitching your lips. More murmurs are going around the table. You hesitantly allow him to feed you the piece of sashimi, pursing your lips as you chew. You can hear your mother’s delighted aww from a few seats down but you’re more focused on the rather disapproving look on the elders’ faces.

You pinch his leg under the table, hard. He doesn’t flinch.

As conversation begins to pick back up around the room and the elders return to discussing training reports and cursed technique theory, the room begins to buzz again with low, polite chatter. You lean into Gojo, eyes darting around the room, voice low and sharp, “What are you doing?” You grit out.

“Getting them to disapprove,” he murmurs back, chewing happily. What a glutton. You frown. “Working great though, don’t you think?” You figure it’s a decent plan. If the elders think the two of you are inappropriate and disapprove, it’d be a much easier out than staging some elaborate breakup. Gojo gives you no time to respond before he’s curling up his thumb and pointer finger to pinch your cheek. He coos at you loudly, which earns more stares from everyone seated at the table. You jerk back, eyebrows furrowing at him which only earns you an obnoxious laugh.

You settle back into your seat and go back to eating the meal in front of you, a little frustrated. You really feel like he’s enjoying himself far too much and suspect he may be having more fun messing with you than actually following through with his plans.

The third course comes out and at this point, you’re more focused on what outrageous scheme Gojo may have planned next rather than the actual food. The next plate of food is placed in front of you and as you’re leaning in to take your first bite, Gojo leans over and places a wet, sloppy kiss on your cheek, paired with an obnoxious smooch noise. And there it is, he is definitely having too much fun with this. 

But you figure it must’ve done its job because the table immediately ripples with scandalized murmurs and you’re sure you hear the word “improper” being thrown around somewhere. You throw him something of a fake smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and you know he understands the sentiment behind it when he flashes back a crooked smile, teeth showing. 

Once the table had been cleared, both you and Gojo seemed to be under the impression that you had acted just the perfect amount of provocatively to stir some troubling thoughts with the clan elders in both of your families. That is, until you’re approached by an elder bearing a bright smile, “I have never seen a couple so perfectly balanced.” Your smile fades. You shoot Gojo a look. “How sweet of you to feed her, Satoru. Usually it’s the woman who cares more about the man but it’s clear that it goes both ways. You really are the yin to her yang.”

Your smile is fixed, tight, and as respectful as you can make it, until the elder rejoins the crowd. You’re surprised to be approached by several others who are practically singing your praises. 

You ground him. He’s so attentive, feeding you and fussing over you. He brings out your responsible side. Your love feels so authentic and natural. How promising a match you two are. How wonderful a union between the two clans must be. Everyone is so hopeful for an heir from your union.

You turn to face Gojo once the dinner guests stop approaching the two of you. He has the audacity to look rather pleased with himself meanwhile your pulse is thrumming in your ears. You let out a slow exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to relax. You’re a bit more than mildly annoyed that Gojo’s plan backfired, which is really your fault for listening to him in the first place.

But… maybe this would be better. If everyone really thought you were this dazzling couple then hopefully the “breakup” would be so devastating and messy that your family would be kept at bay for years.

-

The Zenin estate is ornate and maybe even gaudy to say the least, with polished stone walls and a courtyard garden with gravel raked into harsh, perfect lines that brought you more anxiety than peace. If your family home seems to be suffocating with expectations, the Zenin home would have asphyxiated you. A few weeks following the Gojo and l/n clan dinner, the Zenins are hosting their own banquet of sorts. You slip into the estate, peering at the guests who have already begun mingling. You’re hardly a few steps in before a porcelain sake cup is handed to you, giving you something to do with your hands. You down the drink the second it’s in your hand. You need something in your system if you’re planning on getting through tonight.

You’re lingering near the edge of the room, nursing your second beverage, eyes glancing around the room. The hum of conversation fills the room, everyone speaking in low voices and you can’t seem to tell if they’re just pleasantries or complicated clan politics. You feel the shift in the air before you hear the voice.

“y/n.”

You turn to find Naoya Zenin approaching, unhurried steps and a sharp smile. Almost fox-like.

“Naoya,” you acknowledge, lips curving into the most polite smile you could manage. “It’s nice to see you.”

“You’ve really grown into yourself,” he says. You feel his gaze sweeping over you and you suddenly feel exposed. Gross. Your eyes glance over to the exit, wanting to leave. “Beautiful, really. I almost didn’t recognize you at first.” 

You purse your lips as he takes a step closer. You resist the urge to take a step back to put some space between the two of you. His posture is casual, relaxed, but the way his gaze lingers, floating on your figure makes your skin crawl. An attendee passing by replaces your empty cup with a new one. You sip on it awkwardly.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he speaks smoothly, “You’re here alone–er, with me rather and Gojo is nowhere to be found.” You curse Gojo for his habit of always being late. You awkwardly shift your weight on your feet, watching as his smile deepens. 

Before you’re able to respond, he lets out a low chuckle. “So sudden though, you and him.” He leans in a little closer. “Wouldn’t you say?” Your body stiffens and you’re scrambling to find something–anything to say in response when a familiar voice cuts clean through the air from behind you.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late.”

Relief slams through your body and you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Gojo’s presence left the room significantly quieter than before as you watch him approaching you and Naoya, moving through the crowd as though everyone bends around his existence. He slides into place beside you effortlessly, as if he just belonged. His arm finds its way around the small of your back, his hand resting firmly on your waist, steady and grounding. You don’t think you’ve ever been so relieved to see him before.

He looks down at you from behind his dark sunglasses, peeking over them. His eyes, pale blue and warm, were almost a comfort after your rather agonizing experience with Naoya.

“You look stunning,” His voice softens, gaze locking with yours. His thumb rubs against your waist. “Did you wait long?” Your pulse stumbles, for some strange reason. You’re hoping the dim lamp lighting would do a good enough job at concealing the heat rushing to your neck and ears before you could steel it. You open your mouth but nothing comes out so you just shake your head, dumbly. 

He finally averts his gaze ahead of you, a small grin present on his face. “Naoya.” 

“Satoru.” Naoya acknowledges, his smile shrinking and his eyes narrowing just slightly.

“I really hope you weren’t saying anything untoward to y/n.” Gojo’s tone comes off as easy, almost playful and you wouldn’t have thought anything of it if it wasn’t for his hand tightening on your waist just the slightest bit, still gentle but did not go unnoticed by Naoya if his eyes flickering downwards meant anything.

Naoya lets out an easy chuckle, low and dismissive. “Of course not, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The silence that follows is deafeningly loud. A clash of ego, sharp and invisible, their gazes are locked in a battle of wills that makes the air feel taut. You could practically cut the tension with a knife. You clear your throat, unsure of what to do and settle on shifting awkwardly where you stood.

Gojo breaks the silence with a light pat of his free hand to Naoya’s shoulder, casual grin returning to his face. “Good talk, bud. y/n and I have a few more people to check in with.” His hand still firm at your waist, he steers you away, effectively tucking you into his side like it was your assigned spot. His touch is practically a searing heat through the layers of fabric of your clothing. With your pulse hammering, you down your second drink. You’ll definitely need more of these with the way the night was going so far. You take another drink from a passing by attendee and tip your head back, ignoring the sting of the sake in your throat as you let Gojo lead you into the crowd.

The two of you were making easy small talk with passing clan members, which you will attribute to Gojo. As much as you hate to admit it, he actually could be very charismatic despite his arrogance and his tendency to make everything a joke. A majority of the questions revolve around both of your latest missions, inquiries about your relationship with Gojo, those ones mostly you handle because you don’t trust him after what happened last time, and updates on your family. You try to give as vague and polite answers while Gojo keeps the conversation light, throwing in quips here and there and you notice that everyone seems to find him quite charming. The stiff conversations begin to feel a bit suffocating so you find yourself sipping at sake simply to relieve some tension. 

“Slow down,” he whispers, teasingly, leaning down so close you can feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. You stiffen, heat crawling up your neck that you write off as a result of the alcohol. You nudge him with your elbow, hearing him hum at your lack of response, and turn your attention back to the conversation at hand. 

The sun set outside some time ago and while the alcohol is doing its purpose in making you feel somewhat lighter in the stuffy environment, your shoes are currently pinching at your feet, causing painful, grating steps as you become tense from the repetitive conversations. 

“C’mon,” Gojo murmurs, tilting his head toward the garden just beyond the open shoji screens. You let him lead you outside, hand still floating on your waist. You’re grateful he noticed your discomfort. The cool night air feels heavenly against your flushed skin, the gentle breeze more than welcome. 

You both step off the veranda into the soft grass of the garden. You slip out of your shoes, leaving them abandoned in the grass beside you. Instant relief floods your feet and you’re too happy to feel your toes in the grass. You reach over, lifting a foot to rub at your arches.

“Here,” Gojo says, extending an arm out to you.

You grab on automatically, using him to steady yourself as you knead at your foot. “Thanks,” you respond, glancing up at him briefly, “for this. And for saving me. Again.” 

He throws back a grin, tilting his head up to the sky as a light breeze passes by, “All in a day’s work of a fake boyfriend.” He shrugs casually. A laugh slips out of you, looser and freer than you normally would be sober. You watch his grin grow a bit wider at the sound of your laugh.

You remove your hold of his arm, satisfied with the work you’ve put into relieving the aching soles of your feet. As you straighten to place both feet on the grass, you nearly lose your balance, whether it’s from the alcohol or the uneven ground.

Gojo’s hand is instantly at the small of your back, steadying you, his touch warm and firm. Your breath catches and you freeze, looking up at him. His warm hand felt like it was practically burning a hole into your already flushed skin. 

A beat.

“You can… let go of me now,” you speak softly, voice lacking the usual bite that comes with speaking to him.

His eyes widen for a second before he retracts his hand. He recovers with a teasing grin, “So clumsy, I thought I told you to slow down on the sake.”

You huff in response, feigning annoyance but the rapid heartbeat in your chest is betraying you. You make a vow to never drink around him again if this is how you’re going to be around him under the influence. Your eyes wander over to the hall, glinting brightly into the night through the open screens where you notice a few groups of clan members looking out into the garden at you and Gojo. 

Gojo’s eyes follow your gaze and he takes a step closer to you, hands on your hips, urging you forward. He pulls you into him, just enough that your bodies are nearly brushing, the sudden movement has you bracing against him, both palms resting flat on his chest. You ignore the firm muscle you feel under your hands and focus instead on the steady thrum of his heartbeat. That doesn’t help.

“They’re watching,” he murmurs to you, voice pitched low. Your eyes are on him now and even in the darkness, you can still see his bright blue eyes. You nod in response, a bit breathless. From the alcohol, you tell yourself.

One of his hands remains on your hip, anchoring you there while the other lifts to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek. You’re certain you must be absolutely flushed and you’re more than thankful it’s so dark outside.

“I- The rules- No touching!” you barely manage to squeak out. This earns you a chuckle from him, low and warm.

“Okay,” he responds easily, dropping his hand from your cheek to your hip. But he doesn’t make any movements to remove his hands from your hip.

You flick your gaze sideways, back towards the hall where there are still watching eyes. Naoya is among them, his stare sharp and smug, watching from the shadows. You think of the audacity he has to insinuate that you and Satoru were lying about your relationship, regardless of how true his assumption was. You also think of his disgusting, lustful gaze, objectifying you like you were a piece of meat. The thought makes your blood boil again, the memory of his smug smirk burned into your mind and hot in your chest, judgment clouded by liquor and pride.

“Kiss me.”

Gojo blinks. “What?” he asks, incredulously.

“Don’t make me say it again,” you mumble, lifting your chin stubbornly.

You use your grip on the fabric on his chest to gently tug him down, closing the distance by getting on the tip of your toes and pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s all very clumsy and maybe even a bit awkward. Since you pulled him into it, your lips aren’t quite aligned and you almost fall into him but he steadies you, both hands tightening their hold on your hips. Once he has you steadied, he leans down into the kiss and deepens it, one hand traveling from your hip to the small of your back where he splays out his hand to press your body to his. Your hands slide up his chest to loop around his neck and you almost want to open your eyes to take a peek into the estate to see if there were still any prying eyes. 

You finally pull back, settling back flat on your feet and suddenly you’re no longer feeling the effects of the alcohol. You clear your throat, afraid to make eye contact so you avert your gaze over to the hall where everyone has seemingly scattered from where they were gathered, watching the two of you. 

“They’re gone now.”

-

The inside of your Tokyo apartment is currently in a state of disarray but you choose to blame it on the back to back missions you’ve been getting, which has also been affecting your sleep. You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, half-heartedly packing clothes. You know that you should have started packing sooner but you’ve been running on fumes for the last two weeks and to be quite honest, you didn’t even feel like thinking about the onsen trip your mom sprung on you. 

You will admit you regret procrastinating especially because—you glance at the clock, it reads 8:02am—Gojo is supposed to be here any minute now. You can also admit that another reason you’ve been burying the trip in the back of your mind is because you and Gojo left off on a rather awkward note—at least for you. You had kissed. You could only be thankful that he acted so nonchalant about it after that it diffused some of the tension. Besides, it was your idea and it made sense in the grand scheme of things. That along with the fact that it was nearly two months ago brought you some semblance of peace.

You fold a set of pajamas into your bag. Aside from the kiss, you aren’t absolutely dreading having Satoru there like how you’re dreading a family trip. He can be funny sometimes, despite annoying you the other half of the time. Even though he’s a headache, he’s been making these clan events a lot easier on you. People like him and that means he took up a lot of attention in a room, which meant less of it smothering you. 

Your familiar ringtone goes off from the living room so you trudge over there, barely having the energy to make it. Gojo Satoru. Of course he’s someone who would rather call than text. 

“Hello?” You pick up your phone, holding it to your ear. 

“Your chariot awaits!” Gojo’s voice blares through the phone. You’re too tired to berate him about yelling so early in the morning. 

“The chariot will have to keep waiting,” you sigh into the phone, moving towards the bathroom with the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder. “I’m still packing.”

“And you say I’m not punctual,” he teases. 

“You can wait inside,” you suggest, before adding, “if you want.” You hear some shuffling in the background that you ignore, turning your attention to packing your toiletries into a pouch. 

There’s a knock on the door that you hear echo through your phone. You pad over to the door, swinging it open to find Satoru leaning casually against the door frame. You end the call and slide your phone into the pockets of your sweats, stepping aside so he can come in. He toes off his shoes at the door. 

“I’m almost done, I’ll be quick.” you state, “You can, um, have a seat on the couch.” And then shuffle over to your bedroom. Again, inviting him in was technically your idea but something about having him in your apartment felt so unexpectedly… intimate. 

He sat on your couch, sprawled out, taking up the entire space with his long legs stretched out beneath your coffee table. You glance at him as you’re moving around your apartment, gathering everything you’ll need to pack for the weekend. It seems like he’s playing Temple Run or something similar, volume up so you’re able to hear the theme music. He would play games with his volume up. 

You mentally go over your packing list, making sure you weren’t forgetting anything before you’re lugging the duffel out into the living room from your phone. When you finally zip it out and start moving towards the door, Gojo pops up easily to follow you. You shut the door behind the two of you and start fumbling with your keys to lock the door, duffel weighing heavy on one shoulder. He plucks the bag from your arm, swinging it over his own shoulder. 

“Thanks,” you say automatically, locking the door and pocketing the key. You realize the word is so familiar now, that you’ve been saying it a lot around him. It’s almost replaced your urge to roll your eyes around him all the time. 

Downstairs, the morning air is still crisp and the sun is getting a bit higher. The city moves loudly around the two of you. You watch as he sets your duffle bag into the trunk beside his as you slide into the passenger seat. 

“Thanks for driving,” you offer as you reach over to buckle your seatbelt. “You really didn’t have to.”

“And what kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?” he shoots back, grinning at you as he takes his place in the driver’s seat. You snort, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. 

The first half hour goes back fairly quickly. The hum of traffic mixing with whatever playlist Gojo has playing in the background keeps the the time flowing and by then, you’re ready to catch up on some much needed sleep. You have your chin resting on your fist and your head leaned against the window. The city is now melted into stretches of highway and the sun is higher in the sky now, warming the car through the window and your eyes begin to feel heavy. 

You swear your eyes were only closed for a second before—

“Let’s play a game.”

Your eyes snap open. There’s that urge to roll your eyes again. You lift your head from the window and turn it the slightest bit, just enough that you’re able to glare at him from the corner of your eyes. “I’m tired, Satoru.”

“You can have your rest and relaxation at the onsen,” he responds cheerfully. For some reason you highly doubt that to be true. “The game is: name all the things you like about me.” 

A laugh rips through you, bursting out before you could even try to stop it. “Oh, you cannot be serious.” 

“Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head towards you. “I’ll even start the list if you need help—number one, devastatingly handsome.”

That gets another laugh out of you and this time you do roll your eyes at him. “Hmm,” you pretend to think. “I like when you’re quiet,” you tease, settling your head back against window and closing your eyes. 

He barks out a laugh in response and you peek your eyes at him. “That’s never happened before, you can only say things that are hard, true facts.” You make a mental note that means he thinks that being “devastatingly handsome” is a hard, true fact. 

-

The rest of the car ride goes by fairly quickly once Gojo decides to focus instead on the playlist he has playing. The quiet ryokan lobby smells like polished wood. The woman behind the counter smiles politely as you approach the desk. She slides a lacquered key across the counter after you give her the reservation details your mom had sent you earlier. You murmur a thank-you, slipping the key into your palm. You turn to walk towards the rooms and you can feel Gojo’s presence behind you, duffle bags slung over each shoulder. He walks behind you, his slow long strides making up for your fast smaller ones.

“I can carry it myself, y’know,” you mutter, glancing back at him. He’s very committed to this boyfriend bit.

“I know.”

The hallway stretches out, long and quiet, with sliding doors on either side. You can feel the warmth from the faint steam curling from somewhere deeper in the inn. You find your room number and slide the door open, stepping onto the tatami. You toe off your shoes and leave them by the door. A low table sits in the middle of the room, a teapot resting between two teacups, and two cushions below the table. Gojo leaves the duffels near the cabinets and starts to circle around the room.

You kneel next to your duffel, fishing for your toiletries bag, while Gojo starts opening up every drawer and cabinet in the hotel room. Once you’ve found the bag, you pad over to the bathroom, sliding the doors open. You hear the sound of the veranda doors sliding open.

“Ooo–look, we get our own onsen,” you hear Gojo calling from just outside the doors.

“Nice,” you call over your shoulder absentmindedly, distracted by unpacking your toiletries bag. Once you place your toothbrush and shower products in their respective areas, you peek out from the bathroom to see what he was talking about. You see steam rising from a private stone bath from behind the doors. You blink. The image of sharing the onsen with him flashes through your mind. 

“Don’t go getting any ideas.” 

You disappear behind the bathroom door to get ready for the planned dinner banquet that your mother had told you about. You tie yourself into the pale green yukata that was provided, sash snug across your waist. Once you think you look presentable enough for your prickly family members, you slide the door open, smoothing down the folds in your yukata. 

You’re met with Gojo on the other side of the door, facing the other way so he can adjust the sleeve of his matching dark blue yukata. He tugs on it lazily, collar gaping just enough to show his collarbones. A grin twitches on his face the second he turns to see you.

“Cute.”

You shoot him a flat look. “Don’t.”

You move around him, stuffing your feet into the provided sandals. You see him grab the room key from the corner of your eye before shutting the door behind the two of you. You make your way through the polished hallway with him following closely behind. As you approach the banquet hall you pause, mostly to collect yourself but when you look up at him, he extends his elbow toward you. You blink and take his arm, feeling grateful to have him here to calm your nerves.

The room is buzzing with conversation as the two of you step past the open shoji doors. The low long tables stretch across the room, porcelain bowls with broth placed at every seat. The smell of incense mixed with food fills the air and you don’t realize you’re actually starving until your stomach growls as a reaction. You take a seat on one of the cushions, Gojo sliding into the one next to you. You smooth your yukata over your knees to give your hands something to do. 

Your aunt from across the table leans forward, “How was your last assignment, y/n?” She offers you and Gojo a small smile.

You blink, expecting a question with a little more bite. “Oh, um, fine,” you’re careful with your response because you’re a bit caught off guard. 

“That’s good,” her eyes soften as she glances between you and Gojo. “I’m glad you’re keeping busy.” While you’re sitting stiffly, Gojo is beside you, nonchalantly picking up a piece of food with his chopsticks. “And you, Gojo? Keeping yourself busy?

“Oh yeah,” he nods, leaning back easily. He sets his chopsticks down on the rest. “Lots of exorcisms, paperwork, and now I get dragged along to family trips.” He grins, teeth flashing, and puts his free hand over the one you had resting on the table, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. For some reason, this felt more intimate than the kiss even. You look up at him but his eyes aren’t on yours; they’re looking around the room, holding eye contact as he’s engaged in conversation.

