Because he never made you feel like a burden. He never looked at the bruises on your arms and asked what you did to provoke it. He never sighed when you flinched at loud noises, never rolled his eyes when you cried, never told you to “just toughen up, he’s your father.”
He never said that.
But your mother did. She sat on the couch, cigarette burning down to the filter, and said, "He's your dad. What do you want me to do?" while you stood there with blood drying in your hair.
Your mother, who watched it happen for years and said nothing. Your mother, who once handed your father the belt because you'd forgotten to wash the dishes. Your mother, who looked at your split lip at the dinner table and asked you to pass the salt.
Your friends did. "Maybe if you didn't talk back so much..." one of them said once, and you learned to stop telling them things.
Everyone did.
Everyone but him.
He just looked at you. That first time. You were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, trying to stop your nose from bleeding with a crumpled napkin. He didn’t know you then. You were hiding from a house that hated you. He parked his truck, walked over, and crouched down right there on the dirty pavement. He didn’t ask what happened. He just handed you a clean handkerchief—soft white cotton, like something from an old movie—and said, “You okay doll?”
That was it. The first time you saw him.
He’s not that well off—he works at a garage on the edge of town, the one with the flickering sign and the pit bulls chained out back. His hands are always stained with grease, knuckles perpetually split, nails lined with a permanent crescent of black. He dropped out of school at sixteen to take care of his own shit, family stuff he never talks about except late at night when his voice goes hollow and distant.
But he always brought you the things you wanted. Things you never asked for, because you learned a long time ago that wanting things only led to pain. Wanting got you a fractured wrist. Wanting got you called a greedy, selfish, bitch just like your mother. So you stopped asking. You stopped looking. You stared at your shoes and never let your eyes linger on anything too long.
But he noticed.
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you. The way your breath catches. The way your fingers twitch toward something before you shove your hands in your pockets. The way your gaze drifted—just for a second, just a flicker—toward the white dress in the thrift shop window every single time you walked past it.
You never said a word. But he knew.
He knew the exact shade of white. The tiny lace trim at the collar. The way it would sit on your shoulders, the way it would twirl around your knees if you ever let yourself spin in it. You'd never spun in a dress before. You'd never been allowed to be that kind of girl.
He got it for you.
He got it. For you.
He worked extra shifts. He skipped meals. You didn't know that then. One night, after another beating, he showed up at your door with a crumpled paper bag in his hand.
"It's not wrapped or anything," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know how to do that fancy shit."
His voice was rough, almost embarrassed, like he was the one who should be grateful.
You wore it the next day and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon. No one had ever looked at you like that before.
Before him, you never saw the sea.
Your parents never took you anywhere. Vacations were for other families, the ones whose fathers didn't drink through their paychecks and whose mothers didn't disappear into their bedrooms for days.
Your friends would plan trips—bus tickets, shared hostel rooms—and you'd watch them go from your bedroom window, forehead still throbbing from the night before. They'd come back with sunburns and blurry photos and stories you weren't part of.
"Sorry, we just don't want you to be... uncomfortable. You know, with money and stuff. We didn't think your parents would let you."
Uncomfortable.
Right.
They meant they didn't want you to make them uncomfortable. With your bruises. Your empty wallet. Your nervous habit of saying sorry for existing.
Guess who took you there?
Him.
You mentioned it to him once, months later, in the truck with the windows down and the radio playing static between stations. A joke that wasn't really a joke. You do that sometimes—say things with a laugh tacked on at the end so no one feels obligated to care.
"You know, I've never seen the sea."
"Let's go then."
Just like that. He pulled over at the next gas station, checked the oil, bought you a pack of those gummy worms you like, and pointed the truck east.
It was a long way. Seven hours. The seats were cracked vinyl and the air conditioning was broken, so you drove with the windows down and the hot wind whipping your hair into knots. You fell asleep somewhere around hour four, your cheek pressed against the seatbelt, the vibration of the road humming through your bones.
You drifted in and out, and in that half conscious haze, you felt it—the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Just... there. Heavy. Calloused thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of your knee, barely moving, like he was trying not to wake you. You kept your eyes closed and didn't move. Your heart was pounding. You didn't know if it was fear or something else. You still don't.
When you finally stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in, you started shaking. You had spent your whole life in a cage, and this man had simply... unlocked the door. He stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
"You see?" he murmured into your ear. "There's a whole world out there. And I'm gonna show you all of it. Just you and me."