The meal unfolds with a rhythm that you aren’t used to–calm, almost pleasant. The constant questions regarding your relationship have dwindled; no one is reprimanding you for not settling down, for constantly going on long missions, it was–for the first time ever–not stressful.

After the dinner ends, you and Gojo shuffle back to your room, bidding everyone a good night. He slides the shoji door shut softly behind him, muffling the chatter of your family members down the hall. The room is quiet now, dark since the sun has long set so the lanterns cast warm, glowing light against the tatami and pushed-together futon. You blink when you see it, one large blanket spread across the whole thing. 

“Cozy,” Gojo says from behind you, his tone teasing. You turn sharply and you’re unsure what the look you give him holds but he follows with, “Uh–I can sleep on the tatami mat if you want.”

You huff at the suggestion. “It’s fine,” you start tugging your pajama set from your bag, “We’re both adults.” Once you free your pajamas from the duffle and start moving toward the bathroom, you glance over your shoulder, “No touching!” You warn, narrowing your eyes at him as you slide the bathroom door shut.

“Don’t worry,” you hear his low voice come from some distance behind the door, paired with a chuckle, low and soft, the kind that curls around your ribs for some reason. “I wouldn’t.” You roll your eyes at that.

You take your time in the shower, letting the steam fill the small space and the hot water melts some of the stiffness from your muscles. You have your hair pulled back with a fluffy headband as you step out of the shower, wrapping yourself in the ryokan’s soft towel. You step to the mirror to do your skincare, applying the moisturizer to your skin when you figure it would be a shame not to use the private onsen. 

You peek past the bathroom doors once the towel is secure around you, “Gojo?” you call out softly. The room is empty, the futons remaining untouched.

Silence.

He probably left to grab some sweets since there weren’t any desserts at the dinner. That glutton. You pad over across the tatami, pushing aside the door to the veranda letting steam drift into the room. You look down and see him, leaning against the stone edge of the bath, facing you. His white hair was damp, curling lightly at the ends, and you watch as a droplet falls from his hair and cascades down the sharp plane of his shoulder. It looks soft.

You blink. “Hey–I was gonna use it.” You tighten your grip on your towel instinctively.

He looks up at you, his nonchalant demeanor seeping through his words, “Well, I got here first.” You’re sure he just enjoys messing with you at this point.

“Okay.” You respond, glancing around the veranda. You choose to focus your vision on the bamboo wall built to close off the onsen from the rest of the inn. “Get out.”

“Wow, harsh,” he chuckles, as if truly surprised you were being so demanding. He leans back further against the stone edge, “We’re both adults, right?” His tone is playful, like he’s looking to get a rise out of you by using your words against you. You refuse.

You press your lips together in a thin line, “Fine.” You close the sliding door behind you and take step further near the onsen. “But close your eyes.”

He sighs dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.” For once, he’s not wearing his sunglasses and you watch as he raises his hands to place them over his eyes. “See? Perfect gentleman.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you and you place your towel to the side, heart pounding in your ears as the cool night air kisses your bare skin. You slip into the steaming water, grimacing as the heat wraps around you. You sink down, allowing the heat to rise up to your chest and shoulders, soothing your muscles. The surface of the water laps at your collarbones as your move into the onsen, finding a seat across from Gojo.

“You can look now,” you mumble, grumpily, once you’re sure the water is fully covering your body. You fold your arms across your front for extra security.

A chuckle comes from him before he drops his hands lazily from his face. The dim lamplight cast shadows along the planes of his chest and shoulders and even worse, his pale blue eyes seem almost different beneath the light. You feel your stomach twist. You shift against the stone edge, tearing your eyes away from him and towards to surface of the water, like you’re suddenly very interested in the ripples. 

After a moment, you swallow hard and drag your gaze back up, willing yourself to stare off into the distance, admiring the greenery. 

The steam curls around the two of you in lazy ribbons, softening the lantern light as the sound of cicadas fill the night. Your body is lowered, tucking your knees to your chest and the water is grazing just below your knees. You rest your chin on your knees, glancing at Gojo from across the bath. He’s sprawled wide, both arms outstretched resting on the edge and his damp hair sticking up in all directions, defying gravity. 

“Hey,” you say, voice low, “when I asked you to fake date me—“

Gojo’s face snaps into a sly grin instantly, “Oh, you mean when you begged and pleaded and cried for my hand in marriage?”

You snort, rolling your eyes and you move your knees from your chest to splash water at him. “No, you freak.” Laughter bubbles out of you, slipping before you can contain it. He shifts to dodge the splash of water. 

The smile on your face settles a bit and you lean by against the stone again, looking up into the sky, “Why did you agree so easily?”

His grin softens, he’s silent for a second before, “To be honest? I don’t know.” You give him a deadpan look. “I guess…” he starts tapping his fingers lightly on the stone where his arm rests, “You just seemed so—serious about it. And it’s really no sweat off my back to help you out.”

You feel your chest tightening and you hum, breaking eye contact with Gojo to trace mindless patterns on the stone. “Yeah,” you breathe out, “it just gets really exhausting sometimes?” You can’t seem to look him in the eyes, “Just feels like there’s so much pressure to settle down, produce an heir–it’s all just so… old-fashioned. It feels like I’m just my ability first, someone to maintain the gene pool, a sorcerer second, and… myself, last.” Your voice cracks so you look away again.

Your words hang heavy in the mist. For a while, the only sound is the faint ripple of water between you. You wonder if you just overshared, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed.

When you finally glance back at him, his eyes are already on you, soft and unguarded.

“I get that.” And it sounds sincere.

You clear your throat, still feeling a little awkward. “Anyways,” you splash at the water, trying to clear up the tension, “Enough trauma dumping.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Gojo grins, “At least you weren’t crying on my strong, broad shoulder.” You snort and flick water at him. You look down at your hands and see that the skin at your fingertips is starting to wrinkle.

“I’m gonna start getting ready for bed,” you start moving towards the edge of the bath, “No peeking.” You narrow your eyes at him pointedly. He grins and puts his hands up in mock defense then goes to cover his eyes. You climb out of the onsen, unable to hide the smile creeping up on your face. 

By the time you step out of the bathroom, fully dressed in your pajama set, Gojo is already moving around the room, towel hanging loosely around his neck. He uses to towel to rub at his damp hair. You stand there, arms limp by your side, lifting up one foot to rub at the other ankle. You pad over to the side of the futon furthest from the door and start shuffling under the covers, laying flat on your back, tucking the fluffy blanket under both arms.

You hear him snort from across the room, “You sleep like a vampire.”

“I just haven’t gotten comfortable yet,” you shoot back defensively. You hear some shuffling, the towel hitting the tatami flooring as he drops it onto the floor in a careless heap, and then he’s sliding under the covers beside you. You’re a little nervous to make eye contact so you keep your focus on the ceiling. You feel him stretching beside you, extending his limbs out obnoxiously before he tucks himself in with a long, content sigh.

For a while, it’s quiet aside from the sound of cicadas humming outside. 

“Sooo,” Gojo drawls, “you ever fake break up with someone before?”

You don’t turn your head, just huff through your nose in amusement, lip twitching. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just saying,” you can hear the smile in his voice, “If we’re doing this right, we should go all out. Something really dramatic, like in public, tears, maybe I should throw myself on my knees.”

You snort, “Such a performer, you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’d be such a good fake ex too,” you can feel him nodding, the rustle of his damp hair against the pillow, “The best, actually. You’d definitely come crawling back.” 

You let out a small laugh at his confidence. “Yeah right, you wish.”

You hear the futon rustling beside you as he shifts positions. “I’d get flowers delivered to your house everyday, huge, ridiculous bouquets. Everyone would think I was obsessed with you.”

“Yeah and obnoxious,” you add. “They’d probably wonder how horrible of a boyfriend you were to me too.”

He squawks at that, defensive, “Fake news. I’m the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“You’re the only fake boyfriend I’ve ever had, Satoru.”

“See? The bar is mine to set.” he says in response. That gets him a laugh, one that bubbles out from your chest. 

There’s another moment of silence, only the sound of his gentle breathing filling the air. “Y’know,” you start, “I used to think you were really annoying.”

“Oh yeah?” 

You nod in response, “We barely saw each other and everytime we did, you would always mess with me.”

“Hey! You used to steal my Digimon cards, you were just jealous.” he sneers, teasing you.

You laugh again, “That was only once! And it was only because you stole my kikufuku.”

He hums beside you, probably thinking about how delicious your stolen dessert was. “And what about now?”

You pretend to think about it, humming, “Still pretty annoying.”

He lets out a laugh from his belly and you can feel his shoulders shaking with his laugh. 

Another beat of comfortable silence. You shuffle a bit to get comfortable, pulling the blanket over your shoulder and roll over to your side, only to find him already facing you. Your eyes widen for a second. His pale hair is tussled, falling haphazardly across his forehead and even in the dark, it seems like his eyes are glowing.

You blink. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispers back, voice low.

He’s so handsome like this, in the low light of the night. He looks so soft like there’s no Gojo reputation here, no expectation of being the strongest, just Satoru. He looks almost boy-like.

Your mind flickers, against your will, to the younger version of him. The boy who you only saw every so often but would tease you relentlessly, annoy you with his arrogance from across the room. Such a pest.

And he’s still doing it. Your thoughts are interrupted when his long fingers reach out and pinch at your cheek.

“Hey!” You protest, jerking your face away simultaneously as you shove his arm away, “I said no touching!”

You angrily jab a finger into his cheek. “You said no touching!” he moves to swat your hand away and you push him again in retaliation, hoisting your body up on your elbow for leverage. He shoves you again, using his entire upper body for momentum, laughing in your face obnoxiously as you fall backwards. You rise so you’re balancing on your knees, eye level with him again and place both arms on his shoulders to shove. His hand grabs onto your elbow for support and you’re falling forward with him. You catch yourself from toppling over him against the futon, grinning in victory once you have him pinned down.

He’s looking up at you, eyes widening a bit in surprise, messy hair falling onto his forehead and the pillow below him. You have your knees caging him in at either side of his hips, arms on either side of his head. Your breath stutters and you push yourself up so you’re in a seated position, sliding back a bit until you feel something beneath you.

“I-uh,” you stammer, eyes wide to match his. You’re in a very compromising position and you try to ignore the heaviness beneat you. “Sorry.” You breath out and you’re almost frozen in place. You both stare at each other for a second, chests heaving and you’re not sure if it’s from the fighting or from where you’ve both found yourselves. 

His hands raise to your hips and he pushes himself upwards, capturing your lips with his. Your body stiffens for a second, heart racing and you wonder if he can feel it when you both fall back, your fronts pressed together. His lips are warm and soft. The sheer intent in the way he’s kissing you is enough to make your head spin. He tilts his head, his hands tightening their grip on your waist as he deepens the kiss. Your hands curl at his chest, gripping onto the fabric of his t-shirt like it’s a life line.

The kiss is hot and insistent, messy in a way that makes your stomach lurch and you’re clinging onto him desperately. The futon shuffles as he moves beneath you and as your hips sink flush against his, you feel him. You rock against him without thinking about it, mostly because you’re a little curious and his hands on your hips encourage the movement. His tongue slides against your lips and you tilt your head, allowing him in. He hums into the kiss, clearly pleased, and the sound shoots straight through you to your core. One hand leaves your waist and slides up to the small of your back, fingers splaying to press you closer to him, your bodies flush.

You roll your hips again, purely experimentally and it suddenly makes sense why he acts the way he does when you feel him, hard under the thin layers of fabric separating you. The friction is almost blinding. A broken sound comes from your throat and he swallows the sound eagerly. His hands travel down until they’re over the plush of your ass and you feel him squeeze, groaning into your mouth, the sound raw and unrestrained. 

Your head gets a little bigger with the thought that Satoru Gojo, probably one of the hottest people you’ve ever seen, is getting this worked up over you. His hands are everywhere, squeezing gently at your thighs before moving up over your ass and up your back. 

Your pulse is roaring in your ears. He sits up a bit, moving you with him as you continue moving your lips against his. He moves the two of you until you’ve got your back pressed against the futon. He pulls away, breaking the kiss, foreheads knocking together clumsily as your breaths hit each others face, warm and rapid. His eyes, blown wide and vibrant blue, search yours for a second. He pulls back a bit further, watching you now splayed out underneath him, your chest heaving as you’re still trying to catch your breath. 

You only give yourself a few more second to breath before your arms are looping around his neck, pulling him back down to catch his mouth in another kiss. 

He starts dragging his lips along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of wet kisses. The air feels cold on your flushed skin as he moves along your neck. Each kiss he leaves sends a shockwave of heat, sparking low in your stomach. One of his hands rest on your thigh while the other slips under your shirt and higher, skimming along your ribs and wrapping around, right under your tit. 

He groans, the low sound vibrates against your skin. Your back arches into him as he kisses and nips at the exposed line of your collarbone, lips travelling down the edge of your pajama neckline. Heat shoots through you.

You move your hands down from his neck, palms sliding against the expanse of his back, feeling the solid muscle moving under thin cotton, then up past his defined biceps to his broad shoulders, the fabric bunching with every shift. He’s a lot more muscular than you had thought, strong muscle hidden under his usual baggy clothes. You feel the need to feel him without the layer of fabric in your way. 

“Satoru,” you barely manage to get out, voice quiet and breathy, tugging at the hemline of his shirt, “Take it off.”

You hear the mischievous grin before you see it, feeling the edges of his lips curling against your skin and he stills for a second, “Oooh bossy,” he lifts his head from your chest, “Kinda hot.”

You roll your eyes and almost say something snarky in response but he sits back on his heels, the air nipping at your skin where your bodies were flush, and in one smooth motion, peels his shirt over his head. The fabric drops forgotten to the floor and he’s bare above you, hard muscles illuminated by the low light from outside the room window.

Your breath catches. Long lines of muscle cut sharp and you watch as the hard planes of his chest rise and fall steadily with his breathing. You swallow, eyes dragging over him before you could stop yourself. You force yourself to tear your eyes away, leaning your body upright to tug the thin fabric of your sleep shirt over your head and you toss it to the side. 

Gojo’s gaze drops instantly and you feel the heat rising up your neck. “My eyes are up here,” you say as dryly as you can muster.

He hums in response, his strikingly azure eyes drag up slowly, “Don’t worry, I like those too.”

You don’t have time to come up with a snarky retort because his mouth is back on you, your words catching in your throat. The both of you fall backwards onto the futon, his hand pinned beneath your back and the futon since he had tried to soften your fall. 

His mouth travels down again, leaving hot and wet kisses in its wake, to the swell of your chest, teeth nipping lightly at the skin. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, causing you to arch your back into his body. His free hand slides higher, palm cupping firmly around your breast, thumb brushing over the nub. Each flick of his tongue sends sparks shooting through you as you clutch helplessly at the strong lines of his back, feeling the flex of muscle under your fingertips. 

His hand slips lower, dragging down your bare stomach, past the waistband of your pajama shorts. Your breath hitches as he pushes aside the fabric of your panties, calloused fingers spreading you open. Your entire body jolts when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, delibrate circles. His thumb drags from your opening and then back up to your clit. “Fuck,” he groans against your tit, teeth grazing on the sensitive skin as his thumb works you lazily, “you’re so wet.”

You writhe beneath him, “More,” you gasp into the air, hips curling up to meet his hand.

“So demanding,” he pulls back from your chest just enough to glance up, lazy grin on his face, “Maybe ask nicely.”

You groan at that, jerking your hips again, “You’re really gonna make me ask?” 

His thumb slows until it’s barely moving, the sharp absence makes you whine, head tipping back against the pillow. You want to strangle him. He’d probably like that, masochistic bastard.

“Fuck–” you groan again, “I hate you.” You squeeze your eyes shut, “Please, Satoru.”

“Please, what?” he teases, tone smug with delight. He starts moving his thumb again, painfully slowly.

“Please, more,” you’d be embarrassed if you weren’t currently completely overcome by the agonizing need to cum right now. “Please make me cum.”

He hums in response, grin widening against your skin and his hand shifts lower, one long finger presses inside you, sliding out at an easy pace. The stretch is delicious. You let out another whine, arching into him. His mouth returns to yours, catching your whine in a deep, hungry kiss, drinking in the sound. You moan into the kiss as he curls his finger, dragging against the spot inside you that makes your thighs clench. His thumb circles your clit, moving faster, more deliberate than before.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, his voice rough and shaky. “Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.” His words go straight to our core and you whimper, digging your nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent shaped imprints in his smooth skin as you grind down against his hand. He slides a second finger into you and you welcome the stretch as he quickens his pace, thumb rubbing stars at your clit. You openly moan, unable to hold back, and he swallows the sounds you make. Your body trembles against his as his body covers yours wholly.

“Satoru,” you breathe out, “I’m gonna–”

“Yeah?” he pants into your mouth, kissing you harder, lips moving against yours. “Let me feel you, baby.”

Your back bows from the futon, toes curling as pleasure rips through you. Your legs threaten to clamp shut, he uses his other arm to curl under your leg, pinning it where it is. You break the kiss, head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as your orgasm tears through your chest and down your spine. He slows down as your body shudders against him, your death grip on his shoulders loosening. 

He slides his fingers out and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. Your vision is still coming back when he brings his hand up to you, two fingers glistening with your release. He has that lopsided grin on again.

“Open.”

You mindlessly do so, his fingers slide past your lips, and your tongue swirls around them instinctively, tasting yourself. Your cheeks heat under his gaze. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, satisfied smile on your face when he finds they’re now clean. Your chest is heaving as you look at him–really look at him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, hair sticking up in all directions, he looks so desperate for you and it’s really doing something for your ego. 

“Satoru,” you pant, “I need you, now.” He freezes for a second, eyes widening before he moves quickly, fumbling with the waistband of his pajama pants, nearly falling over in his haste. Meanwhile, you’re faring no better as you shimmy out of your shorts as fast as your trembling body allows, pulling your panties down with them. 

Your heart is hammering in your chest as he falls forward above you again, bracing himself on his elbows, the warm skin of his body pressing on yours. Your gaze drops helplessly, your breath catching as he pumps himself, thick and heavy in his hand. Oh. Suddenly every cocky, arrogant joke he’s ever made makes complete sense.

He drags himself along your slit, groaning lowly as he collects your slick to coat himself. Your entire body shudders as his tip catches along your clit and you bite your lip to keep from releasing a sound. He pushes slowly into you, the stretch welcome but has you gripping onto his bicep regardless. Your thighs tighten instinctively around his hips as you continue to adjust to his size. He presses a kiss to your shoulder then another behind your ear as he pushes himself in slowly, hips flush to the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck,” his mouth brushes against your ear and you feel his teeth catching, “you feel so good.” The stretch eases until it fades into the feeling of fullness, the burn turning into a pulsing heat. He starts to pull back, slow at first, dragging it out and groaning as he pushes back in. 

His pace begins to pick up as his hips start snapping faster into yours, your broken moans spilling out shamelessly. Each thrust hits deeper, sharper, sending you spiraling further into the heat curling low in your belly. You hook your ankles around his waist, pulling him deeper as each drag of his body pressed flush against yours. 

“Fuck,” he moans against your kiss-bitten lips, “You’re so–fuck–pretty like this for me.” He pants against your mouth, kissing you rough and wet between his words. Even during sex, he still couldn’t stop talking. You want to tease him but instead, you whimper into the kiss, unable to form a coherent sentence.

You’re clinging onto his sculpted muscles, every single nerve ending in your body is lit up, your entire body still sensitive from your last orgasm. You throw your head back, vision hazy as you let out small cries with each movement of his body against yours. Your head lolled back, eyes hazy, your cries echoing off the paper walls. 

His arm loops under one of your legs, hoisting it up so it rests on his shoulder. The stretch from the new angle has you seeing stars. “Oh my god,” you manage to get out, “Sa-Satoru.”  You feel him grinning against your mouth again.

And then, his mouth is back by your ear, voice breaking between ragged breaths. “You have no idea–” he grunts, pace faltering for a second, “how long I’ve been wanting to do this.” He punctuates his words with sharpened, faster, harder thrusts.

His words catch you off guard and it takes your brain a second to register his words through the roar of blood in your ears but your eyes fly open when you do. The drag of his cock hitting deep has your back bowing off the futon again and you can barely manage a broken, “W-what–?” but you’re interrupted by your body clenching around him, his warm breath at your ear.

He shifts a bit, pulling back just enough to slide his strong hand on the underside of your thighs, pushing them up to your chest. The new angle is doing absolutely sinful things to your brain as he hovers over you, watching himself sink back into you. His grip tightens on the backs of your thighs, pinning you open beneath him. At this point, all you can manage to say between moans and cries is his name. 

Heat shoots down your spine as he lets out a guttural groan, moaning your name, voice ragged. Each thrust drives into you further, relentless and all you can do is claw at the futon beneath as your body jolts underneath him, your hands searching for purchase. He’s digging into you, the feeling overwhelming, toe-curling, every nerve sparking.