Just you and him.
That was the best day of your life.
He's the best thing that has ever happened in your life.
You always wanted to try alcohol and cigarettes. Normal teenage curiosities, the kind other kids explored at parties and bonfires, the kind your father beat out of you when you stole one of his beers. You were fifteen. He cracked your head open on the kitchen counter and told you he'd do worse if you ever touched his stuff again. Your mother held a dish towel to the wound and whispered, "Why do you always make him mad?"
But he let you try it. The first time, he sat you down on the back of his truck bed, legs dangling, the night sky smeared with stars. He handed you a bottle—something cheap, bitter—and watched you wince at the taste.
"It's okay if it's with me," he said, taking the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours. "But you shouldn't do it with other people. They will take advantage of you. Bad things happen."
Then he took a slow drag of his cigarette, leaned in, and kissed you. Smoke curled between your tongues. The taste was bitter and acrid and absolutely nothing like you'd imagined your first kiss to be.
You loved it. You loved it because it was him. Because he was giving you something your father tried to beat out of you.
He pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes. "You shouldn't do this with anyone else. Only me. Promise me."
"I promise."
You promised. You'd promise him anything.
He never lets you drink with anyone else. He's always there—leaning against the wall at the party you didn't really want to go, watching from the truck when your "friends" invite you out, texting you to check in, to remind you he's waiting, to ask if you're okay, if you need him, if anyone's bothering you.
Your friends don't like him.
They say he's broke. They say he's creepy, the way he just there, the way he never talks to them. They say he's too old for you—what does a grown man want with a girl like you? They say he didn't finish his education, that he's going nowhere, that he's dragging you down with him.
"Oh my god, why is he always there? It's suffocating."
Because he loves you.
That's why he's always around. That's why he waits outside your job at the diner to walk you home. That's why he knows your schedule better than you do. That's why he once followed a guy three blocks because he catcalled you and you never saw that guy again. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't want to know. You just felt safe.
People don't want to be around people they don't like, right? Your father never wanted to be around you. Your mother took extra shifts just to avoid the house. Your friends stopped inviting you places long before he came along.
"What do you mean he doesn't want you to drink with us? That's controlling."
Shut up.
You don't know shit.
You don't know anything.
Your so called friends are just a bunch of spoiled cunts who've never felt the weight of a grown man's fist. They've never hidden in a closet and prayed for the footsteps to pass. They've never learned to read the temperature of a room by the way a door slams. They don't understand what it means to be really alone, and they don't understand what it means to be saved.
He doesn't want you drinking with them because they don't know how to take care of you. They'd let you get sick. They'd let you wander off. They'd let someone slip something in your cup and then say "oh my god that's so crazy" the next morning while you piece yourself back together alone.
He would never let that happen.
So yeah. Controlling. Sure. If "controlling" means "would die before letting a single bad thing touch you ever again," then fine. Call the police.
They don't understand.
But he does.
He was the one who got rid of your dad's body after all.
You didn't mean it.
You really didn't mean it.
It wasn't even a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A flinch. A lifetime of fear exploding outward in one desperate motion. Your father was beating you again. With his belt. The iron buckle caught the light every time he raised his arm, and it came down on your back like a brand. It made your back bleed. You could feel the wetness soaking through your shirt, sticky and hot.
He had you by the hair. Ripping it out in chunks. Your scalp screamed. You couldn't see straight. You couldn't breathe. You never understood why he hated you this much. You still don't. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people are just born into the world already burning, and the flames have to go somewhere.
And you were so tired.
You'd had a headache all day. A migraine, probably, from stress and hunger and the fact that you hadn't slept more than three hours in two days. And he kept ripping your hair out, and the pain was everywhere, and your vision was going white—
So you pushed him.
Not hard. Just a shove. Just a desperate, flailing attempt to make it stop.
But he was drunk. He was always drunk. And he was standing at the top of the stairs. And his balance was gone.
And he fell.
He didn't even scream. Just a grunt of surprise, then the sound of his body hitting the steps one by one by one. Then silence.
He died.
Just like that.
The blood spread so fast. It painted the floorboards black in the dim hallway light. His neck was bent wrong, his eyes open and empty.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in and your hands wouldn't stop shaking and the blood was still spreading, creeping everywhere like a living thing.
So you called him.