“Fuck,” he curses, “I’m about to cum.”

You slip your hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. You draw little stars against it, fingers quick and desperate, trying to keep up with his pace. The added friction sends a broken moan spilling from your lips. You watch as his eyes snap to where your fingers are moving where you’re both connected, jaw clenching. He curses again, voice cracking as sweat beads at his temples.

He picks up his pace again, rhythm faltering, rougher, sharper. You feel yourself fluttering, tightening around him, the coil in your stomach winding tighter with each slap of his hips against your thighs. 

“Satoru–” you gasp, voice cracking, “I’m about to–”

“Fuck, wait–” he manages to choke out, hips stuttering, “Are you on birth control?”

You nod, frantically, eyes squeezed shut. A groan tears from his throat, raw and wrecked, and your second orgasm rips through you, body clenching hard around him, vision blurring around the edges. Your back moves to arch but he’s still got your trembling thighs in his grip, keeping you pinned down to the futon. You bite your lip in an attempt to hold back your broken cries, drawing blood. 

The sight of you cumming beneat him along with the feeling of you fluttering around him is enough to push him over the edge, his rhythm faltering then breaking. “Fuck,” he curses again, hips jerking, each thrust desperate and uneven until he slowly stills, pulsing as he releases inside of you. He balances above you for a moment, the room silent aside from the sound of your ragged breaths. You feel him pushing in and out of you again, shallowly, fucking his cum back into you before he’s pulling out. You whimper at the feeling. 

He’s still got his hands pressing your knees to your chest though his grip is looser, using his hold on you to gently push him back up onto his knees and he’s watching the mixture of both of your fluids slowly leak out of you. He uses his pointer finger and middle finger to push it back into you and the corner of his lip quirks a bit.“Maybe we should give them an heir.”

a/n - eee it's my first time posting on tumblr so i rlly hope u guys enjoyed! tbh it was a lot longer than i expected it to be, probably won't be posting a lot of long works like this but sth ab clan leader gojo just gets me going also this was kinda sorta canon divergent srryyy thank u for reading! :3

[theplacetoputfics]

“babe,” your boyfriend slurs, voice carrying over the music. “tell me why i can’t raw you right here, right now? like, hypothetically. nobody would notice if i just bent you over the table… right?”

the people sitting at the table behind you go dead silent. you choke on your drink, before slamming the glass down.

“oh my god, satoru—”

“what?!” he reels back, genuinely affronted, eyes glassy but still piercing in that glacial blue. “what, i can’t admire my own girlfriend in public now? society’s gone to shit.” one hand drifts down your thigh, his idea of subtlety. it isn’t. especially when he adds, sotto voce, “fuck, you’re hot. i’m so har-”

that’s when the bartender leans in, grim.

“miss… is this man harassing you?”

you drag a hand over your face. “…no. he’s my boyfriend.”

to make matters infinitely worse, said boyfriend points at you with righteous conviction, beaming with tipsy pride.

“boyfriend!” he hollers to the room. “can you believe this angel-” he gestures so wildly he nearly knocks over his drink, “is dating me? me! do you guys understand how mind-blowing—”

“satoru gojo. behave.”

he nearly topples off the stool, then promptly buries his face against your neck, mumbling hotly, “’m gonna put a fat ring on your finger. how’s that sound? me as your sexy, super-powerful husband—” already trying to sneak his hand back up your thigh.

and despite your mortification, you can’t even bring yourself to be truly mad. because really, he’s just that: a man in love.

[theplacetoputfics]

[theplacetoputfics]

gamer toge has not left my mind all week

[theplacetoputfics]

they are literally the same!!

[theplacetoputfics]

[theplacetoputfics]

Brother's best friend Satoru

mdni - explicit, teasing, panty fucking, jealous Satoru

Satoru has been stroking it to you - his best friend Suguru’s little sister - every night.

He eyes you in your bathing suit when you lay in that chair and let the sun glimmer on your skin. He will stroke his cock, the image burning his brain while he whispers the name of the girl he could never have, picturing cumming right on that pretty pussy.

Your brother's best friend Satoru has caught glimpses of you after a shower, smiling so sweetly while wrapped in a towel. Bending over to grab something and making him leak pre, so much so it's painful being in your proximity.

He'll play it off, tease you and ruffle your hair, he treats you like a little sister, which annoys you to no end.

It's better that way.

Yet you always torture him, brushing against him just so, bending over in front of him, and yes - on purpose.

Suguru is protective, even at twenty he won't let you date, so you sneak out tonight to go on a date - and Gojo finds some boy with his dumb fucking hands all over you.

The way you sneak inside and are met with Satoru Gojo waiting for you in the dark has you gasping. He grips you by your waist, looking down at you with those blue eyes of his. - 'just what were you doing?'

You've been obsessed with Satoru as long as you've known him - but you've long given up on the idea of it, none of your teasing ever seemed to work. Your tummy clenches with desire when he presses you against the door. You lean up, whispering in his ear - 'I was on a date, Toru, oh... and I came... ah!'

Satoru has you pinned to the door, shutting his eyes - off limits, off limits, off limits - it usually works, but tonight he's done. 'Hold up your skirt,' you bite your lip, so he shoves it up for you, leaning low. 'I said hold up your slutty fucking skirt.'

'Toru, what are you... oh my f-fuck...' you're gasping out when he tugs your panties aside - already soaked from his nearness, his breath against your lips, pretty face so angry. He unzips his pants, you tense when you see his thick, girthy cock already leaking pre. 'That's not gonna fit!'

Satoru chuckles a bit, cupping your face. 'Ya think you've been good enough to get my cock inside you?'

Satoru has to muffle your cries with one hand, watching your pretty eyes roll back in your head, while his leaky tip drags between your slick folds. Sticky, messy and drippin' all over him, you're so sensitive your thighs tremble. 'You want him?'

You shake your head, and he lowers his hand, glaring. 'Wanted to make you - mnh - mad.' Satoru scowls and ruts his cock up, using your soaking panties to keep him snug against your cunt. 'Make me mad, huh?'

How mad would Suguru be if he knew his best friend Satoru was fucking his little sister's panties while he's fast asleep?

'Do it on purpose, don't you?' Your answer is a little nod, smiling even when he tugs your hair. 'tired of you actin' this way, driving me fucking crazy,'

You reach down to try to press the tip of him in your slutty little hole, but he pins your wrist, smirking down at you when you both hear footsteps upstairs. 'keep quiet, want him to know how slutty you are?'

You're a trembling, hiccuping mess while Satoru fucks your panties coated with your slick and his precum, the sounds loud and messy. He's fucking faster now, lips a breath away. He presses his tip right on your twitchy clit then, rubbing up and down and slamming that hand on your mouth while you cum, pulsing around nothing.

Satoru busts his sticky hot ropes inside your panties at the sight and feel of you just squirting down, barely able to supress his moan, pressing one singular kiss on your lips before righting your clothes - just before Suguru walks into the living room.

'What're you two doing up?' Suguru yawns and flicks on the lights, while your brother's best friend's cum is sticking against you, he was quick enough he pressed them right against you with a grin.

'She was on a date,' you glare at Satoru then, as Suguru crosses his arms. 'You should make her curfew even earlier.'

'You jerk!' Suguru sighs, running a hand over his face then. 'Satoru is right.'

Satoru walks by you later, knowing his cum is drying and sticking to you - you'd kill him if you didn't want him to do that again.

this is kinda based on my oneshot hehe

[theplacetoputfics]

SECOND CHANCES

you’ve just finalized a divorce after a painful miscarriage tore apart a marriage that was already fraying. your ex-husband’s harsh, scornful words still echo in your mind, each memory twisting anew every time you see a baby. the world feels quieter now, sometimes too quiet. you avoid baby aisles, skip family events, and tell yourself you’re “fine”,  though inside, the ache of loss lingers, unspoken and heavy. then you meet him at the store. later, you realize he’s your neighbor, and the kid? his whole world. he’s a single dad still learning the balance between work, parenting, and keeping his heart safe after being left by his ex. you’re someone who knows loss but also craves connection, though the idea of letting yourself love again terrifies you.

c.w: angst, fluff, romance, slow burn, bit of an age gap (28 and 36), mention of miscarriage, divorce, grief

MEET THE DADS AND CHILDREN ⟢ Satoru Gojo and Sumire, 6 ⟢ Suguru Geto and Nanako and Mimiko, 6 ⟢ Kento Nanami and Shizue, 5 ⟢ Toji Fushiguro and Tsumiki and Megumi, 5 and 2 ⟢ Sukuna Ryomen and Shion, 6 months ⟢ Choso Kamo and Yuji, 15 ⟢ Shiu Kong and Ha-Rin, 5 ⟢ Hiromi Higuruma and Ren, 8 ⟢ Atsuya Kusakabe and Tomoe, 3

a/n: this is smau styled fic with a few drabbles/excerpts. not sure if i should make a taglist for this or not. lmk

MILESTONES aisle five hello, again small touches playdates & babysitting sleepovers who's that? no more hiding heart on the line birthday surprise our little family

[theplacetoputfics]

Isn't That Sweet? (I Guess So) - G.S.

Synopsis. Oh no! Why do your pantíes keep disappearing? Well, maybe your hot roommate knows the answer…

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, pànty-stealer! roommate! Gojo, annoyances-to-lovers, he’s REALLY down bad, vírgin! Gojo, oraI (fem receiving), màle màsturbation, pining, face-sítting, jealousy (his side), fírst times, unprotected, creampíe, teary Gojo, pànty-gagging, HEINOUS things, pet names, aIcohol mentions, swearing.

Word count. 8.6k (whoopsies)

A/N. Hope y’all have a lovely week hehe <3

“Damn…” you sigh at the glaringly empty drawer, rubbing your eyes as if that would make a difference - maybe even magically materialize a fresh pair of panties in front of you. “It’s the second time this month.”

Or was it the third?

But, alas, standing around in your bedroom on a Sunday night does not give you the answers. Or any extra underwear.

Which is why you find yourself making a beeline for the bathroom - teeth gritted, stomach flipping at how very, very exposed you felt underneath the thin fabric of your shorts. Cursing everything from the building’s rundown old washing machine to Gojo’s stupid smile when he took away your laundry basket.

You could’ve sworn you saw your last pair perched right on top of your pile of old clothes, all flimsy and an obscene red that stood out amongst everything else. 

Seriously, how hard would it have been to lose that thing? Maybe you could bother him into buying a new washing machine for-

“Woah there-” Before you know it, you’re crashing face-first into a wall? Pillows? Gojo - unfairly shirtless. “Now, what’s got your panties in a twist, sweetheart?”

The lack thereof. 

Maybe because you can’t say that, maybe because of what looks - feels - like miles upon miles of milky, sculpted skin, you’re instead settling for an extremely eloquent, “Nothing I uh-” But whatever excuse catches in your chest as you raise your face - still smushed between two large pecs - up, up, up and-

Oh. 

It’s not like you’re seeing something new - far from it, actually, unfortunately for your poor heart.

And at first, you’d thought it was some strange habit - hell, maybe the guy just didn’t like t-shirts. But it was around the fourth or fifth time he’d forgone one that you realized Gojo Satoru was just a tease. A no-good, insufferably smug tease that just loved to catch you ogling him. 

But, well, at least the rent was cheap.

Though, you weren’t exactly complaining about the view either…

Because lo and behold stood the infamous campus sweetheart - you knew about fourteen people who’d kill to see this exact sight. Gojo’s cloudy hair tousled, tiny droplets of water twinkling like diamonds against the bathroom light. Bouncing off his rippling abs, his strong arms circling your waist to stop you from falling backwards. Holding you too fucking close against the white towel slung low on his hips. His skin damp, smelling so delicious-

“Gojo, did you use my body lotion?” 

“Awww–” he whines, finally releasing his grip on you. “You were supposed to admire me some more.”

You scoff, eyes darting over broad shoulders - partially to search for your laundry basket, partially because you really couldn’t handle looking right at a shirtless Gojo Satoru any longer. “As if. Get out if you’re done.”

“Damn, woman. Feisty.” Gojo lets out a deep chuckle - smooth and cocky - when you’re hastily shoving him away from the doorframe. “If you wanted to put your hands on me that bad then you jus’ hafta ask, y’know~”

It was way too late for this. 

“Hilarious.” you deadpan, though you let go of where you were gripping Gojo’s arm like it burned. Immediately stepping behind the bathroom door before he could make you lose whatever’s left of your sanity, “Next time you hog the bathroom m’gonna smash those ugly new sunglasses of yours.”

He’s pressing his foot between that gap in the door to stop you from closing it, “Oi, don’t think I don’t see that glint in your eyes, sweetheart.” Yeah, the glint in your eyes that told you if looks could kill then Gojo would be six feet under already. Which only makes him grin wider, “You’re telling me you really weren’t checkin’ out the most sought-after man on campus jus’ now?”

Huffing in frustration, you cross your arms, “I don’t see Geto Suguru anywhere.”

“...you take that back right now. I’m the pretty best friend.”

“Am not.”

“Am too.”

“Am not. Isn’t that why you’re still single?”

“Th-that’s not- fuckin’ Suguru? Really? Most people would kill for a look of this-” Gojo gestures at his bare torso, and once more you’re reminded that those absolutely awful protein shakes he makes every morning aren’t just for show. “-and you’re getting it daily.”

You reach out a hand, Gojo chest hot underneath your touch. He seizes up instantly, ears tinging red as you muse, “Yeah.” Only to push him fully out the doorway, “I just wish you’d shut up daily, too.”

With that, you’re shutting the door with a resounding slam! Feeling only slightly guilty until you hear Gojo’s squawks of protest from outside, “I really don’t know what’s got your panties in a twist.”

Right. Panties.

Something just a tad more important than recounting exactly how many abs Gojo Satoru had.

You let out a shuddering breath, clamoring to find that spare laundry basket you’d forgotten in here earlier today. Shuffling through through the soft clothes, hoping, praying to find-

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Fuck. 

Somehow, you’re hiding away your body lotion that night.

---

“Now, listen here, sweetheart. I know you look fuckin’ gorgeous in everything but-”

“Satoru.”

“But that-” he whirls around, pointing a long finger accusingly at the boxers you’d improvised into sleep shorts. Spitting venomously, “-that I cannot allow.”

You’re rolling your eyes at your roommate’s theatrics, forking through your pancakes while he monologues to himself more than you. “Why does it even matter? It was just for yesterday.” you mutter. “I didn’t have any clean uh- panties for the night n’ this worked.”

Thankfully, since the fresh laundry this morning, you’d found two more of your panties - courtesy of a very smug Gojo handing off your clothes. Ah, it felt like the universe itself was smiling down on you.

But oh if you thought the great Gojo Satoru was having a breakdown before then you weren’t prepared for when you lifted your gaze off the kitchen table. Only to meet his - eyes wide, a pretty pink blush coloring his cheeks, lips gawking and stuttering around what looked like a silent, “P-panties-”

You raise a brow, “What’s got you this worked up, Gojo?”

“Nothing.” he clears his throat, “Absolutely nothing at all. Panties? I love- er, wait no-”

“B-besides-” you bristle at the way his heavy gaze was now turning to flit between your face and down below. Dangerously. “They’re not even yours so I don’t know why it matters.”

This seems to snap him out of his little reverie, and he’s immediately standing up straighter, brows furrowing. He continues, in a much more serious tone than before, “They’re his?” 

You stab your breakfast with a bit too much vitriol than necessary, looking at Gojo with narrowed eyes, “If you mean the one my ex left behind then yes. Who else?”

Your ex wasn’t good for much - and Gojo seemed especially hostile towards him because of his distaste for your little living situation. But, hey, at least the guy was helping you out at this time. Albeit unknowingly. 

He’s raising his hands in mock-surrender, shuffling back into the kitchen to work on the rest of those “world famous” Gojo pancakes. “Nothing nothing.” he hums, and maybe it was how sleep-deprived you were - running on a few too many assignments due today and a few too little panties - but you think Gojo’s voice has a bit more bite to it than usual. Jaw clenching as he plows on, “Of course that fucker- in my- our apartment, too. Fuck-”

A spatula is suddenly mere inches from your face, Gojo brandishing it in front of you like a weapon as he declares, “We’re going panty-shopping after Yaga’s lecture today.”

“Gojo, I-”

“We-” he cuts you off, delicately placing another pancake on your plate - a little truce. So close now that it reminds you of last night - you could feel his minty breath on your face, count every long, sultry eyelash of his. “-are going panty-shopping after Yaga’s lecture n’ I’m paying. That’s final.”

And of course, in true Gojo fashion, you can barely get a word out before he’d immediately ducking out of the kitchen. You almost let your lips curl into a smile, hit with a sudden wave of endearment as you hear Gojo’s long legs padding urgently down the hallway to God-knows-where. Maybe he did know when to be-

Smack!

You jolt as you’re hit with a pair of boxers - fresh ones, thankfully, that you recognized from all the clothes you’d rummaged through last night - plopped unceremoniously onto your lap. Jaw dropping in disbelief when you look up to meet Gojo’s devilish grin. 

“Next time-” he winks, motioning at the fabric you were poking in concern now. “-wear mine.”

The talk of Yaga’s lecture hall that morning was of a pair of burned boxers found right outside your building, everyone speculating what the poor guy had done to have his presumed girlfriend make an example of it like that. 

For you, however, the only thing running through your mind was whether or not you could count properly.

Because surely you remembered it correctly when you counted two new underwear this morning - that gauzy black one and the deep red? Two. Definitely not the singular, sad piece of red fabric laying on your bed after breakfast today? Two. The only one you could find even after scouring through your whole bedroom. 

So where the fuck had that other one gone?

---

(8+ new messages)

Do not answer (roomie)🧿🧿: Hurry up ive been lurking inside that lingerie shop ya told me you liked n’ now the old ladies here look like they wanna eat me alive ＼(º □ º l|l)/

im boooored, gonna stand still n’ start blending in with these mannequins if you dont hurry up istg

Hurry

HURRY

HURRY THEY THINK IM SUSPICIOUS

PLEASE THEYRE GONNA ESCORT ME OUT

┬┴┬┴┤･ω･)ﾉ i literally SEE YOU outside 

BITCH STOP LAUGHING-

No sooner are you letting out a cackle at Gojo’s rapid-fire texts, you’re looking up to see the man himself being walked outside by two security guards. Squabbling heatedly in a way that had them heaving out long sighs - which, honestly, you felt a stab of relatable empathy for.

“-I swear I’m not a creep I’m jus’-” Gojo’s bickering dies on his tongue as he catches the sight of you walking closer to the commotion. Closer. Taking your sweet sweet time, eyes just barely glazing over him before- you’re walking away. “Hey!” he calls out, stopping you in your tracks. “Now, don’t you dare-” Before turning back to his wary escorts, “I’m with her.”

They exchange a look between each other, and no matter how much you’d like to pretend the scene had absolutely nothing to do with you - you’d rather Gojo doesn’t get banned from the mall altogether. 

“He’s right.” you drone out, one hand grabbing Gojo’s, the other forcing his head into an apologetic bow. Hissing to the side so that only he would hear, “Unfortunately.”

The two security guards now seem more amused than anything at your strange dynamic. One of them raises a brow, muttering, “Well…this one’s certainly a handful.” Turning around to head back to their stations, “Ya better keep a tight leash on your boyfriend.”

You sputter, eyes wide, “Oh- he’s not-”

But it’s too late - they’re both swiftly out of earshot, most likely more than happy to hand over the public nuisance off to you. And Gojo’s looking to you with a smug smirk, voice dropping about an octave deeper as he breathes against your ear, “So, gonna take your boyfriend to help out with lingerie shopping, sweetheart?”

Oh. God. 

This was going to be one long day.

“I’m only here because another one of mine disappeared, y’know.” you hiss, rifling through all the options before you. “Which really has me wondering why-”

“H-hey! How about this one?” Gojo interrupts, shoving a lacy set right in front of your face, his voice just a bit louder than what was appropriate. 

You sigh, catching the eyes of a few disapproving older women around you. “No this is-” But running a thumb over the fabric makes you bite back an insult. And for all how brash Gojo was, maybe his panty selection wasn’t awful. It was a flimsy little thing, gauzy and light blue - the type you’d typically wear on a night out. You meet his boyish grin, admitting, “...not bad.”

“See?” he laughs - eyes glinting with delight as he piles on a few more in your basket. “N’ if you’re impressed with that then you’re gonna be proposing to me when you realize it’s exactly your size-”

You quirk a brow, “How do you know my size, Gojo?”

And this makes his body stiffen, large shoulders squaring up, throat bobbing as he answers,“Uh? Experience?”

Oh, right. You’re rolling your eyes, fighting off a weird little stab of irritation. This probably isn’t the first time he’s come here with a girl, anyway. 