You didn't even think. Your fingers dialed his number before your brain caught up. He answered on the first ring. He always does.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. He just said "I'm on my way." and hung up.
He came in through the back door. He saw the body. He saw you, trembling, still holding the phone. And he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just walked over, stepped carefully around the blood, and pulled you into his chest.
"Hey. Look at me. Look at me."
You couldn't. You were staring at the body. At what you'd done.
"No," he said, and his hands cupped your face, forced your eyes to his. "Don't look at him. Look at me. Only me. Okay?"
Okay.
"Good girl. Now listen. You're going to go upstairs and take a bath. Lock the door. Don't come down until I tell you. Can you do that?"
You nodded. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.
"Good. Go."
But your legs were giving out and your vision was blurring and he had to carry you.
He ran the bath himself. Checked the temperature with his elbow—gentle, so gentle—and helped you out of your ruined shirt. You were too numb to be embarrassed. He didn't look at you with pity or disgust. He looked at the gashes on your back, the old scars layered beneath the new ones, and his jaw tightened so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. But his hands were feather light when he cleaned the wounds, when he helped you into the warm water and told you to stay there until he came back.
"I'll take care of everything," he said, and kissed your forehead. "Everything's alright."
Then he went downstairs.
You heard things. Sounds. Thumps. The back door opening and closing. The truck engine starting, then fading into the night. And then nothing. Hours of nothing while you sat in the cooling water and shivered and prayed—to God, to the universe, to anything that might be listening.
Please don't let them find out.
Please don't let them take me away.
Please don't let him get caught.
Please.
Please.
Please.
When you came back downstairs, the body was gone. The floor was clean. The bleach smell was so strong it burned your nose, but there was no blood. Not a single drop. Your father had vanished from the world like he'd never existed.
Your mother asked you where your dad was and you said you don't know. She looked at you for a long moment—too long—and you felt your stomach drop, but then she just nodded and went back to her phone. She didn't ask again. Not the next day, and not the day after. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was just grateful. You never found out.
You couldn't sleep for days. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fall. The sound. The way his neck bent. So you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, praying to gods you didn't believe in.
And then one day, he came back. Like nothing had happened.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into the heat of his chest, pressed his lips to your hair.
"Look," he whispered.
You looked.
Huh?
"I got you the shoes you wanted."
That made you break down—heaving sobs that tore out of your throat like they'd been waiting years to escape. He held you. He didn't shush you. He just let you soak his clean shirt with tears and snot, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, careful to avoid the bandages.
"I've got you," he whispered against your hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. No one."
You believe him. Because he's the only person who's ever protected you.
Your friends still don't understand. They send you texts about "red flags" and "power imbalances." They don't know that he's the only reason you're still alive. That if he hadn't picked up the phone that night, you might have just lain down beside your father's body and let the cold take you too.
But he did pick up. He always picks up.
He's the only one who loves you like this. The kind of love that wraps around your throat like a warm scarf and you can't tell if it's keeping you safe or cutting off your air. But the truth is, you don't even care.
It's been two years now. Your father's case is still open, technically, but no one is looking very hard. The house got sold. Your mother moved away. You moved in with him, into that tiny studio with the broken ceiling fan and the mattress on the floor. It's not much. But it's yours.
You have a ring on your finger now. It's not a diamond—he couldn't afford that—but it's silver, tarnished, old. He found it at a pawn shop, he said. Something about the way he said it made you think maybe he didn't. Maybe it belonged to someone. Maybe he took it. You don't ask.
"I'll get you a real one someday," he promised, sliding it onto your finger with those grease stained hands. "When I've saved up. When things are settled."
You told him it was already real. You told him you didn't need anything else.
His smile almost reached his eyes that day.
He works during the day. You stay home. He says you don't need to work—he'll take care of everything. He's never been controlling about it, exactly. He just says it's safer this way. That the world is full of people like your father, people who will see your softness and try to crush it. He's protecting you.
You're not sure when "I love you" started to sound like "don't leave the apartment." You're not sure when "I'm the only one who understands you" started to feel less like comfort and more like a cage.
But maybe cages aren't so bad. Maybe safety is worth the bars.
Sometimes, when he's asleep, you think about leaving. You think about taking what little money you have and catching a bus to somewhere far away, somewhere you've never been, somewhere no one knows your name or what you did. You think about starting over. Being normal. Free.
But then he shifts in his sleep and reaches for you, even unconscious, his arm curling around your waist like you're something precious.
And you stay. You always stay.
Because you love him.
You love him so much it terrifies you.
Because if he ever left—if he ever decided you weren't worth the trouble—you would have nothing. Less than nothing. You would have the memory of what it felt like to be held, and the knowledge that you could never go back to the cold. He is your everything. And the most terrifying part, the thought that keeps you awake at night when he's not there, isn't that he might hurt you.
It's that you would let him.
If he wanted to. If he decided one day that you owed him more than gratitude. If his hands, which have only ever been gentle, turned into something else. You would let him. Because he's earned it. Because you owe him everything. Because after what you did, who else would ever want you? Who else could ever look at you and see anything but a murderer?
Only him.
Only ever him.
Your friends don't understand.
But it's okay.
You stopped talking to them months ago. With his help. He said it was better this way. He said they were toxic. He said they made you feel bad about yourself. He was right. He's always right.
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summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
word count: 10k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con, dark content, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's good to reader exclusively, fic takes place in the early 2000s, horror, trauma and ptsd, discussion of sexual assault, pregnancy, delusion, toxic relationship
a/n: this one is a bit of a mess for both characters so good luck
Your soft breaths felt warm against his bare chest, lashes fluttering every so slightly as you lost yourself in some seemingly pleasant dream. Sukuna had been watching you for a while, cradling you against him lovingly, choosing to bask in happiness for a few hours at the fact that you were there and pregnant and his.
He wanted to stay there forever, caught solely in that lovely moment with you.
But he knew he couldn’t.
He knew that he instead needed to get up and address the concern gnawing away at his gut. If he wanted more nights like that, more nights with you in his possession, he needed to ensure he didn’t lose you. That meant he couldn’t bury his head in the sand and fall asleep blissfully at your side like he wanted.
He had to understand just what you knew.
Reluctantly he slipped from your grip, laying your head softly down upon the pillows and ensuring the blanket was wrapped snugly around you before padding into the bathroom to confirm the truth of his suspicions. His red eyes went straight to the tile beneath the sink, catching his lower lip between his teeth at the easy assessment that something was amiss.
The tile had been put back in the wrong orientation, the pattern not quite matching up with the ones neighbouring it. Sukuna hadn’t shifted that tile in months, and even if he had, he always took great care to line it back up again perfectly to avoid any suspicion.
This was the carelessness of someone replacing the tile in a panic.
A heavy breath left his lips and for a few moments he’d just stared at it, leaning his palm against the sink, his mind totally blank. He didn’t want this to be happening now - he’d figured one day you’d find out, but had wanted that to be under his careful control at a time when you were more securely locked within his grip.
Right now he was uncertain where your mind lay and that was a problem.
At least you hadn’t immediately run from him. That, he supposed, was a positive sign.
Even through all your jittery anxiety displayed earlier that evening, you’d still given yourself to him, still clung to him like he was the most precious thing in your world. It meant that he still had a chance to shape your opinion on what you’d seen - still had a chance to secure your place with him.
He wondered if you’d even understood what you’d found. Perhaps you’d made up some excuse or story in your head where Sukuna came off better than the reality. It would be preferable if you had understood and had chosen to stay anyway. If that was the case Sukuna really would’ve struck upon gold.
Crouching down, he shifted the tile, finding that you’d repacked the items in the space below almost exactly as you’d found them. That pleased him, because leaving the evidence in place suggested that you didn’t have a plan to run off with it or investigate further. Or, perhaps you were just clever enough to know he’d check and didn’t want to risk him realising what you knew.
It was a thought he shoved from his mind in favour of holding faith in your loyalty to him.
Putting the tile back where it belonged, Sukuna stood up and leant against the sink once more, red eyes staring back at him in the mirror. He looked tired, with dark circles hanging on his face, and his hair a little more tousled than usual. Despite it all there was a calm quality to his expression - one that he wasn’t quite expecting on account of the fact that he should have been freaking out.
He was on the precipice of losing you, of losing everything. You’d discovered the secret that could topple everything he’d spent years building.
And yet, he felt strangely serene.
You hadn’t run. Not yet. You knew, and you were still there in his bed. That meant that there was a chance for him. There was no point in panicking, what he needed was to stay level-headed and formulate a plan to ensure that you didn’t change your mind. He needed to know where your head was at, and he needed to twist your thoughts until all your affection was directed towards him.