And yet, despite however much of an alleged “catch” Gojo was, he’d - perhaps mercifully - never brought anyone over. You don’t know why, but you didn’t really want to question it.

“A-anyway.” Gojo’s airy voice cuts through your thoughts. And he’s plucking up a few more sets of lingerie for you to sort through, “Can’t let these one, two, three- six lovely lil’ things go to waste now, can we?” At your look of confusion, he chuckles, guiding the two of you to the counter now. “Suguru’s holding a party at his place tonight, how would you like to do the honors of being my cute plus one?”

“I’d rather go with Yaga.”

Though, you really can’t say no - not when Gojo’s flashing you that black card as he pays for everything in an instant. Not when all he can prattle about on the way home  is how gorgeous you’d look together at Geto’s party - how you’ll have to beat everyone off of him with a stick (to which you reply that you’d no sooner do that than beat him with a stick.)

Not when he sits outside your bedroom door as you get ready later that night. Insisting on keeping you company even as you slip out of your towel. Looking over your shoulder to make sure he wasn’t peeking in before eagerly turning to grab at one of your new set of silky white panties- only, they weren’t there.

Strange. 

“Hey, Gojo…” you call out, looking underneath your blankets for where you might’ve thrown them about after trying them on. Under your bed, in your drawers, anywhere. “-didn’t we buy six sets?”

“Huh? Dunno, I didn’t count. Just wear the blue one.” he whines, ushering you to hurry up from outside. Face burning because shit, this was you and you were inside - still wrapped up in only that sinful little towel. Oh, would the painful death really be worth it if he happened to accidentally look around? “S’pretty and y’know what else?”

Your voice was muffled as you hastily put on your clothes, “What?”

“It matches my eyes.”

Really strange.

---

Thankfully for Gojo, you didn’t go with Yaga to the party - nor did you find your lost pair of panties, sadly, but that wasn’t too much of a concern for him. 

And here he was - one hurried Uber ride and about several billion death threats from you later. Wishing that you’d actually just acted on one of them because fuck at least then he wouldn’t have to be watching from across the room as some bastard from the university basketball team tried to chat you up.

Gojo can’t even hear the way the girls surrounding him were giggling about something or the other, alcohol making his tongue a little heavier, eyes a bit glassier. 

Nothing like the way that other man was drinking in that polite smile on your face. Tilting your head to face forwards and- God, why won’t you just look at him instead?

Would that guy still look at you that way if he knew you were wearing lingerie matching his eyes right now?

“Not gonna entertain your fans?” Geto’s voice rings through his whirlwind thoughts, eyeing down the forgotten crowd in amusement.

“When have I ever?” Gojo runs a hand through his hair in frustration. 

He lets out a knowing laugh, “Yeah, you little vir-” Turning into a coughing fit when Gojo elbows his best friend straight in his stomach. “Anyways.” Geto gestures with his drink in your direction, as if Gojo hadn’t seen - as if it wasn’t the only thing on his mind right now. “Well, your lil’ roomie there seems to be popular, too, huh? Star player of the basketball team n’ all. 

He clicks his tongue, slumping further against the thumping wall. “So? I’m taller, and more handsome.”

“Are you sure ‘bout that?”

“Y-yeah?” he sputters. 

“Well then why aren’t you over there with her?” Geto hums, lips curling. “Looks t’me like even she doesn’t like him that much so why’re you being a pussy over here? Always sneaking around stealing her-” 

“Shut up-” And Gojo knows he’s riling him up, he knows that Geto wants to see a little drama - maybe finally shut up his pining over the one girl he’s wanted for the past year - and couldn’t have. It’s a trap. But Gojo can’t stop his head from snapping between you and his best friend’s sly smirk. Slurring indignantly, “Of course I’m fuckin’ handsome, n’ taller. I’d make a better boyfriend too and-” He trails off at the sight of that loser leaning in - but more importantly that tiny furrow in your brows, your hands on his chest softly keeping him at bay. “-and m’gonna go over there n’ prove it.”

“Ah, that loser’s gonna thank me later.”

And, hell, Gojo could barely even walk. Barely even think straight as he’s parting the stuffy living room, ignoring whatever whispers and titters were following him. 

“I said no-”

“Hey, sweetheart.” you jump when someone - Gojo - creeps up from behind you. Large build hanging off your own when he nuzzles his face into your neck. And you could feel his toothy grin on your skin, “Missed me?”

Your face burns, “I uh-” Angling your face as dignifiedly as possible to face your roommate, “Gojo, are you drunk?”

“Drunk on you, yes.”

“What the-”

The man in front of you pipes up - shuffling uncomfortably on his feet. “Didn’t realize you were taken. My bad.” Looking like he’d rather be anywhere but under the scrutiny of Gojo Satoru. His big arms tightening around your middle - when did they even get there? “I’ll just uh- get out of your way, man.”

“Mhm, by the way,” Gojo puffs up his chest a bit, clearly towering over the other man - ha, take that Suguru. “Nice loss against Kyoto last week, real knee-jerker.” 

You smack Gojo’s chest at his rudeness, to which he only smiles wider. Watching the other man being swiftly handled away by another apologetic member of the basketball team.

“Gojo.”

And before you can react, Gojo’s dragging his pretty plump lips along where that light blue band of your bra was just peeking out, murmuring lowly, “Love it when you scold me like that.” Still refusing to let go of you despite the jealous looks thrown your way, “Let’s go home, my girl.”

Oh, the look on your face was priceless. 

He just wished he could fish out his phone and record, or maybe even tell Geto to take a picture - help him make it his wallpaper. And he did - over fifteen times, in fact, as the two of you helped drag him away from the thrumming party. Geto doesn’t listen, of course, and you neither do you - grumbling out a slew of profanities underneath your breath that makes the Uber driver look at the two of you weird.

And yet, Gojo’s biggest issue right now was trying to climb up these fucking stairs - not when they were trying to run away from him. 

“I swear to God, Gojo-” you huff, chest heaving under the weight of walking - well, more like dragging - your roommate up to your apartment. Knees wobbly - maybe at the intensity of his cologne, maybe at the way his biceps were flexing on your shoulders, probably at how fucking useless he was. Damn lightweight. “You better cover my rent for the next year for this.”

“Of course I will~” his hot breath tickles your ear, “Anything for m’girl. I’ll take care of us forever, don't you worry your pretty lil’ head.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny the way your heart clenches - just a little bit. And if you’re slamming open Gojo’s bedroom door with a little more force than necessary, well, at least he’s a bit too impaired to nag at you about it.

He bounces lightly when you throw him on his plush mattress, giggling softly, “You should just join me, y’know. Have a little sleepover.”

“Drop dead.” you monotone, not even daring to look back at him while you shuffle through Gojo’s shirts. Throwing one over your shoulder at him, “N’ wear this, I just know you’ll complain about messing up your favorite button-up tomorrow morning.”

“Aww, you always take care of me so well, my girl~”

That familiar little nickname makes a shiver run down your spine, and it’s all you can do to concentrate on shuffling through Gojo’s drawers in search of his shorts. Absent-mindedly reaching for the lowest drawer and-

“Wait!” 

You jump, whirling around to catch Gojo sitting up ram-rod straight on the bed, eyes wide, hand reaching out as if to stop you. Swallowing thickly, you ask. “Gojo?”

And he jolts - like the very sound of your voice is sending electricity zapping through his veins. Abruptly scrambling off the bed before resting two hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you away from the drawer. “My shorts are uh- in my wardrobe, heh. Sorry about that.”

Furrowing your brows at the sudden twist, you squirm in his grasp to look at the drawer again. Failing - when Gojo keeps his grip steadfast, “Why’re you acting so-” 

“How about we order take out? My treat?”

And that night, tucking yourself into bed, you should be falling asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. You should be caring less about that strange little outburst of Gojo’s inside his room. You should have realized sooner - those light blue panties you’d worn tonight were gone. No longer in your hamper of old clothes.

And there was only one thing to do. 

---

Gojo thinks he shouldn’t - fuck he knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t even want to- well, that last bit was a lie.

Gojo Satoru first met you about a year ago, when you’d come knocking at his door asking about his ad for a roommate. It was more because he was bored inside this big apartment by himself than anything, really, but here you were all gorgeous and sweet, flashing him a smile that was burned into his mind for the rest of the week, at the very minimum. How could he ever say no?

And when you’d taken to walking around the apartment in those slutty lil’ shorts as a way to get back at his perpetual shirtless-ness? Thin panties just peeping out of the low hem? 

God, it was everything he could do to not run to the bathroom with each little glimpse. He was fucked, so very embarrassingly fucked. 

He just never thought it would get to this point - the first time had been an accident, honestly. When your laundry had gotten mixed up with his. Surely he didn’t remember having such a cute pair of pink panties in his closet? And surely it didn’t mean anything if he just-so-happened to stash them away, right?

At least, that’s what Gojo told himself the first time. And the second. And the third. And shit, it was a bit of an addiction now, and within a year of rooming with you, he’d accumulated a drawer stuffed guiltily with exactly what he shouldn’t be having. 

Gojo Satoru - insufferable campus sweetheart, the dreamy first place on everyone’s To-Fuck list - had been hoarding away your pretty panties. Like the pathetic virgin he pretends he isn’t. 

And so here he was - that dirty little drawer flung open, pants pulled down just enough, one hand flat on the flat surface to steady himself, while the other fisted desperately around his swollen cock - and one of your panties. 

“F-fuck, sweetheart.” he’s hissing, body shuddering in lewd little tremors at that torturous drag of fabric down his length. Squeezing at his thick base, moving fast - filthy up, up, up to thumb along the end of his sopping slit. “Feels s’good- too fucking good hngh-”

Such a pretty, wet gasp escapes him when your soaked, absolutely ruined underwear catches on his veins, tangling around his sensitive shaft. And he’s biting his lip, trying not to make a noise when he threads through the mess down below. 

“Oh fuck, yer killin’ me even when you’re ngh- not here.” he breathes unsteadily, weaving the sticky fabric around his long fingers. Tight - just how he knew you would. “S’like you know what you do t’me with these.”

They were your blue ones, this time - the ones from just last night. The ones you were wearing not even a full day ago. And Gojo has them wrapped daintily around his rock-hard cock, stark against the blushing red at his fat head. Already so drenched in precum as he fucks his fist. 

“Y’looked so p-pretty with these, sweetheart.” he groans over the wet fwip! fwip! fwip! Eyes rolling to the back of his head with each long, feverish stroke. “So pretty being mine. Ngh- so pretty in my- fuck.” 

Slam!

He’s hitting his palm facedown on the wood, knees buckling, eyes scrunching shut with pleasure. 

And that ruined, utterly depraved part of Gojo wonders whether next time he should steal your bras too? Have the full set of you proudly wearing his color like some secret little slut for him. 

He’s letting out a ragged little laugh, oh how cute you’d look all confused. Nipples hard through your flimsy excuse of a t-shirt while you looked around for them. While you asked him for help. 

Oh, just the thought of that has Gojo’s red, furious cock beading glossy drops of precum at his tip. Leaking a sinful, slippery sheen down his wrist. “Ah.” he lets out a guttural groan when his angry dick twitches in his hand, falling onto his elbow on the drawer. Not having the strength - or the sanity - to keep himself up anymore. “Look what you’ve-” Gojo’s eyes catch sight of a flash of red inside, sounding so wrecked. “Look what you’ve done.”

And those obscene red panties are snatched up by his free hand in a second, not even a second wasted before Gojo’s bringing them up to his face. 

Fuck. 

“Look what you’ve done. Look how ngh- filthy you’ve made me.” he whines, muffled. Hips fucking up in quick, uncontrollable little thrusts into his closed fist. Voice a pitch higher as he spits out embarrassing little accusations, “How pathetic. Gettin’ fuck- gettin’ off to this? Me of all hah- people like this? Can’t imagine how f-fucking mad you’d be.”  

Would you figure out it was him? Would you look in his drawer again? Teach him a lesson or two about being such a pathetic little pervert for his roommate. 

Maybe - just maybe - if Gojo plays his cards right, gets on his knees and begs for mercy, then you’d let him keep his little treasure. 

He throws his head back in a humorless little laugh when his aching hand slows down to languid, unforgivable tugs. He had time, anyway, your classes ended late today. Torturous - exactly the way he imagines you’d drive him mad. “Heh- wish this was you.”

You’d be so much meaner, pressing down on that little divot at his tip, flicking teasingly like you were trying to fuck out something delicious. You’d be running your nails down his achy veins, running your soft palms around his painful balls. 

You’d whisper, “This all you got, Toru?”

“Oh fuck!” Gojo moans, raspy little sounds of what sounds like your name filtering through the crevices of his fingers, your panties. “Fuck fuck fuck- gonna cum.” he whines. Heavy balls smacking back into his thighs with each thrust into your imaginary hand. How he wished you were here. He’s managing to wrench his eyes open to spy down at his sloppy cock - needing to see how your cute lil’ panties would look painted all white for him. How he wished you- “Gonna-”

Oh. Fuck. 

You. 

“Aw, why stop now, Gojo?”

You’re leaning against Gojo’s open bedroom door, flashing him such a sultry little smirk. Your voice almost a purr when you echo, “I said…” Before taking two long steps to where he stood frozen, “Why stop now?”

Gojo lets the damp fabric held up to his face drop in guilt - yet the other stays firmly wrapped around that hand cock of his still in hand. 

“S-sweetheart what are you- why-” And perhaps for the first time in the twenty-something years that Gojo Satoru has terrorized this planet, he’s speechless. Worry-bitten lips sagging open stupidly, “I- this is-”

You cut him off, “So you’re the panty thief.” So close now that Gojo’s dick was throbbing at each heave of your chest, the way you were squeezing your thighs together. Eyes sliding down his body to rest at the mangled mess of your all-new panties around his painfully hard cock. “I knew it.”

“I can explain-”

“All those times pretending to help me?” you bat your lashes in a way that makes him gulp. Words dripping with the same tease he’d imagined in daydreams just like this. “When you were the pervert stealing my panties? Are you even ashamed?”

Gojo flushes an innocent pink, excuses tumbling out of those pretty lips immediately. But they sound like lies even to him.

“This- ngh-” he’s rolling his hips forward when you slide a smaller finger down his arm, between his pecs, almost the way down to those tufts of white. “Fuuuck- y-you’re not mad? Are ya the devil herself cuz you’re gonna- ngh- kill me this way.”

Humming, “Class was canceled, but of course - don’t hah- stop on my account, Gojo.”

“Toru.” he’s gasping out, a low moan wrenching out of him when he’s bowing his body into his fist again. Squeezing - almost warningly - at his hilt. “C-call me Toru. Please.”

And fuck he could’ve cum right then and there at that devilish little smile you give him, biting down on your lower lip - inches from his that it felt like you were biting down on his. Maybe you were, shit Gojo didn’t even know right now. 

“Toru.”

That’s all it takes for Gojo’s lips to be crashing onto yours. Biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your candied lips and he was already so addicted. 

“Mmpf-” Gojo gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re- you’re so-” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth. Over and over and over-  “As bad as me- ngh-”

“Are ya sure about that?” you grin, cunt clenching at your roommate’s pained grunt when you pull away. “Because look-”

And the both of you are stuck on the way Gojo’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Like he didn’t even feel the way his leaky tip was smearing along the front of your sinfully short skirt. 

“Can’t help it.” he whines, kissing down your neck. Hips urging forwards to slip up the thigh-length fabric, and when you don’t pull away, Gojo drags your skirt up, up, up with his pulsing length, “You don’t know what you do to me- fuck.”

His jaw falls slack, ogling at the sight of your pretty pussy on full display for him. Already so glossy with your sweet sweet juices, needy between your restless thighs. Bare. 

And this might be the first time he’s seen a cunt in real life but Gojo already knows - he already feels - that she’s gonna be the death of him. 

Sharp teeth nip at your bottom lip, tugging. “What the fuck-” Gojo breathes - more to himself than anything. “What the fuck what the-” Bringing down his free hand to run the pads of his long fingers along your puffy folds, as if to confirm whether this was real. “-fuck! Going out like this? You’re even dirtier than me, huh?.” 

“What can I do?” Sliding your arms around his broad shoulders, palms running along the heated skin. Back arching to grind down on his hand, “Someone stole all my panties.”

Your words fall on deaf ears, because Gojo doesn’t hesitate for even a second before he’s bringing his dripping wet fingers up to his lips. Smoldering eyes looking right into yours when he pops them in his mouth. Sucking them dry. 

“Oh fuck, sweetheart.”

In a split second, you’re being splayed out on Gojo’s king-sized bed like such a slut. Bouncing at the sheer force of the throw. And it happens so fast that you almost think you’re seeing things - but, no, the way you’re bouncing against the silky sheets was real. Your skirt bunching up at your waist was real. 

Gojo’s hazy gaze getting stuck right at the spot between your legs was real. 

“Shiiiit.” he murmurs, low and gravelly, like he’s moving through molasses. Stalking towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, she looks even prettier this way.”

You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your thighs together, “Toru-”

But he doesn’t hear you, instantly scrambling onto the bed. “No- no no no no no-” Just wrenching your legs apart with his hands. “No, you don’t get to hide th-this from me, you don’ know how long I’ve waited for this. How much I’ve imagined-”

You’re gasping when he runs the tip of his index between your sopping wet slit, coating his fingers in your juices once more. Teasing. “N’ so wet. This all f’me? God, can’t even- ngh-”

“So eager.” you mumble, fingers threading through Gojo’s soft locks to pull him in so close. To drag him towards where you needed him the most. “Why don’t you jus’ shut up- N’ put that big mouth of yours into use somewhere else?”

His eyes widen, words a whisper, “C-can I?” He doesn’t wait for your response before flipping the two of you so easily. Having you toppling precariously on his lap now, “Can I really? Never done this before.”

Never?

It’s not before he lets out a shy huff, that you realize that you said that out loud. “So what? S’that bad?” Two large hands groping and kneading your ass to keep you in place, “Ya didn’t actually ngh- believe all those stories on campus, did ya?”

Squirming at the feeling of his massive girth rubbing up against your swollen folds, “D-doesn’t matter.” You grit out, “You can…”

And no sooner are you seeing Gojo’s megawatt smile, you’re already feeling it between your thighs. Being wrestled up like some glorified ragdoll, dragging your sloppy cunt all the way up to straddle Gojo’s pretty face. 

“So, this is what she ngh- looks like.” he whines, hot breath lapping at your quivering pussy. “Shit, she’s so wet I could almost-” You’re gasping when the man below you simply sticks his awaiting tongue out, admiring your pussy while letting your syrupy sweet slick drip! drip! drip! down his throat. “This all f’me?” 

The only thing you can give him right now is a needy little whine - which makes Gojo kiss the fat of your ass with a sharp smack! Biting his lip at the way it jiggles against his hand, “Tell me, where did my feisty girl go?”

That lewd little nickname has you scoffing in pathetic frustration, your grip searing on his scalp when you force his obscene mouth closer. “Y-you seriously need to-” Pulling, “-shut up, Toru.”

And oh, you’d played right into Gojo’s devilish hands. This was exactly what he wanted - to have his face stuffed between your limp legs, ready mouth meshing messily with the folds of your dripping cunt. “There she is.” he moans, the tip of his tongue slurping up the sloppy dredges of your slick. Carding between your pussy lips, “Oh- fuck there she is. Yeah use me like that- use me.”

He’s running his mouth a mile a minute and you wonder how. Because Gojo was lapping at your cunt so feverishly, everywhere - from your inner thighs, to your folds, to just around the circles of your sloppy entrance like he wanted to taste it all. And couldn’t decide where to go first. 

“T-Toru.” you let out a honey sweet mewl of his name when the tip of his nose is rubbing against your clit. “There. Right there-”

Eyes rolling to the back of his head when he easily locates your sensitive nub. Wrapping those ruby lips around your clit to give an experimental suck. 

Shit, he could almost pass out from how heavenly you look on top guiding him. Your entire body jolting with each roll of his hot tongue, giving him such a pretty view of your tits up your silky shirt. Just dragging your sloppy cunt all into his mouth when he toys with your pulsing clit. 

“Oh fuck!” your hips are darting away with each zap of electricity sent down your spine. 

Which, for Gojo - who’s only ever dared to dream up this moment on those lonely nights - isn’t enough. 

“Know m’new to this, sweetheart, but stop bein’ nice n’ fuckin-” He’s pulling on the crease of your waist, dragging you to rest your entire weight on his face - his mouth. “-sit.” You’re keening when Gojo forces you to collapse on his soft tongue, bullying past your puffy folds and into that sloppy ring of muscle. Jus’ barely dipping past the resistance, “I said use me so fuckin’ use me. Don’ care if I can’t breathe - if I fucking suffocate- ngh- m’gonna die if you don’t just sit.”