Assuming that wasn’t already the case.
Ideally, he wouldn’t need to do much at all.
—
Sukuna hadn’t needed to wait long to understand your thoughts on the whole situation.
A day had passed since that fateful evening, and Sukuna had made sure to come home from work as early as possible. While he was feeling calm about the whole thing, he wasn’t entirely confident that you wouldn’t scurry off while he was out of the house. He couldn’t completely comprehend your mental state and was subsequently unsure whether your currently fragile mind might work with or against him.
His gut told him that your distressed condition would probably go in his favour, since you were always so clingy with him, but that didn’t stop the flicker of anxiety over the idea that hours alone to think would have you fleeing from his home.
If that was the case it would be fine - he’d still get you back. It would just be far more difficult than he’d ideally like it to be.
He didn’t want to take drastic measures with you - he wanted you to be at his side completely willingly. But if you forced his hand he would act regardless. You were destined to be with him and there was absolutely nothing that would ever get in the way of that.
The pregnancy had really come at the right time, because he was certain that the baby would make it easier to keep you exactly where you belonged. It was something that would tie you to him permanently, something that would give you serious pause when considering leaving him. God, he was glad he’d had the foresight to steal your birth control pills and poke holes in the condoms when you’d made him use them - that was really paying off for him.
And just as he’d hoped, upon his return to the apartment he found you there as usual.
You were curled up on the sofa, all wrapped up and cozy in a blanket. The TV was on, playing an episode of Community - a show you’d often have on as comforting background noise. You weren’t watching it when he walked in through the door, your eyes wide and worried as you watched him enter, a pistol gripped between your trembling hands.
Sukuna faltered for a moment, his shoulders only relaxing when you let out a choked sigh of relief, lowering the gun down onto your lap.
“Hey,” he said, almost cautiously.
“Hey.” You rubbed your face. Sukuna surveyed you carefully, taking note of how tired you looked, with dark circles hanging beneath your unusually dull eyes. You looked sickly - sweat slick on your brow, and your lips a little cracked and dry.
“Gonna shoot me, baby?” He asked, only half joking.
“No- no. Sorry.” The apology was bashful, and you were quick to transfer the gun from your lap over to the coffee table. “You’re home so early. When I heard the door I thought maybe…you know…”
He hummed as you let him fill in the gaps. He hoped you were suggesting that you were concerned he was someone else, rather than fearing that he’d broken his usual routine with the intent of showing up to hurt you. It didn’t seem to be the latter, since your anxiety from the previous night was largely absent.
You just seemed unwell rather than scared.
“It’s okay. I like knowing that you can look out for yourself.” He caught the blush that covered your cheeks, his ego boosted by the reactions he could still draw from you. If the evidence wasn’t so clear he would’ve believed you were still totally in the dark about Kashimo, going by the adoration you still seemed to hold for him.
He hoped that was a sign of good things to come.
“Not feeling well?” He asked, crossing the room and crouching down in front of you. His hand went to your forehead, pressing against the sweaty skin. You were running concerningly hot, and he quickly moved to stroke your hair comfortingly, pressing a soft kiss of greeting on your lips.
“Morning sickness doesn’t seem to keep itself exclusive to the morning,” you grumbled with a pout. If you didn’t look so faint he’d find it insanely cute.
A smile played on his lips at your words, the concerns about your relationship fleeing him for a moment. He’d been so focussed on the Kashimo issue that he hadn’t had too much time to bask in the pleasant feeling of you being pregnant with his child. He was happy to hear you talk about something like morning sickness - some mundane part of your shared life.
It made his fears of a burning future seem almost trivial.
“Ah. Want me to make you some soup? That should be easy for you to keep down,” he suggested.
“It's okay, I’ll do it. You’ve been at work all day.” You moved to get up, but Sukuna’s hands were quick to fall upon your shoulders, carefully sitting you back down on the couch.
“Stay there. You’re pregnant, I’m not making you do anything.”
You flushed, sinking back down into the sofa as your eyes followed him. There was still a trace of something within them - a slight uncertainty that Sukuna didn’t like, but he brushed it aside in favour of pretending everything was normal. He’d make you dinner and you’d curl up at his side on the couch while you watched TV.
Just like every night.
That was your routine, that was how it was for you to belong to him.
Nothing would change that.
“One of Kashimo’s old friends called me today.” Your voice rang out after a few minutes of silence.