“Fine.” You cry out when the curve of his tongue is molding into your gummy walls, pushing recklessly past. Not even fucking easing you into it before he’s fucking you on his tongue. Calculated, mean little thrusts in search of all your sweet spots. “No half-assing then, m’kay?”

Though, you had the feeling that he would do anything but. 

“Good, now keep still.” he’s scolding, one hand starting up again in those slow, satisfied tugs on his length. “Please keep still.” And the other dancing between your legs to push a finger inside your snug cunt. “Mmm it’s a tight fit, can feel ya clenching around me. Ngh- always wondered how it’d feel- where that would be.”

Blinking away the haze in your eyes, you look down at where Gojo was already locked on you, “Th-that?”

“That.” he breathes into your cunt, voice reverent as he speeds up. “S’your pussy gonna tell me where your good spot is? Gonna help me ngh- learn?”

And to your embarrassment - and Gojo’s smug satisfaction, it only takes a few more hurried strokes of his tongue before he’s nudging against your g-spot. Both the texture of his tongue and his long, cold fingers curling to assault the poor bundle of nerves. 

Your body bows deeper as if on auto-pilot, “Oh- fuck! You fucking- hngh”

He’s snickering at the way you’re so responsive, cock hard - and only swelling girthier in his fist with each adorable moan falling from your lips. 

“Oh yeah? There? Ya like this?” he moans, “Ya like shutting up the ngh- p-pervert that steals your panties with your cunt?” 

Getting faster. More attuned to his feral need. 

Lips smacking in tempo with those obscene squelches, you can’t tear your eyes away from the way his cheeks hollow. Fingers still so rapid, moving to make out and toy so messily with you clit - untimed, sloppy but fuck did you love it. 

“Y-yes.” you’re shoving his mouth guiltlessly deeper. Letting his long tongue explore every crevice and inch of you. Sloppier. So, so filthy. “Love it- fuck- you’re such a fast fucking learner.”

“I know.”

There was that cocky Gojo Satoru you were used to, lips curling into a strawberry pink smile around your clit - all glossy and sweet with a sheen of your slick. Making such a mess of the lower half of his face, his chin, shit, all the way down to his jaw. 

“M’close-” you choke out at the sight, “M’so fuckin’ close- gonna- gonna cum on your tongue, Toru.”

“Look at you ruining me.” his words hit you hard on your sensitive cunt, sending shockwaves up your arched spine. Obscene little smacks of his lips following your barely-lucid mewls.“Absolutely defiling me. Are ya proud of nghhh fuck- yourself?”

It’s all you can do to manage out a strained, “Yes! Yes yes yes yes- God, m’so close, Toru/ Gonna cum m’gonna-”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming at first, just that you’re riding Gojo’s unfairly pretty face in harsh grinds - just the way he liked it. Jaw grinding against your cunt, chin hitting you with each slutty jerk of your hips, letting you use him all you want to ride through your high. 

And his fingers are digging into your hips, stopping you from pulling away even when you were snow. Even when you’re sobbing in oversensitivity. So painfully good. 

“Ngh- T-Toru–” you’re slurring out, his name thick on your tongue. “M’not gonna cum on your dick if you k-keep hah- acting this way.”

Only then does a pussydrunk Gojo Satoru raise his bleary eyes back up at you. Giving you a strained little grunt of acceptance, before parting ways with your pussy with a lingering, wet kiss on your clit. Barely-audible as he whispers, “Gonna see ya soon.”

You don’t have the time to think about his newfound addiction. Because in all of three seconds, he’s plopping you back down so prettily on his lap. Purposefully feeding your sopping wet slit his weeping red tip. 

“Please.” Gojo’s usually-arrogant grin has fallen into such a pretty pout with one graze of his length sandwiched between your folds. “I did good, right? Please ngh- so I th-think if I made you cum then I get to hah- fuck you how I want.”

And it’s not that you didn’t appreciate it before - but looking at his thick tip pushing up against your cunt right now has you recognizing that shit, Gojo is massive. 

Fat head blushing a pretty reddish, leaking so messily down, down, down those glistening veins at his side and to the creamy ring at his base - from when he’d cum, just from eating you out, you realize with a jolt. His girth so intimidatingly thick, long enough that you know you won’t be walking for a week straight, at least. All throbbing and angry with every second he isn’t buried to the hilt inside your cunt. 

Gojo Satoru is massive. 

“Like what ya see?” he echoes your thoughts, a soaked thumb coming down to pry apart your glossy folds. Grinning at the way your hole was already so needy and clenching around nothing. “Think m’the ngh- perfect size for this pretty pussy?”

Through it all, you find it in yourself to muse, “Only one way to find out. Gonna let me be your first, Toru?”

And then he’s pushing in, shallow, high little gasps bursting from his lips with each inch being bullied into your plush cunt. 

“O-oh fuck-” Gojo can’t stop himself from taking a good look at the way your pussy lips are bulging around him. Jaw dropping at the way your greedy entrance is only sucking him up more and more - trying to bite off more than you can chew with the way he was in so deep but barely even halfway in yet. “S’too good- oh my god- fuck I think m’gonna die. Is it s’pposed to feel th-this good?”

You’re running a hand gingerly through Gojo’s mussed-up hair, smoothing down the sides sticking up where you’d been pulling on it. “S’alright, Toru.” you soothe, letting him grind up into you. Trying to fit more - all of it. “You’ve got it- you’ve hah-”

You let out a pathetic little whine when his tip kisses your cervix, legs flexing around his toned waist. 

“Oh- ohhh fuck-” he’s barely able to string together coherent sentences now. Eyes falling till their half-lidded, body moving before his mind when he pulls yours stuck to his. “S-soo good n’ I haven’t even- oh!” His voice goes a few octaves higher when Gojo finally starts moving. “How can- it feel this good, hng-”

And shit for being inexperienced, he was fucking up into you so mean. Just in short little thrusts up like he was trying to fuck you even deeper - trying to squeeze inside more of himself impossibly. 

“Some- ah- some more, Toru-” 

He listens, and the stretch - fuck. Gojo wasn’t even trying yet, but his girth was already massaging your gummy walls so dizzyingly good. 

“Y-you’re so- ngh-” you graze your lips across his in what can barely be called a kiss. Too messy. Too depraved. “-so deep.” Sliding a hand about midway down your stomach to press down, “Can feel you all the way in here.”

Your words are sticking to Gojo like a second skin, driving him so fucking mad. Hips smacking up into you deep until his heavy balls were slapping your ass, sculpted pelvis crashing into yours.

“Stop talking.“ he spits, “Stop talking stop talking stop- talking.” Each word is punctuated by a desperate, messy stroke. Pushing you further and further up Gojo’s body from the obscene impact. “Stop hah- talking or m’gonna cum.”

He wasn’t lying - you could already feel the twitch of Gojo’ length rubbing up against your hidden sweet spots. The furious throbbing of his veins stretching out your elastic walls. 

And yet you’re still wailing stubbornly, “B-but Toru it feels so good.” Partially truth, partially because when the fuck do you get to see him so utterly wrecked like this. Sanity dancing away from him with each syrupy moan leaving your mouth, “Your cock is too good- ngh- feels-”

“Shut up.”

Gojo can only take that much of your nonsense before he’s stuffing your mean mouth full with a flimsy piece of fabric from somewhere on the bed- no. A strangely familiar pair of panties. 

“Heh, s’much ohhh fuck- better.” he beams with pride when you’re gagging and tearing up so adorably around the light blue fabric. Ramming his cock up harder - stronger, as if daring you to make a little comment about it. “Should’ve ah fuck- known you wouldn’t make it easy f’me.”

As if to prove his point, he gives your ravaged clit a little smack! before teasing and rolling his thumb exactly the way you’d taught him to with his tongue.

And he’s scrambling to sit up, carrying your boneless body with him. 

The new angle has Gojo seeing stars, penetrating your gummy walls deeper, hitting that familiar g-spot he’s mapped out by now. “Here?” he manages to cackle, a big arm wrapping around your waist. “Right here? S’my cock hitting th-that ngh- good spot? Yer pussy is fuuuck so much easier to u-understand than I ah- thought.”

Reeling back to bounce you on his thick cock. Crashing into it again. And again and again and-

Since you can’t snap back - or even beg for more - you only let out muffled little moans through the gag in your mouth. Thighs burning as you push back in pathetic little thrusts to somehow meet Gojo’s mindless cadence.

“Oh yeah?” he drags, leaning back to help you ride him properly. “Yeah yeah do i-it hah- like that. Do it juuuust like that.” A harsh thumb rolls into your clit, making you stutter and grind yourself down messily. “Fuck- Yeah ruin me- ngh- just like that.”

His words were jagged - uneven. Spitting out of his plump lips like he didn’t even know they were every time Gojo’s fat, leaky tip was gliding across your cervix, your g-spot. Leaving possessive little bruises to claim you from the inside out. 

“C-close.” you slur out, not even sure if he could hear over the dull slap of his balls on your ass, and the greedy squelches of your cunt. “More, Toru.”

Yet your sinful, sickly sweet noises have him freezing - if only for a split-second. Pussydrunk eyes going wide, jaw falling slack in such awe. 

But before you can fully appreciate this sight, he’s starting back his depraved thrusts again. Bouncing you harder - faster. Just dragging you along every ridge and bump of his swollen cock. Fingers just a needy blur toying with your poor clit. 

“M-more?” he whines into the crook of your neck, voice breaking at the end. “More. More?” He speaks up, like a mantra. Each word sending you spiraling down Gojo’s merciless cock, Panting, “Ever since you fuck- started rooming w’me, wanted this- wanted you to hah- be my first.” Holding you in such a vice-like grip as he splits you apart on his aching cock. Harder. “You’ve ruined me-” he spits against your lips, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “Don’ know how many times I’ve cum to your pretty panties. Ruined me- ruined me- fuck m’so close- ruined me.” Violent, even. 

So it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same. 

And it’s only taking a few more unsteady jabs into your g-spot before a wave of euphoria is crashing over you. “Hngh-” you spasm in Gojo’s arms, his eyes going wide in wonder when your cunt squeezes him so fucking tight- only to-

“F-fuck!” he whines, connecting your lips to his. Kissing you even with your panties still stuffed into your mouth. And Gojo’s cumming and cumming so hard he doesn’t even think he’s breathing. Intertwining his tongue with yours to muffle his overstimulated moans, wrapping around your sweet slick-soaked panties in the middle. The contrast of his soft tongue with the lazy fabric of your panties only making you milk his poor cock harder. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck- fuck- Take it. Take it, my girl.”

You moan incoherently, going insane at the way he was filling you up with long, thick ropes of cum. Fucking deeper and deeper up into you to paint your plushy walls from the inside. 

“S’all I’ve- ngh wanted.” he murmurs throatily, such a fucking mess now. Face flushed, eyes glassy with tears, drool dripping down the corner of his mouth with the way he was sucking lewdly on your tongue. “You’re all I-I’ve ever wanted.”

Shit, he hasn’t cum this hard in his life.

Finally having had enough of shutting up your smart mouth, Gojo slows down to deep little grinds - still moving. Still trying to hold back his moans at that creamy ring around his hilt, at the globs of seed trickling out of your poor overfilled pussy. 

“Hah- Toru-” you whine when he pries away the fabric in your mouth. Shuddering with the swipe of his finger along your clit, “C-could almost ngh- forgive you…”

“The blue one.”

“What?” you’re staring at him in confusion, and Gojo’s fucked-out grin only spreads wider. 

“That was for the b-blue one.” you gasp when his balls suddenly squeeze so painfully underneath you. Cock jerking in interest, “Y’gonna have me make up for that whole drawer full of panties, sweetheart?”

A/N. VIRGIN GOJO BRAIN ROT GOES BRRRRRRRR

Plagiarism not authorized.

[theplacetoputfics]

I love the thought that Tomura and the rest of the League of Villains accepts Magne without a second thought considering how hard she's had it.

Tomura might be a bit prickly but he means well.

[theplacetoputfics]

this trio if they had normal childhoods and loving families

[theplacetoputfics]

how to break satoru gojo

satoru has always been insufferably proud of his pretty blue eyes—the kind of insufferable that involves theatrical sunglasses removal and turning every conversation into an opportunity for intense eye contact. he’s spent years perfecting the art of making people swoon over his cerulean gaze, confident that no one could ever outdo his natural pretty boy advantages. then he meets you, and suddenly discovers what it’s like to be on the completely devastating receiving end of truly beautiful eyes.

wc — 1.1k  ෆ tags -> f!reader, fluff, humor, satoru being insufferable then humbled, first sight (on his end), height difference, reader has pretty eyes, this is stupidly tender

satoru had always been insufferable about his eyes.

not just confident—insufferable. the kind of insufferable that made people roll their eyes so hard they nearly sprained something. he’d perfected the art of the wide-eyed stare, pupils dilated just enough to make the cerulean pop like some kind of living gemstone. catch him at literally any reflective surface and there he’d be, tilting his head this way and that, watching the light dance across his irises like he was conducting some personal symphony of vanity.

“hey, check this out,” he’d announce to whoever had the misfortune of being within earshot, pulling down his sunglasses with theatrical flair. the glasses would perch on the tip of his nose as he blinked slowly, deliberately, like some sort of ridiculous peacock. “pretty wild how they’re literally the color of the sky, right? like, actually blue. not hazel pretending to be blue, not gray with blue undertones—”

“we know, satoru,” his friends would groan in unison.

but did he stop? absolutely not. if anything, their exasperation only fueled him further. he’d lean into conversations with his chin propped on his palm, ensuring maximum eye contact. he’d “accidentally” catch the light streaming through windows. he’d even perfected this thing where he’d look up through his white lashes when he was thinking, because he’d noticed how it made the blue seem almost luminous.

this man had turned eye contact into performance art.

then you happened.

and suddenly, for the first time in his twenty-something years of existence, satoru understood what it meant to be on the receiving end of truly devastating eyes.

it had been three weeks since that first encounter—three weeks of him being reduced to an absolute mess of a human being every time you so much as glanced in his direction. three weeks of discovering that all his eye-related arrogance meant absolutely nothing when faced with the soft, sweet curve of your gaze looking up at him.

up. because of course you had to be shorter. of course he had to tower over you in that way that made something protective and warm unfurl in his chest every single time. of course when you looked at him, you had to tilt your chin up just slightly, those impossibly doe-like eyes catching every speck of light in the room and reflecting it back like you were holding tiny galaxies.

“satoru?” your voice cuts through his internal spiral, and he realizes he’s been staring. again.

you’re perched on the edge of his couch, fingers playing with the hem of your oversized sweater—the cream-colored one that makes you look like you’re drowning in softness. your head tilts slightly, eyebrows drawing together in the most devastating little furrow of concern, and satoru feels his brain short-circuit in real time.

“you okay? you’ve been...” your eyes dart to his face and away again, cheeks dimpling as you bite the inside of your lip, “...staring. again.”

again. because apparently he’s been caught enough times for it to warrant an ‘again.’ fantastic.

“i’m—” his voice comes out rougher than intended, and he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair until it sticks up at odd angles. his cheeks flush pink beneath his pale skin as he stumbles over the words, “sorry. just thinking.”

“about what?” you ask, chin propping on your palm as your eyes widen with that genuine curiosity that makes his chest do something acrobatic and completely undignified.

how is he supposed to explain that he’s thinking about the way your eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when you smile? that he’s been cataloguing every shade and flicker of emotion that passes through them like some kind of lovesick scholar? that for weeks now, he’s been completely and utterly ruined by the simple act of you looking at him?

“just...” he gestures helplessly, then drops his hand to his lap, shoulders sagging in defeat. “you have really pretty eyes.”

the words tumble out before he can stop them, and he immediately wants to crawl into a hole and disappear forever. his face burns crimson as he squeezes his eyes shut, because that’s not how this was supposed to go. he was supposed to be smooth, charming, maybe work in some comment about his own eyes to maintain his reputation—

but then you blink, long lashes fluttering against your cheeks like butterfly wings, and when you look back up at him there’s this shy smile playing at the corners of your mouth, nose scrunching adorably.

“thank you,” you murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a gesture so unconsciously sweet that satoru physically has to grip the arm of his chair to keep from melting into a puddle. your eyes sparkle as you peek up at him through your lashes, “i like yours too.”

and just like that, all those years of being insufferably proud of his blue eyes feel completely ridiculous. because the way you’re looking at him now—soft and warm and just a little bit bashful—makes him realize that he’d give up every compliment he’s ever received about them just to see this exact expression on your face for the rest of his life.

“they’re just blue,” he says, and the words feel foreign in his mouth. his shoulders hunch forward slightly, suddenly self-conscious in a way that’s completely alien to him. satoru gojo, dismissing his own eyes? the same eyes he’d spent decades perfecting poses for?

but you shake your head, eyebrows shooting up in the most indignant expression he’s ever seen on your face. you lean forward slightly, and suddenly you’re closer, close enough that he can see the exact way your pupils dilate in the afternoon light.

“they’re not just anything,” you say softly, and your voice has this quality to it that makes his heart forget how to beat properly. your lips part slightly as you search for words, gaze distant and dreamy, “they’re like... like looking at the ocean on a really clear day. all depth and movement and...” you trail off, cheeks warming to the most perfect shade of pink, nose wrinkling as you duck your head, “sorry, that probably sounds silly.”

satoru stares at you, this impossible girl who somehow managed to describe his eyes in a way that doesn’t make him want to preen and show off, but instead makes him want to be worthy of the way you see him.

“not silly,” he manages, voice barely above a whisper.

you smile then, one of those full, unguarded smiles that transforms your entire face, and satoru realizes with startling clarity that he’s completely, utterly, hopelessly gone for you. he knows with absolute certainty that he could spend lifetimes just memorizing the way your eyes shine.

his eyes might be blue, but yours? yours are home, yours are forever, yours are the only thing he ever wants to get lost in.

[theplacetoputfics]

[theplacetoputfics]

say you don't

today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)

synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?

pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader

wc: 7.3k

content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency

a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3

The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband. 

It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before. 

You weren’t even sure he was human. 

Or if you were still asleep. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.

The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes. 

You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face. 

Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was. 

With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with. 

You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming. 

So he was, for better or worse, real. 

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it. 

“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were. 

“It’s just, whatever this, uh, weird roleplay thing is-” 

He blinked. 

One eye at a time. 

“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too. 

You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was. 

“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place. 

“This is home.” 

You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.

“No,” you muttered. “This-”

You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion. 

“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-

Wait. 

How the hell did you know what his name was? 

Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on? 

He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either. 

“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared. 

You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip. 

“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious. 

“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.” 

He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal. 

And then it clicked. 

It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network. 

“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”

“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him. 

“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.

The only stain on it. 

“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes. 

“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place. 

But nothing stood out.

Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor? 

“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”

He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.

You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page. 

And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself. 

If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it. 

His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.

You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago. 

“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone. 

“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.  

You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.

Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight. 

Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized. 

“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before. 

“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you. 

He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it. 

You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would. 

It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though. 

A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face. 

Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through. 

It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.

Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern. 

When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.

Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you. 

“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you. 

Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen. 

You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant. 

But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did. 

You blinked at him. 

He stared back at you. 

The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first. 

You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?” 

“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.

You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful. 

It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers

That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.  

The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement. 

“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once? 

Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about. 

You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor. 

God, that really did sound fucking insane. 

Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you? 

There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him. 

What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours? 

“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though. 

“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface. 

“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.” 

“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap. 

“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them. 

“Then why are you here today?” 

Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife? 

“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit. 

“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too. 

You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way. 

“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole. 

He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working. 

“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles. 

“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he? 

“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold. 

“Sure,” you returned his fake smile. 

It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway? 

“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”  

Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers. 

Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home. 

You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road? 

It was ridiculous. 

He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him. 

The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat. 

Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer. 

“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded. 

“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car. 

“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.

You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval. 

“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown. 

“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege? 

That the world bent around him because he thought it should? 

You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.

Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.  

He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save. 

Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker. 

Maybe both. 

When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date. 

“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch. 

You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face. 

“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours? 

“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?” 

You didn't really believe anything he said. 

Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.

But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going. 

“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them. 

Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away. 

“You don’t work,” he casually replied. 

“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.” 

He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust. 

The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it. 

Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food. 

“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps. 

You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills. 

He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.

“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.  

You swallowed. 

And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more. 

But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed. 

And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car. 

The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on. 

His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time. 

You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.

“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.

“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world. 

He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped. 

People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.

As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.

Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship. 

You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually. 

It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him. 

It was the worst in the mornings.

Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.

And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching. 

His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.

Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity. 

You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late. 

The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it. 

You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here. 

He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either. 

Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.

But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.

“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.

You tried to sleep it off. 

But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all. 

And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be. 

On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him. 

You used to think you could get used to anything. 

But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head? 

“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was. 

“Fine,” you lied. 

You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.

“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would. 

You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.” 

“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?” 

Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about. 

“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side. 