Sukuna hesitated for a moment, stalling his cutting of onions for a near imperceptible second before continuing. “Oh yeah?” He was curious to see where you were going to take this, because he was absolutely certain that no such friend had reached out to you.
“They said he’s gone missing.”
“Huh. Probably in some drug den somewhere if what Satoru told me is anything to go by.” Sukuna said easily, trying his best to keep his expression neutral. He’d admit to nothing until you came out and actively accused him of something. Coming out with the truth or a half-baked lie could both do damage until he understood where your mind was on the issue.
“I don’t know, I’m kind of worried.”
“Why? The guy treated you like shit. Good riddance, who cares what he’s doing?”
For a few moments you were silent, biting down on your lip. Your gaze wasn’t on Sukuna, but on the TV, pretending to be all invested in the show you’d seen hundreds of times. Sukuna knew you well enough to be able to see the cogs turning in your brain - a war raging in your mind over what you should say next.
“What if he’s dead?” You asked.
Still, you didn’t look at him. He wouldn’t be surprised if you were holding your breath. It wasn’t an outright accusation, it was nothing more than a roundabout way of trying to get Sukuna to slip up. He needed you to give him more than that, so he simply played along with your thought experiment.
It's what he would do until you asked him a direct question about your suspicions.
“Why would you think that?” He asked, adding the chopped onions to the pot, covering it and setting it on a low heat, continuing to prepare dinner like you were discussing something no more important than the next day’s weather.
To him it was no more important than that.
“I don’t-” you hesitated, freezing up. “I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
Sukuna tried to keep himself from smiling at how poorly you’d played this game with him. You’d gone in without any real plan or structure to your conversation, leaving yourself with no excuse or opportunity to understand the truth without asking the question outright. You just weren’t experienced enough at acting sly - not like he was.
It was most amusing to see you trying so hard at it though.
Cute, even.
“Baby.” Sukuna dropped the knife into the sink, his attention turning to you. You looked so sweet all huddled up on his sofa, practically drowning in one of his t-shirts. There was something about the scene that provided unquestionable proof that you were his, and he wondered if you even believed in the little investigation you were mounting.
Were you asking those questions because you really wanted to know? Because you really cared? Or were you simply asking the questions because you felt it was morally correct? Asking with the intention of weakly confirming that Sukuna had done nothing wrong, allowing you to stick your head back in the sand?
Perhaps that was why you weren’t addressing things directly.
“Lets cut the shit. Why are we talking about that guy? I don’t like thinking about him,” Sukuna said, staring down at you expectantly.
There, you could have your chance at being direct, if you didn’t want to take it then that was that. Case closed.
He watched your face evenly, taking note of your nervous, darting eyes, and of the way that your lips trembled at their corners. For a moment he was certain you’d back down from the challenge, but you seemed to miraculously find your resolve somewhere deep within yourself.
“Why do you have Kashimo’s things?” You asked quietly, and Sukuna grinned.
“Why do you think I have his things?”
He couldn't pass up the chance for you to come up with your own reasoning. He wanted to hear your thought process first before offering either the truth or a lie that would fall further from the image you’d already created in your head.
“I don’t- I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?”
Again, there was hesitation. Your gaze dropped down to your lap in a desperate attempt to escape the pressure Sukuna brought with him as he approached your position on the sofa. “No. I don’t,” you murmured quietly. “I don’t.”
There was a resignation in your voice that told him you did know, but were desperately trying to find another explanation, hoping there was something he’d say that could clear all this up for you as some big misunderstanding.
You’d find no such comfort from him.
He wouldn’t spend his whole life lying to you, not when the cat was clawing at the bag in a desperate attempt at freedom. One day you’d have to know, and you’d have to make peace with who he was.
He’d make sure you made peace with it.
“No, no. Go on, pretty girl.” His hands were on your shoulders, massaging them gently. “You’re not much of a liar, so say it. Say what you’re thinking. Tell me what’s been on your mind since I came home yesterday.”
You were rigid beneath his touch. “Did- did you kill Kashimo?”
“Yeah. I did.”
He felt a shudder run through you, your breaths picking up rapidly at his confession. Instantly, tears began to gather at the corners of your eyes and you shrugged his hands off you, scrambling away further down the sofa. Your gaze was wild and scared, fixed on him with renewed anxiety just like your body language from the night before.
You’d clearly pushed the thought aside over the past twenty-four hours - buried it deep beneath a slew of delusions. With the truth laid so plainly in front of you it was no longer possible to convince yourself that there was some reasonable explanation for what you’d found.
And that clearly terrified you.
To some extent he’d expected your reaction.
Of course you were going to panic - you weren’t like him, you were nice and soft, completely removed from the horrors of his world. But that still didn’t stop your response from wounding him. He didn’t want you to be afraid of him - he’d never do anything to hurt you, and he hated seeing you cowering away from him like you were.
Even so, he needed to endure for a while. He’d be able to bring you back around once you let him explain - he was certain of that. There wasn’t a single thing that would keep him from you. It was pointless for him to grow overwhelmed with worry or sorrow - this was his chance to make you see the love in his actions, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
Rounding the sofa, he positioned himself in front of you. His stomach twisted as you drew your knees up to your chest, as if creating a barrier between the two of you. He wanted to reach out and wipe your tears, perhaps card his fingers through your hair and coo about how safe you were with him, but he feared you’d push him away.
It was a situation that needed delicate handling.
“Why?” You choked out. “Why would you?”
“I saw how upset you were at the reunion. I saw how much he’d hurt you. I ran into the guy afterwards and confronted him about it all and things got a bit nasty. I had no choice.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily. There was little proof concerning the framing work he and Satoru had engaged in to make Kashimo look bad, so he wouldn’t admit it to you.
That would be a pointless overcomplication.
“Things got nasty?” You echoed, disbelief evident in your tone.
“Yeah. You know how you said he was going home after the reunion? Well, I ran into him in the parking lot of a bar just outside of town where he was drunk and feeling up some escort. When I cussed him out he attacked me and I retaliated. I went too far and that was that. I didn’t wanna tell you because, well, y’know…” He shrugged.
He could see confusion glimmering in your eyes as you struggled to understand the facts presented to you. Sukuna was banking on the assumption that your only evidence of Kashimo’s death came from the items hidden in the bathroom. If you had any further info then his construction could easily crumble.
“No. Kashimo wasn’t- he wouldn’t... He was never violent to me, I don’t- I don’t believe you.”
It seemed like even you were surprised to hear those words falling from your lips, an awkward guilt clouding over your face, as if ashamed with yourself for being unwilling to immediately believe the love of your life.
“Yeah, well, if what Satoru stumbled across on his Myspace is anything to go by, you didn’t know him very well at all,” Sukuna pointed out.
Again you were silent, chewing on your lip for a few moments. Sukuna was getting antsy, wishing he was a mind-reader so that he could take away the difficulty of playing this game with you. He wanted to inject the correct thoughts directly into your head to avoid any chance at losing you.
He wanted you to be his willingly. He wanted you to accept him for exactly who he was.
“That doesn’t make it okay. You killed someone, Sukuna. Even if he attacked you, you can’t just kill-”
“We’ve both killed someone. Sometimes it has to happen. How would you like it if I told you that it was wrong to kill Mahito? You’d say I was victim-blaming.” Perhaps his manipulation was a little-heavy handed there, because you looked like you’d been struck across the face. Maybe that was exactly what was needed though - some comparison to help you realise that it wasn’t all that different.
No one mattered outside of you and him.
Mahito’s worth was identical to Kashimo’s. Just as Kashimo’s worth was identical to Ryu’s. The whole world was made up of nothing more than bags of meat with the exception of you. You were the only one with a shining, glimmering soul that he so desperately had to possess.
“It’s not the same!” Your voice was all wobbly, and fresh tears started dripping down your cheeks, dissolving you into a mess of sobs. “Oh god, oh god. This is so fucked.” You were mumbling into your knees, making it hard to hear your words.
Sukuna didn’t have much interest in what you had to say anyway. It was all irrelevant, nothing more than a kneejerk emotional reaction which he was going to correct. You were just shocked, that was all.
He took your condition as an opportunity, sitting down beside you on the couch and wrapping his arms tightly around your shaking body. Resting his chin atop your head, he tucked you close against him, savouring the warmth of you pressed against his side just like always. You tensed up for a moment, but remained there all the same.
If he was right in his belief, you were just as incapable of pushing him away as he was at parting with you.
“Just breathe baby,” he murmured, listening to your sobs and stroking your hair. “It’s okay, I’m here, I’ll always keep you safe. Everything I do is to protect you, to keep you happy. Weren’t you glad when we killed Mahito? You were grateful to have me there then. This is no different. I’ll do whatever it takes to look after you.”