Satoru had been listening in. 

But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up. 

Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.

You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted? 

In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning. 

Something was seriously wrong with him and you.  

You were both bad at pretending to be normal. 

Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap. 

Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.  

If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it. 

“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking. 

You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock. 

Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd. 

Even more than the situation itself was.

Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago. 

“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall. 

Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs. 

But you never drowned. 

You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?

Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you. 

Here there had to be at least two hundred. 

All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared. 

Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same. 

And you didn’t resist. 

Didn’t want to. 

When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out. 

It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat. 

Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.

Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you. 

You could've lived in it. 

But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy. 

The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick. 

“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe. 

You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many. 

In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react. 

And you saw it. 

Not just a glimpse. Not a flash. 

But a full second where there was an extra arm attached. 

It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again. 

“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been. 

“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it. 

“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling. 

“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband. 

He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr. 

How easy would it be for him to do the same to you? 

“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident. 

Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love. 

There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of. 

Something had to snap - and it was you. 

And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor. 

Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk. 

And you tapped your nails against your leg. 

“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”

“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

“I know,” you nodded. 

You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock. 

“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom. 

He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out. 

Your file was left on his desk. 

It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered. 

Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too. 

His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach. 

Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them. 

“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.” 

“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway. 

“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him. 

“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”

“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted. 

You felt like you were going to pass out.

“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-” 

You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.

“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet. 

A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.

A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could. 

“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening. 

“Your husband.” 

You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one. 

What vows had he sworn? 

For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not? 

“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded. 

Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his. 

“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect. 

You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset. 

“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”

Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop. 

“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.” 

You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one. 

“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light. 

“You,” he easily answered. 

“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window. 

“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out. 

“I want to go home,” you murmured. 

The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his. 

And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you. 

Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off. 

“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted. 

But being scared was exhausting. 

So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom. 

You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward. 

“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure. 

“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed. 

Literally. 

A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?” 

“You're all I have left.”

[theplacetoputfics]

mrs. gojo’s terrible, horrible, no good, very good night

pairing — satoru gojo x female reader

synopsis: you’re hiding in the hotel bathroom on your wedding night, having what might be the world’s most elaborate anxiety-induced spa routine while your new husband satoru waits patiently (or not so patiently) in bed. when you finally emerge after two and a half hours of over-conditioning your hair and stress-scrubbing with vanilla body wash, you discover he’s been very much awake and has some opinions about your extended absence. turns out being mrs. gojo comes with certain husband-related benefits that make all that nervous energy very much worth it.

wc — 13.7k ෆ tags -> modern au, fluff, smut, established relationship wedding night, first time, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, mild dacryphilia, multiple rounds, missionary, cowgirl, aftercare, scrumptious art by @/_3aem

a/n: i actually spent this whole weekend writing this beast, so pls clap 😋 very proud of myself for the sheer detail and immersion (and for once, no squirting—personal growth!!). hope you enjoy being wrecked by satoru as much as i enjoyed wrecking my digital keyboard 🫶🏻

you’re going to die in this bathroom.

not from anything dramatic, mind you. not from slipping on the marble floor or drowning in the stupidly deep hotel bathtub. no, you’re going to die from pure, unadulterated cowardice, and they’re going to find your pruney corpse clutching a bottle of complimentary vanilla body wash like it’s a lifeline.

the bathroom has become your fortress of solitude, complete with overpriced hotel toiletries that you’ve been methodically working through for the past—what, hour? two hours? the little clock on the marble counter stopped making sense around the time you started your third full-body scrub routine.

husband. the word sits heavy in your chest, all warm and terrifying and impossible. you keep catching glimpses of the ring on your finger in your peripheral vision and your heart does this stupid stuttering thing every single time.

you’ve washed your hair twice, conditioned it three times, exfoliated until your skin could probably reflect sunlight, and you’re currently working on what might be your fourth round of the complimentary body wash that smells like vanilla and false confidence. the mirror keeps fogging up from your unnecessarily long shower, which is perfect because you don’t particularly want to look yourself in the eye right now and confront whatever expression you’re probably making.

“just making sure i smell good,” you mutter to the pristine tiles, your voice echoing slightly in the marble sanctuary, fingers trembling as they work the lather across your shoulders for what has to be the dozenth time. as if they asked. as if anyone asked. as if satoru isn’t out there probably wondering if you’ve dissolved into the drain or escaped through the bathroom window like some kind of anxious rapunzel.

which, honestly, you’ve considered. you’ve even eyed the window measurements.

the thing is, you love him. love him so much it makes your teeth ache and your hands shake and your brain short-circuit at the worst possible moments—like now, when you’re supposed to be out there being a proper wife instead of hiding behind a locked door like you’re sixteen and scared of your first everything.

because that’s what this is. your first everything that matters.

god, you’re so pathetic it’s not even funny.

another thirty minutes pass in a haze of unnecessary beauty routines. you’ve moved on to deep conditioning your hair (for the second time), applying a face mask you found in the complimentary spa kit, and having a philosophical debate with your reflection about whether it’s possible to die from embarrassment. the water’s been running cold for the last ten minutes, which feels like the universe’s way of telling you to get your act together, but you’re nothing if not committed to your terrible coping mechanisms.

“he’s probably asleep anyway,” you whisper to your pruney fingers, working some expensive hair oil through the ends of your definitely over-conditioned strands. your voice sounds small in the echoing space, almost lost against the gentle patter of water droplets. “it’s late. he had a long day. all that dancing and smiling at your weird relatives and pretending your dad’s jokes were funny. he’s definitely asleep by now.”

you cling to this possibility like it’s the last life raft on a sinking ship.

finally, finally, you run out of bathroom-related tasks to perform without actually dissolving into the marble floor. the robe is fluffy enough to hide in, you smell like a vanilla cupcake, and your skin is soft enough to probably qualify as a health hazard. you take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing for your shot nerves, your hand hesitating on the door handle as your pulse hammers against your throat, and slowly crack open the door like you’re checking for monsters.

the room is dark. quiet. peaceful.

your heart does this stupid little leap of relief mixed with something that might be disappointment but you’re absolutely not examining that feeling right now because that way lies madness.

satoru’s lying on his side of the bed—his side, like you’re actually married now, like this is real life and not some elaborate stress dream—his moon-pale hair catching the faint city light like spilled starlight, each strand gleaming with an almost ethereal luminescence that makes your chest tight. his breathing appears even, peaceful. one long arm stretched across the space where you should be, fingers slightly curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp, like he fell asleep waiting.

the guilt hits you like cold water.

“oh thank god,” you breathe, practically melting with relief as you pad across the stupidly expensive carpet, your bare feet sinking into the plush fibers with each careful step. the hotel room is all warm lighting and soft edges, designed for romance, which makes your neuroses feel even more ridiculous. “i’m so sorry, ’toru,” you whisper to his sleeping form, your voice barely audible as you settle carefully on the very edge of the bed like you’re afraid it might collapse under your anxiety. “i know i took forever. i was just... scared, i guess. which is stupid because it’s you, and i love you more than anything, and i trust you completely, but my brain is just completely broken apparently and i—”

his arm shoots out like a striking snake.

you yelp as you’re suddenly yanked down against his chest, tumbling in an ungraceful heap on top of him, your damp hair cascading around both of you like a curtain. your hands shoot out to catch yourself and suddenly you’re braced against his bare chest, faces inches apart, close enough to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light. his other arm comes around to trap you against the warm solid length of him, and oh—oh, you can feel everything. the hard planes of his chest, the way his breathing has gone shallow, the heat of him seeping through the thin robe.

his eyes are bright and very much awake in the darkness, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you with the most devastatingly shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. those impossible blues gleam like summer lightning, electric and dangerous and completely focused on you. there’s something almost predatory in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s a cat who’s finally caught the canary after a very long, very entertaining chase.

“scared?” he purrs, voice rough with what you now realize was completely fake sleep. his thumb traces along your lower lip with deliberate slowness, and you can feel your breath hitch, feel the way your pulse jumps under his touch. “of little old me?”

you’re suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that you’re straddling him. that his hands are spanning your waist with possessive certainty. that there’s nothing but a loosely tied robe between you and—

“you—” you start, face immediately burning hot enough to power the entire hotel, your voice catching as his fingers flex against your ribs. your voice comes out breathier than you intended, barely more than a whisper. “you were awake this whole time?”

“baby,” he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re pressed against him, and you can feel the vibration of it everywhere your bodies touch, sending tiny sparks along your nerve endings. his eyes never leave yours, drinking in every micro-expression like he’s been starving for the sight of you, like he’s been counting every second you were apart. “sweetheart. light of my life. did you really think i’d fall asleep on our wedding night? while my wife—” he says the word like he’s savoring something exquisite, his grip on your waist tightening possessively “—was having what sounded like a full spa day in there?”

wife. every time he says it, something flutters dangerously in your chest, made worse by the way his eyes darken every time the word leaves his lips, like it affects him just as much as it affects you.

“i wasn’t having a spa day,” you protest weakly, very much caught and definitely guilty as charged. you try to push yourself up, to put some distance between you and the intensity of his gaze, but his hands keep you exactly where you are with gentle but immovable strength.

“mm-hmm.” one hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your definitely-too-soft cheekbone while his eyes track the movement with laser focus, like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. “just really, really committed to personal hygiene. for two and a half hours.” his other hand slides up your spine with agonizing slowness, fingers tangling in the damp ends of your hair, the touch sending shivers cascading down your back. “while i was out here going slowly insane, listening to every sound, imagining you in there all wet and—”

“it wasn’t two and a half hours,” you mumble, but you’re pretty sure it actually was, and the way his chest shakes with barely contained laughter beneath you confirms your suspicions.

“i’ve been lying here listening to the water run and trying not to go insane,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw and hungry in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch in your throat and your skin prickle with awareness. his fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding you in place so you can’t look away from the intensity burning in those crystalline depths. “do you know what that does to a man? knowing his wife is naked and wet just twenty feet away? hearing every little sound and imagining—”

you make some kind of strangled noise that might have been an attempt at words, your hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as heat pools low in your belly.

“and now you’re here,” he continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, eyes roaming over your face like he’s memorizing every detail—the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. “and you smell—” he shifts beneath you, pulling you down so he can bury his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. you feel his lips brush against your pulse point and your entire body goes liquid, melting against him like honey. “—like you bathed in sugar and sin and everything i’ve ever wanted.”

his teeth graze your throat and you gasp, your back arching involuntarily, pressing you closer against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the terry cloth.

“how am i supposed to be normal about this?” he murmurs against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each touch of his lips leaving trails of fire. “how am i supposed to be patient when you’re shaking on top of me and making those little sounds?”

your brain has officially left the building. “i was nervous,” you admit in a voice smaller than a whisper, and you can feel him smile against your throat, soft and fond and devastatingly tender.

his expression gentles immediately, but his hands don’t stop their slow, torturous exploration of your waist, fingers tracing patterns that make you shiver and arch into his touch. he shifts beneath you with careful precision, rolling you both over so you’re lying side by side, and suddenly you can breathe again—or maybe breathing becomes even harder when he’s propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with those impossibly expressive eyes full of something soft and hungry and completely devoted.

“hey,” he murmurs, free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw with reverent touches, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like it’s something precious. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can just sleep. or talk. or i can go back to pretending to sleep if that was working better for your anxiety.”

the sincerity in his voice, combined with the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars specifically for him, makes your chest tight with affection so intense it almost hurts.

you huff a laugh despite yourself, some of the overwhelming tension melting into something warmer, more manageable. “you’re impossible.”

“impossibly patient,” he corrects with that crooked smile that makes your heart skip, then grins, and there’s that wicked gleam in his eyes again, playful and dangerous and entirely focused on you. “impossibly understanding. impossibly good-looking.”

“impossibly annoying.”

“mm,” he hums, leaning down to brush his nose against yours in the most devastating display of casual intimacy, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your lips, “you married me anyway.” his smile goes soft, private, the kind of expression that’s just for you—vulnerable and wondering and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “so what does that say about your judgment?”

“that it’s terrible,” you whisper, but you’re smiling now too, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

“the absolute worst,” he agrees solemnly, then leans in to brush his lips against yours. soft, questioning, sweet, like he’s asking permission for something you’ve done a thousand times before. but somehow this feels different. more weighted, more significant, like you’re crossing some invisible threshold together.

“better?” he asks against your lips, and you can feel his smile, can taste the hint of champagne still lingering from the reception.

you melt a little, like you always do when he kisses you like you’re something precious. “getting there.”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand threading through your damp hair to cradle the back of your head with infinite care. you sigh against his mouth and he takes it as permission, his tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for him with a soft sound of surrender. the kiss turns heated, desperate, all the restraint he’s been showing finally starting to crack around the edges like ice beginning to thaw.

his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you, until you can feel every hard line of his body against yours. you make a soft sound into his mouth and he groans in response, the noise vibrating through both of you like a tuning fork.

“you taste like toothpaste,” he murmurs when you break apart, both of you breathing hard. his pupils are blown wide and his hair is mussed from your fingers, those silver-white strands catching the low light like captured moonbeams.

“i brushed my teeth like six times,” you admit, embarrassed, but he just laughs—warm and fond and completely gone for you, the sound rich and delighted.

“i noticed,” he says, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch against him. “very thorough. very minty. very you.”

“shut up,” you breathe, but you’re kissing him back now, properly, desperately, the way you couldn’t quite manage to imagine doing an hour ago when you were having your breakdown in the bathroom.

his hands find the belt of your robe, fingers playing with the knot but not undoing it, just threatening to, his knuckles brushing against your stomach in a way that makes your breath hitch and your skin burn. he pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face in the dim light with an intensity that makes you feel completely seen.

“this okay?” he asks, voice gone lower, rougher, and you can feel the restraint in the careful way he’s touching you, like he’s holding himself back from just devouring you whole.

you nod against his neck, then realize he probably can’t see you properly in the dark. “yeah,” you whisper, then, quieter, more vulnerable: “i don’t really know what i’m doing though.”

something shifts in his expression—hunger mixing with tenderness in a way that makes your chest tight and your core clench with want. “good thing i do,” he says, voice like honey and sin, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he finally, finally tugs the knot loose with careful, deliberate movements.

the robe falls open and satoru goes very, very still above you.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, and his voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking with the weight of his want. his hands hover just above your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you, like you’re something holy that he doesn’t deserve to worship. his eyes roam over you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, taking in every curve, every shadow, every inch of exposed skin like he’s trying to memorize you.

you want to cover yourself, want to hide from the overwhelming way he’s looking at you—like you’re a miracle he never expected to witness—but his expression stops you cold. he’s staring at you like you hung the moon and stars specifically for him, like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered in the dark.

“you’re so—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles for words, tries again. “god, look at you. you’re perfect. you’re so fucking perfect i can’t—”

his hands finally settle on your waist, warm and sure and slightly trembling, thumbs tracing reverent patterns on your skin like he’s painting prayers across your flesh. you’re both breathing hard now, the air between you electric and charged and ready to snap.

“can i—?” he starts, hands still hovering, asking permission for everything, and the careful restraint in his voice makes something molten pool in your stomach.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely audible but it’s enough, more than enough.

his control finally snaps.

his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and desperate and full of months of wanting, and his hands are suddenly everywhere—tracing the line of your spine, mapping the curve of your ribs, learning the shape of you with a patience that makes your chest tight and your head spin. every touch is careful but urgent, like he’s trying to memorize you and claim you and worship you all at once.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs against your lips, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach.

“nervous,” you admit, because there’s no point in lying now when you’re spread out beneath him like an offering, your skin flushed and sensitive under his reverent attention.

his mouth pauses against your skin. “want me to stop?”

“no.” the word comes out more desperate than you intended, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging at those soft strands until he groans against your throat. “no, don’t stop. i just—i don’t know what to do with my hands.”

he laughs, warm and fond and completely wrecked, the sound vibrating against your skin. “you don’t have to do anything,” he says, lips trailing down to that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “just let me take care of you, yeah? let me make you feel good.”

his mouth finds that spot that makes your back arch and you gasp, pressing involuntarily against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, feel him smile against your skin when you make a soft, needy sound.

“there we go,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel, rough with want. “just like that. you sound so pretty when you—”

his teeth graze your throat and you’re gone, completely gone, arching beneath him like you’re trying to get closer, always closer. his hands are mapping every inch of exposed skin with reverent touches, and when he looks up at you through his lashes—those ridiculous white lashes that frame eyes like captured lightning—eyes dark with want and something deeper, you think you might actually die from how much you love him.

“’toru,” you manage, and his name comes out shakier than you intended, like a prayer torn from your very soul.

“right here,” he murmurs against your skin, placing another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear that makes you shiver and arch into his touch. “not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me now, wife.”

and god help you, but when he settles more firmly between your legs with that hungry, adoring look in his eyes—like he’s about to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly what you’ve been missing during your bathroom crisis—you think you might actually be looking forward to finding out exactly what being his wife is going to mean.

he shifts lower with agonizing deliberation, his hands—strong, warm, capable of wielding infinite power but now gentle as they handle you like spun glass—spreading your thighs wider with slow, purposeful pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. the cool air of the room kisses your heated skin, each molecule a sharp contrast that sends a shiver rippling through you, goosebumps blooming like tiny constellations across your flesh.

his gaze, those piercing eyes like arctic ice lit from within, pins you in place, making your heart race with a heady mix of vulnerability and desire that leaves you breathless. but then he tilts his head, looking up at you through those infuriatingly long lashes that should be illegal, his eyes absolutely wicked with mischief and unrestrained want, and that familiar, devastating grin spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your surrender.

“you know,” he says, his voice low and conversational, dripping with that teasing cadence that makes your toes curl, as his thumbs trace maddeningly slow, lazy patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each brush igniting sparks of electricity that pulse straight to your core, making your muscles quiver with anticipation. “i’ve been thinking about this for months. lying awake at night, restless, imagining what you’d taste like, what sounds you’d make when i—” his words trail off, deliberately unfinished, letting your mind spiral with the possibilities as his thumbs press just a fraction harder, sending a wave of heat through you that makes your hips shift restlessly.

“satoru,” you breathe, his name a broken whisper as your face flushes with warmth that spreads from your cheeks down your neck like wildfire, and he laughs—low, rich, and utterly unrepentant, the sound vibrating in his chest like a predator’s purr, sending a thrill through you that settles hot and heavy between your thighs.

“what? we’re married now. i’m allowed to tell my wife all the filthy things i’ve been dreaming about her.” his mouth presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm and slightly damp, the contact searing as it lingers, branding your skin with heat. then another kiss, higher, closer to where you’re already aching for him, each touch leaving a trail of tingling embers that make you squirm against the sheets. “and trust me, baby, i’ve been dreaming about everything.”

your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the quiet room, when his mouth reaches the delicate crease where your thigh meets your hip, his tongue darting out with a slow, deliberate swipe, the wet heat of it making your toes curl and your fingers clutch desperately at the expensive sheets. he hums appreciatively, the sound low and resonant, vibrating through your flesh like a current, as if you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever tasted. his lips linger, brushing softly, teasingly, before he pulls back just enough to let his breath ghost over the damp patch he’s left, cool against your overheated skin.

“gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sinks into your bones like a sacred vow. his hands slide under your thighs with deliberate care, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts them, draping them over his broad shoulders with a slow, reverent motion. the position opens you completely, baring you to his gaze, every inch of you exposed in a way that feels thrillingly intimate, your core pulsing with anticipation that borders on desperation. “gonna make you fall apart so many times you forget your own name. think you can handle that, wife?”

you open your mouth to answer, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as his tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, the sensation overwhelming—wet, warm, and impossibly perfect, sending shockwaves through your entire body that make your vision blur at the edges. pleasure radiates outward like ripples in still water, making your fingers clench the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, your hips lifting instinctively toward his wicked mouth. he groans in response, a deep, primal sound that vibrates against you, and your hands fly to tangle in his hair, tugging at those soft, impossible strands as you surrender completely to the sensations he’s creating.

“fuck, you taste even better than i imagined,” he breathes against your slick skin, his voice rough with desire, the cool exhale making you shudder and whimper his name like a broken prayer. then he dives back in with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin, his tongue working you with methodical precision, like he’s studied every sensitive spot and planned exactly how to unravel you.

he’s thorough—alternating between broad, flat strokes that make your entire body tense with electric pleasure, and focused attention on your clit, his tongue flicking and circling with devastating accuracy until you’re writhing beneath him, hips bucking greedily against his mouth. occasionally, he dips lower, his tongue plunging into you with obscene, wet sounds that make your cheeks burn and your core clench around the intrusion, every nerve alight with pleasure that builds in relentless waves.

when you’re teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head like leaves in a storm, your voice a broken chant of his name echoing off the hotel room walls, he pulls back just enough to fix you with those predatory eyes—twin flames in the darkness that seem to see straight through to your soul. his chin glistens with your arousal, a wicked grin curling his lips as he drinks in your desperate whimper, the loss of his mouth agonizing, your clit throbbing and swollen with need. “not yet,” he says, his voice smug and teasing, relishing your need like fine wine. “told you i was gonna take my time.”

he does it again. and again. each time, he builds you up with that sinful mouth, pushing you to the very brink until you’re sobbing with need, tears of pure want streaming down your cheeks, your body so wound up it feels like you might shatter into a thousand pieces. the denial sharpens every sensation—each touch of his lips, each flick of his tongue feels electric, amplified by the sweet torment of being held at the edge. your breaths come in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the overwhelming desire consuming you from the inside out.

“please,” you gasp, your hands fisted in his hair hard enough that it has to hurt, tugging until he moans against you, the sound low and filthy, as if the pain only drives him wilder. your voice breaks, raw and desperate, a plea torn from the very depths of your need. “satoru, please—”

“please what?” he asks, his tone wickedly innocent as he presses a soft, teasing kiss to your clit, the brief contact sending a jolt through your oversensitive flesh that makes you cry out. the slight suction of his lips is nowhere near enough to satisfy the ache building inside you. “use your words, sweetheart.”

“let me come,” you beg, too consumed by need to feel any shame, your hips bucking up desperately, chasing his mouth with single-minded desperation. your slickness makes everything wet and messy, dripping down your thighs in a way that would embarrass you if you had any coherent thoughts left. “please, i need—i can’t—”

“there’s my good girl,” he purrs, the praise dripping with satisfaction that makes your core clench with want, and finally, finally, he gives you what you crave. his mouth seals over your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, sucking in a rhythm that’s both perfect and utterly devastating, sending you screaming his name as the first orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. it’s blinding, your vision whiting out as pleasure explodes through every nerve, your body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave of ecstasy tears through you, leaving you trembling and gasping.

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow. his tongue continues its relentless assault, working you through the aftershocks with a ferocity that sends you spiraling into overstimulation, your body so sensitive it’s almost too much to bear. you’re pliant, completely at his mercy, your hips lifting to meet every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, your moans turning into soft, broken whimpers as you surrender to the intensity. “satoru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe and desperation, your hands tugging at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, wanting more despite the overwhelming sensation.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes against you, the words vibrating through your swollen clit and making you cry out as the sensation sends fresh sparks through your overloaded nervous system. “love how you just take it, how you let me do whatever i want to this sweet cunt.” his enthusiasm is infectious, making you arch into him, your body greedy for every touch, every stroke, as he dives back in with renewed fervor.

the second orgasm builds faster, your body already primed and hypersensitive, every nerve singing with electric pleasure. when it hits, you’re crying openly, tears streaming down your face from the sheer intensity, the pleasure so overwhelming it feels like it’s rewriting your very dna. you’re pliant, melting into him, your body arching off the bed in a perfect bow as the climax rips through you, your walls fluttering with desperate need even as you shake and sob, completely undone.

“look at you,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork, his voice thick with awe and barely restrained lust. you catch your reflection in his blown-out pupils—wrecked and radiant, your face flushed with pleasure, lips parted as you struggle to breathe, eyes glassy with tears of bliss. his chin glistens with your arousal, his lips swollen and wet, and the sight is so obscene it makes your core clench with renewed want. “crying from how good i make you feel. you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

he slides two fingers inside you with slow, deliberate ease, your body so eager and wet that they slip in effortlessly, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a flutter of pleasure. his fingers feel impossibly long, thicker than your own, reaching deeper and brushing against spots that make you gasp sharply and see stars behind your closed eyelids. he starts a slow, torturous rhythm, curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed, each movement sending electricity shooting through your veins. his thumb circles your oversensitive clit with feather-light touches, the barest pressure enough to make you jolt and whimper.

“one more,” he says, his voice low and commanding as he adds a third finger, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that makes you keen, your body eagerly accommodating him. you can hear the obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you, your slickness coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, making everything messy and perfect. “give me one more and then i’ll give you my cock. you want that, don’t you? want me to fill you up?”

you nod frantically, words beyond you, your mind too scrambled by pleasure to form anything coherent beyond broken moans and gasps of his name.

he grins, absolutely feral with satisfaction at reducing you to this trembling, needy mess. “can’t hear you, baby,” he teases, his voice a low growl that makes your core clench around his fingers.

“yes,” you sob, your voice hoarse and broken from all the sounds he’s pulled from you, “yes, want it, want you—need you inside me—”

“good girl,” he purrs, and his fingers pick up speed, each thrust hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision while his mouth returns to your clit, the dual assault pushing you toward the edge with terrifying speed. the third orgasm rips through you like lightning, your body convulsing, walls clenching around his fingers as you gush, the wetness soaking his hand, your thighs, the expensive sheets beneath you. you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe, the intensity leaving you trembling and shattered, but you’re still pliant, still aching for more, your body singing for him.

“perfect,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers, the loss making you whimper softly. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep, appreciative groan that makes your core clench around nothing, the visual so filthy it’s almost enough to push you over again. “absolutely perfect. taste so fucking good.”

he crawls back up your body with slow, predatory grace, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hip bone, the dip of your waist, the soft valley between your breasts. your skin is hypersensitive, still thrumming from your orgasms, and each brush of his lips sends aftershocks rippling through you. when he reaches your mouth, he kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself—sweet and musky and intimate in a way that makes you moan into his mouth.

“still with me?” he asks softly, his voice carrying a thread of genuine concern even as his cock throbs against your thigh, hard and leaking, the heat of it searing against your sensitive skin. those ethereal strands of hair fall across his forehead like scattered moonlight, and his wedding ring catches the dim light as he cups your face, the cool metal a stark contrast against your flushed cheek.

“yeah,” you whisper, your voice wrecked, raw from moaning and crying out his name. “want you. need you inside me.”

his pupils dilate further, his breathing shallow, a faint tremor running through his powerful frame. “fuck, when you say things like that—” he breaks off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “you sure you’re ready? you’ve come so hard already, don’t want to overwhelm you.”

your heart swells at his care, but your body is desperate, aching for him with a need that borders on painful. “please, ’toru. want to feel you. need you.”

he reaches between your bodies, wrapping his hand around himself, and you catch a glimpse of him—long, thick, intimidatingly perfect, the tip flushed a deep pink and glistening with pre-cum that beads and drips in the low light. when he positions himself at your entrance, you feel the heat of him, the weight, the promise of what’s to come, and your breath catches, your body already anticipating the stretch and burn of taking him inside you. “gonna go slow,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any flicker of hesitation, but all he finds is your eager need reflected back at him.

he pushes inside with excruciating slowness, just the head at first, and the stretch is immediate, a burning fullness that makes you gasp, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusts. his cock is hot, pulsing, the thick tip parting you with a deliberate pressure that feels both overwhelming and perfect, your slickness easing the way but not diminishing the intensity. your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as you cling to him, your breath hitching as he sinks deeper, inch by torturous inch. the sensation is exquisite—every ridge, every vein dragging against your sensitive walls, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your hips lifting to meet him instinctively.

his face is a study in restraint, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he fights to keep his movements slow, controlled. those pale strands of his hair—silvered moonlight caught in silk—fall across his forehead in disheveled waves, darkened with perspiration and trembling with each labored breath. his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks another inch, the stretch making you whimper, your walls clenching around him greedily. when he opens them again, those impossibly cerulean depths have gone molten, like arctic ice melting under flame.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he breathes, voice rough, almost broken, fingers trembling against your cheek before his lips brush your skin—your cheeks, your eyelids—soft and grounding, his free hand finding yours, fingers intertwining, your wedding rings clicking together in a sound that makes your chest ache.

“more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, chest rising and falling rapidly against his, the burn fading into a warm, full sensation that has you desperate for him to move. your silk chemise, the one you’d chosen specially for tonight, bunches around your waist, the delicate lace trim pressed between your bodies.

he pushes deeper, each inch a slow, sensual invasion, his cock stretching you wider, filling you completely, the sensation so intense it’s almost too much, yet exactly what you crave. you feel every detail—the way his shaft pulses inside you, the slight curve that presses against your walls just right, the slick glide of him as your arousal coats him, making every movement smooth but deliberate. his breathing becomes more ragged, those arctic depths of his eyes never leaving your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes.

when he’s halfway seated, you’re panting, your body trembling with the effort of accommodating him, your manicured nails—still perfect from this morning’s appointment—digging crescents into his shoulders, but you’re pliant, eager, your hips tilting up to take more of him.

“breathe, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained, rough with the effort of holding back, those moonlight strands sticking to his forehead as he trembles above you. his lips press against your temple, lingering, and you can feel the tension in his body, his muscles trembling as he fights to keep from thrusting too fast. when you look up at him, his expression is devastating—eyebrows drawn together in concentration, that perfect mouth slightly parted, eyes blazing with something between worship and desperation. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well.”

he sinks deeper, and you moan, long and low, as he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours, his cock seated so deep you can feel him pressing against your cervix, a sweet, aching pressure that makes your eyes water with pleasure. you’ve never felt so full, so claimed, every nerve alight with the sensation of him inside you, his heartbeat pulsing through his cock, syncing with yours. he goes still, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, those ethereal eyes half-lidded but burning with intensity as he watches your every reaction, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“you feel incredible,” he breathes against your ear, his voice raw, trembling with need, and you can feel his smile against your skin. “so tight, so perfect. made for me.”

he starts to move, pulling out with agonizing slowness, those pale lashes fluttering as his eyes nearly roll back, the drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks of pleasure through you, every inch igniting new nerve endings. then he thrusts back in, deliberate and deep, each movement hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, your silk-clad back arching against the expensive sheets. his expression is feral now, pupils blown wide until only thin rings of that impossible color remain, lips parted as he pants, but there’s a tenderness in the way he watches you, cataloging every moan, every shudder, as if he’s memorizing how you look when you’re lost in him.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your face—your flushed cheeks, parted lips, glassy eyes—before drifting down to where your chemise has ridden up, revealing the delicate gold chain around your waist, a wedding gift from this morning. his fingers trace it reverently, the cool metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. “all flushed and perfect, taking my cock so well. my wife.” the word sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him, making him curse under his breath, a low, filthy sound that makes you shiver, your pearl earrings catching the lamplight as your head falls back against the pillows.

his thrusts grow deeper, more urgent, his control fraying as he feels you respond, your body pliant and eager, meeting every movement with a roll of your hips. the wet sounds of your bodies moving together are obscene, perfect, filling the room with the slick rhythm of your connection. those moonbeam strands of his hair fall into his eyes, and when he tosses his head to clear them, the movement is so unconsciously graceful it makes your heart stutter. you’re so sensitive, so primed, that every thrust sends sparks through you, building another orgasm faster than you thought possible, your wedding bracelet sliding up your wrist as you reach for him.

“’toru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe, hands clinging to his shoulders as another climax builds, unstoppable, your painted nails leaving marks on his perfect skin. ��i’m—”

“i know, baby,” he groans, voice rough, desperate, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess he’s been blessed to touch. “i can feel you getting tight around me. gonna come on my cock? gonna show me how good i make you feel?” his words push you over, and the fourth orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your walls clamping down on him like a vice, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you while your silk chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin. he follows with a deep, guttural groan, spilling inside you with hot, pulsing spurts that fill you completely, the warmth seeping into you as you shudder around him, those celestial eyes never leaving your face.

you’re still trembling, your body pliant and boneless, when he lifts his head, those arctic depths now glinting with unrestrained hunger, his hair a beautiful disaster of silver threads. “told you we were just getting started,” he growls, voice rough with satisfaction as he starts moving again without pulling out, your oversensitive walls fluttering around his still-hard length. you moan, your body so responsive that the overstimulation feels like a delicious torment, every thrust sending fresh waves of pleasure through you, your delicate gold jewelry catching the light with each movement.

you’re completely pliant now, your body melting into his, your hips lifting to meet each of his thrusts, eager for more despite the intensity, your chemise twisted and bunched between you. “satoru,” you whimper, voice soft and needy, urging him on as he sets a deeper, more demanding rhythm, each thrust hitting so deep it steals your breath, your wedding ring glinting as you grip the sheets.

“love how you take it,” he growls, his grin wicked as he watches you, those ethereal strands falling across his forehead as he moves, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your movements. “my perfect wife, letting me fuck you like this.” his pace is relentless now, his cock driving into you with devastating precision, the new angle making him feel impossibly deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves through your trembling body while your silk chemise rides up further, exposing more of your heated skin.

“look at me,” he commands, voice rough with authority, and when your eyes meet his, he grins at your fucked-out expression—your lips trembling, eyes glassy with pleasure, your carefully styled hair now a beautiful mess against the pillows. “there’s my pretty wife. taking my cock so well, falling apart for me.”

his thrusts are rougher now, more primal, his body slamming into yours with a force that makes your breasts bounce beneath the silk, your breath hitching with every impact, the delicate fabric clinging to your overheated skin. you’re lost in him, your body pliant, every nerve singing with overstimulation as he drives you toward another peak, your manicured fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders. “can’t get enough of you,” you moan, voice breaking with need, your walls clenching around him as another orgasm builds, unstoppable.

“that’s it,” he growls, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing merciless circles, the pressure sending sparks through you while those impossible eyes—like winter sky split by lightning—burn into yours. “come for me again, baby. show me how much you love this.” the fifth orgasm rips through you with a raw, broken scream, your body convulsing so hard you nearly black out, pleasure tearing through you like a storm while your silk chemise clings to every curve. he fucks you through it, relentless, his cock driving into you as your walls spasm around him, drawing a deep groan from his throat as he watches you shatter, those moonlight strands dark with sweat.

“beautiful,” he breathes, leaning down to lick the tears from your cheeks, the action so filthy and intimate it makes you clench around him again, pulling another low moan from him as his pale lashes flutter. “absolutely fucking beautiful.”

he comes again with a deep, primal groan, filling you even more, and you think you might get a reprieve, but he’s still hard, still moving, those arctic depths burning with insatiable hunger. his grin is pure sin as he flips you both over with a smooth, practiced motion, settling you on top of him, his cock sinking even deeper as you straddle him, your chemise falling around you like liquid silk. the movement makes you cry out, the new angle overwhelming.

your thighs shake as you try to lift yourself, muscles like jelly from the thorough fucking you’ve received, your wedding jewelry catching the light as you tremble. “satoru,” you whimper, voice trembling with need, but you’re eager, your hips rolling instinctively as you take him deeper, the silk of your chemise brushing against his chest.

“that’s my girl,” he says, hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into your soft flesh with possessive strength, his pale hair spread across the dark pillows like spilled starlight. “just let me move you.” he bounces you on his cock with ease, using you like his personal toy, and you’re so pliant, so responsive, that you gush around him, your slickness coating him as he moves you. you brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, your delicate jewelry sliding with each movement, and let him manhandle you, your body singing with pleasure.

“love how you feel,” he groans, those ethereal eyes drinking in every expression—your parted lips, your glassy eyes, the tears still streaming down your cheeks, the way your silk chemise clings to your curves. “my perfect little wife, letting me use this sweet cunt however i want.” his hands move to your breasts, squeezing and kneading through the silk with a roughness that makes you gasp, his fingers finding your sensitive nipples and pinching, rolling them until you arch and moan, the sensation amplifying the pleasure of his cock inside you.

“so fucking responsive,” he growls, pinching harder just to hear your whimper, the sound making his cock twitch inside you while those pale strands stick to his temples. “these pretty tits were made for my hands.” the dual sensation of him filling you completely while he tortures your sensitive peaks through the delicate fabric has you coming again, your walls spasming around his thick length as you sob his name, the sound raw and desperate, your jewelry catching the light as you convulse.

“that’s five,” he says with smug satisfaction, but his hands never stop, one still tormenting your breast while the other slides down to rub your clit with relentless precision, those impossible eyes—like arctic fire—blazing up at you. “one more, baby. know you’ve got it in you.” you’re too far gone to protest, your body eager, pliant, building toward another peak despite the overwhelming sensation. when it hits, you scream, the sound raw and broken as your body convulses uncontrollably, your walls clamping down on him as pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and spent while your chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin.

he comes with a deep groan, pulling you down flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around you possessively as he fills you again, his cock pulsing inside you. you’re both slick with sweat, breathing hard, and you can feel his cum leaking out around his softening cock, the sensation messy and intimate. those moonlight strands are completely destroyed now, sticking up at impossible angles, and there’s something endearingly human about the way he looks—flushed and breathing hard, no longer the untouchable deity he sometimes seems.

“six,” he says with smug satisfaction, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice gone soft and wondering. “my perfect wife gave me six orgasms on our wedding night.”

you can barely form words, completely wrung out and shaking in his arms, your silk chemise twisted around you. your voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from all the sounds he pulled from you. “you’re insane.”

“insane for you,” he agrees easily, voice gone all breathy and soft in a way that makes your stomach flutter even now, his fingers already starting to card through your hair with infinite gentleness. his hands have completely transformed—no longer possessive and demanding, but gentle, reverent almost, stroking your back in soothing circles. his touch is feather-light now, careful of your oversensitive skin, and when you peek up at him through your lashes, those ethereal features have softened into something so tender it makes your chest tight. “but i think you’ve had enough for tonight. let’s get you cleaned up.”

his eyebrows—pale as winter frost—knit together in concern when you make a small sound of protest, your body feeling like overcooked pasta as he tries to lift you. there’s something almost comically serious about the way he studies your face, those impossible depths searching for any sign of discomfort, like he’s trying to decode whether you’re actually uncomfortable or just being dramatic.

“i’ve got you, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple that’s so gentle it makes you want to cry, his lips warm against your skin. “just let me take care of you, yeah?”

when he stands, carrying you bridal style toward the bathroom with exaggerated care—like you’re made of spun glass and might shatter if he moves too quickly—you can’t help but notice he’s finally showing signs of exertion. those silver strands are completely destroyed, sticking up at impossible angles from your hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light, making his skin look luminous. his chest rises and falls just a little too quickly, cheeks flushed pink in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish, those celestial eyes soft with satisfaction and something deeper.

“good thing you’ve got stamina,” you mumble against his shoulder, words slightly slurred from exhaustion, and you feel more than hear his laugh—a warm rumble that vibrates through his chest.

he sets you down carefully on the marble counter, hands steady on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against your hip bones through the twisted silk of your chemise. there’s something almost smug about his grin as he reaches for the faucet, but it’s tempered by the soft way those arctic depths keep darting to your face to check that you’re okay, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“baby, that wasn’t even close to my limit,” he says, and there’s that familiar cocky tilt to his chin even as his cheeks flush darker, those moonlight strands falling across his forehead. “but it’s both our first time, so i was being nice.” his voice drops to something softer, more vulnerable, those impossible eyes suddenly uncertain. “didn’t want to break you on our wedding night.”

the thought of him holding back makes you shiver despite the warm air, your mind immediately conjuring images of what ‘not holding back’ might look like. he notices the shiver immediately, those ridiculous eyes going wide with concern as his hands fly up to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle.

“cold?” he asks, eyebrows doing that thing where they scrunch together—pale and expressive—like you’re the most important problem he’s ever had to solve.

you shake your head, but he’s already reaching for one of the plush hotel robes, expression so seriously focused on the task of wrapping it around your shoulders that you have to bite back a smile, those silver strands falling into his eyes as he works. “just thinking about you not being nice,” you admit quietly.

his hands still on the robe ties, and when you look up, his pupils have dilated again, those ethereal depths darkening with familiar hunger before he visibly shakes himself, his pale lashes fluttering. “dangerous thoughts, mrs. gojo,” he murmurs, voice rough, but then he’s back to fussing with the robe, making sure it covers you properly. the whiplash between his desire and his care makes your heart skip.

he runs the bath with the intensity of a man performing surgery, testing the temperature obsessively—first with his fingers, then his wrist, then his elbow, brow furrowed in concentration, those moonlight strands falling across his face. you watch him, mesmerized by how someone so chaotic and playful can become so methodical when it comes to taking care of you, those impossible eyes focused with laser precision.

“’toru,” you say softly, and he glances over his shoulder with a questioning hum, those arctic depths immediately softening. “it’s just a bath.”

his expression turns mock-offended, like you’ve just insulted his honor, one eyebrow arching dramatically. “just a bath?” he repeats, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, those pale fingers splayed across his heart. “this is my wife’s first post-wedding-night bath. there are standards to maintain.”

the word ‘wife’ still makes something flutter dangerously in your chest, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he can’t quite believe it himself, those ethereal features glowing with happiness. he turns back to the faucet, adding what seems like an entire bottle of expensive bath oils to the water, his movements precise and careful.

“perfect temperature,” he announces proudly, like he’s just solved world hunger, then spins around with the brightest grin, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “ready, beautiful?”

the water is absolute heaven against your overheated, oversensitive skin. you can’t help the little sigh of relief that escapes as you sink into the warmth, muscles you didn’t even realize were tense finally beginning to relax. satoru slides in behind you a moment later, long legs bracketing yours as he pulls you back against his chest, his skin still warm and perfect against yours.

“better?” his voice is barely above a whisper, lips brushing your temple, and you can only nod, melting back against him.

his hands are impossibly gentle as he reaches for the expensive shampoo, and there’s something almost reverent about the way he works it into your hair. his fingers massage your scalp in slow, methodical circles, and you can see his reflection in the mirror across from the tub—tongue poking out slightly in concentration, those pale eyebrows drawn together like washing your hair is the most important task he’s ever been assigned, his silver strands damp and curling slightly from the steam.

“such pretty hair,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and wondering, like he’s sharing a secret with the universe, his fingers working through the strands with infinite care. “so soft. been wanting to do this for ages.” when you let out a small, content sound and let your head fall back against his shoulder, his entire expression lights up like christmas morning, those ethereal depths sparkling with joy. “yeah? feels good?”

you nod sleepily, eyes fluttering closed, and he practically preens with satisfaction. every movement is deliberate, careful, his usual manic energy replaced by something tender and focused that makes your heart squeeze. when he tips your head back to rinse the shampoo out, his other hand automatically comes up to cup your forehead, protecting your eyes from the water, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.

“there we go,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your wet temple with a smile so soft it makes you want to cry, his lips warm and reverent. “perfect. you’re so perfect.”

the conditioner gets the same treatment—gentle fingers working through the strands, detangling carefully, never pulling or tugging. then he’s reaching for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and beginning to clean you with touches so soft they’re barely there, those impossible eyes focused and tender.

“arms up, sweetheart,” he whispers, and when you comply, he washes under your arms, along your ribs, between your fingers with the kind of thorough attention that makes your heart squeeze. every touch is reverent, worshipful, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin under his hands, those arctic depths soft with wonder.

when the cloth moves lower, ghosting over your breasts with clinical precision, you tense slightly—still so sensitive from his earlier attention. his movements immediately still, and when you glance up, his face has gone all soft and concerned, those pale eyebrows knitting together in worry.

“you okay?” he asks immediately, free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with infinite gentleness. “too much? i can stop—”

“no,” you whisper, relaxing back against him with a small smile that makes his shoulders drop with relief, those ethereal features melting with tenderness. “just... still sensitive.”

his expression melts into something apologetic and tender, those impossible eyes going soft with understanding. “sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips feather-light against your skin. “i’ll be more careful. promise.”

and he is. when he washes between your thighs, his touch becomes impossibly gentle, clinical in the best way—just taking care of you, cleaning away the evidence of your activities with the kind of careful attention that’s somehow more intimate than anything that came before. there’s something about the way he focuses on the task, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, those silver strands falling across his face, that makes your chest tight with affection.

“lean forward for me?” he asks softly, and when you do, he washes your back with the same careful attention, working out knots in your shoulders you didn’t realize were there, his fingers strong and sure against your skin.

by the time he’s finished, you’re completely boneless, practically purring under his gentle ministrations. the water has cooled slightly, but his body heat keeps you warm, arms wrapped loosely around your waist, those impossible eyes soft and content.

“think you’re ready to get out?” he asks after a few more minutes of comfortable silence, lips moving against your hair.

you nod sleepily, and he helps you stand on legs that feel like jelly, hands immediately shooting to your elbows to steady you. there’s something almost comically protective about the way he hovers, like he’s expecting you to topple over at any second, those ethereal features creased with concern. the towel he wraps around you is impossibly warm—and when you give him a questioning look, he grins sheepishly, those pale cheeks flushing pink.

“may have stuck it in the towel warmer while you were soaking,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, those silver strands sticking up at odd angles. “wanted everything to be perfect.”

the casual thoughtfulness of it makes your heart skip, and when you smile at him—soft and grateful and so full of love—his cheeks flush pink again, those impossible eyes going wide with wonder. “you’re ridiculous,” you tell him fondly.

“ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrects with a grin that’s equal parts smug and bashful, those arctic depths sparkling with mischief. “ridiculously devoted. ridiculously—”

“ridiculously annoying,” you interrupt, but you’re laughing as he gasps in mock offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.

“my wife thinks i’m annoying,” he announces to the bathroom mirror, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead, though his eyes are sparkling with laughter. “how will i ever recover?”

“by drying my hair before i catch pneumonia,” you suggest, still giggling, and his expression immediately shifts back to serious concern, those pale eyebrows drawing together.

“right, yes, hair,” he says, reaching for another towel with renewed focus, his movements suddenly purposeful. “can’t have my wife getting sick on our honeymoon.”

he takes another towel and begins patting your hair dry with the same careful attention he showed in the bath, his touch gentle and methodical. “don’t want to tangle it,” he explains quietly when he catches you watching him, and something about the casual intimacy of it—this powerful, overwhelming man being so careful with your hair—makes your eyes prick with unexpected tears.

he notices immediately, free hand coming up to cup your cheek, those ethereal depths immediately filling with concern. “hey, what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” you whisper, leaning into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “just... you’re being so sweet.”

his expression goes soft, thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite gentleness. “you’re my wife now,” he says simply, like that explains everything, those impossible eyes soft with wonder. “of course i’m going to take care of you.”

wife. the word makes your heart stutter like it always does, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he still can’t quite believe he gets to call you that, those arctic depths glowing with happiness.

when you’re dry, he disappears briefly into the main room with a quick “be right back!” thrown over his shoulder, and you can hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself. he returns moments later with one of his t-shirts and a pair of your favorite sleep shorts, looking ridiculously pleased with himself, those silver strands still mussed from sleep and steam.

“lifted them from your apartment last week,” he admits with a grin that’s equal parts sheepish and unrepentant when he catches your questioning look, his cheeks flushing that pretty pink again. “wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable tonight. may have also grabbed your favorite pillow, that body wash you always use, and those weird face masks you love.”

your mouth falls open. “you planned this? the aftercare supplies?”

his cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck with a bashful smile, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “maybe researched a little. wanted to do it right.” then, with a return of his usual cockiness: “first time for everything, but i’m nothing if not thorough.”

the shirt is huge on you, hanging almost to your knees, and it smells like him—clean and warm and safe and home. the shorts are your favorites, the ones that are almost too soft from years of washing, and the fact that he noticed, that he thought to bring them, makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“you’re completely ridiculous,” you mumble, but your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, and when he sees it, his whole face lights up like he’s just won the lottery, those ethereal features practically glowing.

“ridiculously prepared,” he corrects, scooping you up again with exaggerated care, those impossible eyes soft with affection. “ridiculously considerate. ridiculously—”

“if you say ‘ridiculously handsome’ i’m filing for divorce,” you threaten, but you’re giggling against his neck as he carries you back to the bedroom.

“was gonna say ‘ridiculously in love with my wife,’” he says quietly, and the sudden sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch, those arctic depths going soft and vulnerable. “but handsome works too.”

the bed has been completely transformed—fresh sheets that smell like lavender and luxury, pillows fluffed and arranged like something out of a magazine. there’s a glass of water on your nightstand, along with what looks like the entire contents of the welcome basket, and you’re pretty sure those are your favorite chocolates from the little shop near your apartment.

“when did you—?” you start, but he just grins, settling you carefully against the mountain of pillows like you’re something precious, those silver strands falling across his forehead.

“called housekeeping while you were turning into a prune,” he says proudly, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “told them my wife needed the full romance package. emergency priority.”

“an emergency,” you repeat, fighting back a laugh at his completely serious expression, those pale eyebrows drawn together earnestly. “my need for clean sheets was an emergency.”

“the most important emergency,” he confirms solemnly, then breaks character to flash you that ridiculously charming grin, his whole face transforming with joy. “my wife’s comfort is a matter of national security.”

there’s that word again. wife. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the way it sounds in his voice, especially not when his eyes go soft and wondering like he still can’t believe you said yes, those ethereal depths glowing with happiness.

he disappears into the bathroom again, and you hear the sound of running water, then he’s padding back with another warm washcloth and an expression so sweetly uncertain it makes your heart squeeze. “just in case you want to, um...” he waves the cloth vaguely, cheeks flushing pink, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “you know. if you need to freshen up more or anything. no pressure.”

the thoughtfulness of it—giving you the option, not assuming you’re okay with how thorough he was—makes you fall a little more in love with him. “come here,” you say softly, reaching for him, and his face immediately transforms into the brightest smile, those arctic depths lighting up.

“don’t need it?” he asks, tossing the cloth aside and practically bouncing onto the bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“just need you,” you tell him, and watch his expression go all soft and devastated, those ethereal features melting with tender emotion. “stay?”

“not going anywhere,” he promises immediately, settling beside you and opening his arms in invitation. when you curl up against his side like you belong there—head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his, hand splayed across his chest—his entire body relaxes like this is what he’s been waiting for all night, those impossible eyes going soft and content.

his skin is still warm and slightly damp from the bath, and he smells clean and familiar and absolutely perfect. one hand finds your hair immediately, fingers combing through the damp strands with gentle, repetitive motions that make your eyes flutter closed, those pale fingers infinitely careful.

“better?” he asks softly, and when you nod against his shoulder, you feel more than see his smile, his chest rising and falling peacefully beneath your cheek. “good. my wife should be comfortable.”

the possessive way he says ‘my wife’—like he’s still testing the words, still amazed he gets to claim you—makes warmth bloom low in your chest. you’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing together, his heartbeat steady under your ear while those gentle fingers continue their soothing motion through your hair.

“water,” he says quietly after a moment, voice soft but brooking no argument as he reaches for the glass on your nightstand. “need you to drink some for me, okay?”

you make a small sound of protest—a petulant whine that makes him smile, those impossible eyes crinkling at the corners—not wanting to move from your perfect position against his chest. “don’t wanna move.”

“don’t have to,” he assures you, adjusting his hold so he can bring the glass to your lips himself, his movements careful and practiced. “just drink. let me take care of you.”

the water is cool and perfect, soothing your raw throat, and you drink until he seems satisfied, those ethereal eyes watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort. when he sets the glass aside, his free hand comes up to stroke your cheek with reverent touches, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.

“good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the praise makes something warm and content settle in your bones even now, when you’re too exhausted for it to mean anything beyond pure affection.

“chocolate?” he offers next, already reaching for one of the fancy truffles with an eager expression that makes you think he’s been looking forward to this part, those impossible eyes bright with anticipation. “got your favorites from that little place you love.”

“too tired,” you mumble against his shoulder, but you’re smiling at his thoughtfulness, feeling the way his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.

“mm, that’s fair,” he says, carefully placing the chocolate back with exaggerated precision, those long fingers delicate with the wrapper. “we’ll save them for breakfast then. gonna feed you chocolate in bed tomorrow morning like a proper honeymoon.”

the casual way he talks about tomorrow, about all the tomorrows stretching ahead of you, makes your chest tight with happiness. you’re quiet for a while after that, just breathing together, his hand never stopping its gentle motion in your hair, those pale fingers working through the strands with infinite tenderness. gradually, all the overwhelming sensations from earlier fade into a warm, sated glow, your body finally relaxing completely against his.

“you okay?” he asks quietly, his voice carrying that thread of uncertainty that makes your chest tighten. the question hangs between you like something fragile—like he needs reassurance that he did everything right. his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, movements hesitant despite their tenderness. “wasn’t too rough? too much? i know we were both figuring it out as we went...” the last words tumble out in a rush, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

you lift your head to look at him properly, your palm flat against his chest where you can feel his heart still racing. there’s a worried crease carved between his brows, and those impossible eyes of his—like winter sky caught in crystal—search your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. his hair is completely wrecked, strands falling across his forehead in disheveled waves that catch the lamplight like spun moonbeams. there’s something endearingly uncertain about his expression, the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip like he’s suddenly second-guessing everything despite the fact that he just thoroughly rocked your world.

“it was perfect,” you tell him honestly, your voice still slightly hoarse as you reach up to smooth away the worry lines etched into his forehead. your thumb traces the furrow there with gentle pressure. “overwhelming and incredible and perfect. you were perfect.” the words come out breathier than intended, but you mean every syllable.

his expression transforms immediately—tension bleeding from his shoulders as relief floods his features. but then heat creeps up his neck in that pretty pink flush that makes your stomach flip, and he grins with that devastating combination of relief and smugness that’s so uniquely him. “yeah?” he asks, and there’s something almost shy in the way he ducks his head slightly, chin tucking down.

“yeah,” you confirm, pressing a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumps under your lips. “though maybe next time warn me when you’re planning to completely destroy me. i might need to do some mental preparation.” your fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as you speak.

he throws his head back and laughs—loud and delighted and completely unrepentant, the sound vibrating through his chest where you’re still pressed against him. his adam’s apple bobs with the force of it, and when he looks back down at you, there’s mischief dancing in those crystalline depths. “where’s the fun in that? i live for catching you off guard.” his expression turns predatory for just a moment, pupils dilating as his gaze drops to your mouth. “you make the prettiest faces when you’re surprised. and the prettiest sounds when you’re—”

“terrible,” you interrupt before he can finish that thought, but you’re giggling against his skin, the sound muffled and warm as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. your wedding ring catches the light as you gesture dismissively. “absolutely terrible husband.”

“terrible husband?” he gasps, his free hand flying to his chest in a gesture so dramatic you half expect spotlights to appear. his eyes go wide with mock horror, mouth dropping open in an exaggerated ‘o’ of shock. “on our wedding night? the betrayal! the scandal!” he clutches at his heart like you’ve delivered a mortal wound, and the theatrics are so ridiculous you snort.

“the worst husband,” you clarify solemnly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking character as you lift your chin with mock disdain. “definitely filing for divorce in the morning.” you even cross your arms for emphasis, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that you’re still sprawled across his chest wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

his grin turns absolutely wicked—all sharp edges and dangerous promises—and suddenly he’s rolling you both over in one fluid motion that steals your breath. the sheets tangle around your legs as he pins you beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head so his hair falls like a curtain around your face. this close, you can see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes, can count the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose. “guess i’ll have to convince you to keep me then,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that register that makes your toes curl as he leans down to brush his nose against yours in an eskimo kiss. “think i’m up for the challenge.”

your breath catches at the gentle intimacy of the gesture, so at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “i think i can live with that,” you whisper, your hands coming up to frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones.

“good,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that’s soft enough to make your heart ache. his lips linger there, warm and reverent. “’cause i’m never letting you go.” the words are muffled against your hair, but they carry the weight of a vow.

his hand moves from your hair to trace patterns on your back over his t-shirt—lazy circles and spirals that raise goosebumps in their wake. every touch is gentle, soothing, designed to relax rather than arouse. his fingers map your spine like he’s memorizing each vertebra, touch reverent and unhurried.

“can’t believe you’re my wife,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft with wonder as he shifts to pull you more securely against his side. his chest rises and falls in a rhythm you’re already learning by heart. “keep thinking i’m going to wake up and this will all be a dream.” there’s something almost fragile in the admission, like he’s afraid speaking it aloud might make it true.

you press closer to him, if that’s even possible, your leg slotting between his as you nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. “not a dream. i’m really here. really yours.” your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it might as well be a shout.

“really mine,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words, rolling them around on his tongue to savor their taste. his arms tighten around you possessively. “and i’m really yours.” the wonder in his voice makes your chest constrict with emotion.

“really yours,” you echo, and it feels like a promise, like a vow more sacred than the ones you spoke in front of all those people earlier today. your wedding dress hangs forgotten in the closet, but this moment feels more binding than any ceremony.

you’re drifting on the edge of sleep when he speaks again, voice barely audible in the darkness. “love you so much it scares me sometimes.” the confession is soft, vulnerable, like he’s not sure he meant to say it aloud.

your heart clenches, and you tilt your head up to meet his eyes through the shadows. even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty flickering there, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. “why scared?” you ask gently, your fingers finding his jaw to trace the sharp line of it.

he’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light touches that make you shiver. when he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “never loved anyone like this before,” he admits quietly, those winter-sky eyes refusing to meet yours. “never had anyone who was mine completely. sometimes i can’t believe you chose me.” the last words come out barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he says them too loudly.

the vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tight with emotion. this is satoru without his masks, without his cocky grins and endless confidence—just a man who loves you so much he can’t quite believe it’s real. his hair is still mussed from your fingers, falling across his forehead in silver threads that catch what little light filters through the curtains.

“hey,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, your thumbs stroking along those sharp cheekbones. “i choose you every day. chose you before the ring, before the wedding, before any of it. just you. always you.” your voice is fierce with conviction, and you watch his pupils dilate as your words sink in.

he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. his lashes flutter against his cheeks—so pale they’re almost translucent—and you can feel the way his breathing stutters. “promise?” the word comes out cracked, desperate.

“promise.” you stretch up to kiss him, soft and gentle and full of every ounce of love in your chest. his lips are warm and slightly chapped, and he kisses you back like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning. when you pull back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears that make them look like fractured ice, and his smile is soft and real and just for you. “you’re stuck with me, remember?”

“best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as one of those tears finally spills over. you catch it with your thumb before it can fall, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm.

“the feeling’s mutual,” you whisper back, then settle against his chest again, ear pressed to his heart where you can feel the steady rhythm that’s already becoming your favorite sound. the beat is strong and sure beneath your cheek, grounding you in the reality of this moment.

you’re almost asleep when you feel him shift, his arm reaching across you for something. when you crack your eyes open, he’s fumbling with some fancy remote, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he dims the lights. the room is bathed in soft, warm darkness that makes everything feel intimate and cocoon-like.

“sleep,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you protectively as he settles back against the pillows. his voice is already thick with approaching sleep, but there’s something fiercely protective in the way he holds you. “i’ve got you.” the words rumble through his chest where your ear is pressed.

and you do sleep, safe and warm and thoroughly loved, dreaming of white dresses and gentle hands and the promise of forever with the man whose heartbeat has become your favorite lullaby.

when you wake up hours later, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. sunlight is filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and satoru is propped up on his elbow beside you. his hair is even more disheveled than before, sticking up at impossible angles that make him look endearingly rumpled. those crystalline eyes are soft with sleep and something deeper as he watches you wake up, looking completely besotted.

“morning, beautiful,” he says softly, voice rough with sleep and deeper than usual. there’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his eyes are still slightly puffy, but he’s never looked more gorgeous. “how are you feeling?” his free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, touch gentle and reverent.

you take inventory—pleasantly sore, thoroughly satisfied, and so completely in love you can barely stand it. your body aches in the most delicious way, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the slight rasp in your voice when you speak. “perfect,” you tell him honestly, stretching like a cat in the morning sun. “absolutely perfect.”

his smile could power the entire city—bright and unguarded and so full of joy it makes your heart skip. “good. because i was thinking...” he reaches over to the nightstand, movements still languid with sleep as he grabs one of those chocolate truffles from last night. when he turns back to you, there’s mischief dancing in his eyes again. “breakfast in bed?”

you laugh, the sound bright and happy in the morning light as it bubbles up from your chest. your wedding ring glints as you gesture, and you’re struck again by the surreal reality of it all. “you know what? that sounds absolutely perfect.”

and as he feeds you chocolate—his fingers lingering against your lips with each bite—and coffee appears via room service and he pulls you into his lap to steal kisses between bites, you think that maybe, just maybe, being mrs. gojo is going to be the adventure of a lifetime.

[theplacetoputfics]

You take quiet and slow steps, gently sinking onto the bed. Careful, as to not do more harm than good. "You okay?"

"Mm." Satoru hums, lying on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes. Not in a talking mood, you guessed.

"Need anything?"

A gentle shake of his head.

"Want me to leave you alone?"

Another shake of his head.

You watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the discarded pile of bandages that you could assume were ripped off and thrown to the side with haste.

"What do you want me to do?"

A second. Two. Satoru shifts in place, moving his arm to look at you. His eyes were still brilliant- Bright and blue and tired. So so tired. The tired that sneaks up on you, building up in your lungs and eroding your bones. A weight that he's had to bear for the entirety of his life.

"Oh, toru," you coo, and he opens his arms, signaling for you to come closer. You do, and he does quick work of snuggling himself into your chest, burying himself in you, your scent and your comfort like relief itself. He lets out a deep huff, shoulders going lax yet still tight around you.

You start to pet his hair, and he lets out a sound of protest. "Back." Comes a muffled answer, his face buried comfortably in your shirt. "Please."

You understand easily, this hasn't been the first time he'd let his guard down. The first time the world had got to him, felt too much. You rake your fingers across his back, gently tracing patterns across the broad muscle. Satoru finally lets out a pleased hum, throwing his leg over you in an attempt to hold you closer. Like if he tried hard enough you two would mold into eachother like clay, two perfect pieces fit for one another.

He finds his comfort in you, as you do with him. Running through his veins and dancing in his heart.

A.N. not proofread, i just need to cradle my boy <3