“But Kashimo isn’t- wasn’t like Mahito! He never-” Your voice came out muffled and panicked, and Sukuna cut you off before you could finish, tightening his grip on you.
“There was an axe in his car, y’know? A load of tape and rope too. We didn’t say it to you because we didn’t wanna scare you, but on the guy’s private Myspace account he’d made loads of posts about certain fetishes - cannibalism and stuff. It kinda seemed like he wanted to do it to you. I wasn’t going to let that happen. He wasn’t a good guy.”
More sniffles sounded from you, but you said nothing. Sukuna wasn’t quite sure if you quite believed him, but didn’t labour the point any further. If he tried to over explain it would only make him look like a liar, and he needed you to retain some level of trust towards him.
“I only ever want to look after you, baby. I’ll never be ashamed of doing that. I’d dispose of anyone who hurts you, that’s what it means to love. To kill for you is an ultimate expression of my love, it's my love language, I need you to see that baby.”
For a long time you were silent, completely frozen within his grip. He took that as a win, if things were dire you’d be squirming and struggling to escape, but still you remained beneath his touch, allowing proximity with a person who'd just admitted to disposing of one of your previous lovers.
It meant you could be convinced.
“It’s your love language?” You murmured quietly.
“Yeah.”
The cogs were turning steadily in your brain, and you slowly withdrew yourself from him. Your eyes were glassy as you peered up at him, horror and worry shining through the tears gathering at your lashline.
“Kashimo wasn’t the only one, was he?” Your voice came out small and uncertain.
He wasn’t going to lie to you. Not now you’d come this far.
“No. He wasn’t.”
“Ryu?” You asked shakily.
“Yeah. Yorozu too.”
“Fuck. No. No, no, no. Please, this can’t be happening.” You began to scratch and scrape at the skin of your arms, as if trying to awaken yourself from a nightmare. Your nails started to tear at the skin, drawing shallow lines of red to the surface. Sukuna was quick to stop you, grabbing both your wrists with one hand and holding you still.
The fear that flickered in your eyes was unpleasant, paired with a clear resignation that you could do little to overpower Sukuna if it ever came to that. If he called upon even the slightest amount of strength you couldn’t escape him, let alone if he actually tried.
“Stop that, baby. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m already hurt, Sukuna! You hurt me, you ruined-” your tone went all high pitched as you were overtaken by a sob, brows furrowed you tried your best to continue. “Ryu’s death broke me! I spent years in a spiral wondering who could’ve done such a thing, fearing that same thing happening to me, regretting cheating on him the day he died, but it was you! You caused all my misery! You killed my boyfriend and then fucked me while his body was still warm? Oh my god, Yuki was right. What the fuck am I doing?”
Sukuna tried not to let his irritation show at the mention of Yuki, alerting you to his annoyance only via the tightening of his grip upon your wrists.
“Did I cause your misery? Because I think you’d still be with Ryu right now if he didn’t die. I think you’d have a baby on your hip, stuck at home cooking his dinner all the while wondering what woman he was out fucking instead of you. You’d be dreaming about me, about the life we have right now, wishing you had this rather than being stuck with that asshole.”
He saw your eyes widen in horror, and he couldn’t help but let the ghost of a smile slip onto his face. You were so easy to read, so painfully predictable in the things that would cut you deepest.
“I’m sorry for your misery back then, I really am. But you needed it for your own happiness - needed it to lead you into my arms. Can you really deny that’s where you belong? You’re still letting me touch you now, still let me fuck you last night, still clung to me like you never wanted me to escape your grasp. So don’t lie to me and claim you aren’t happy. That misery was worth it.”
You blinked dumbly a couple of times, your shoulders sagging in resignation. It was clear that you weren’t completely on board, but nor did you have the certainty to bite back against what he was saying. You loved him, you still loved him despite it all, and he knew it. You didn’t want to throw away what you’d built together - it was why you’d curled up at his side the night before rather than flee from him.
“You don’t know that,” you murmured.
“Oh but I do. We both do. You’re meant to be with me, we’re made for each other.”
The silence stretched out once more, and Sukuna reached for you. His fingers brushed against your face, and a tremor ran through your body. Still, you made no effort to push him away, letting him dry your tears. His crimson eyes were fixed on you with great adoration, proud at how nicely you were sitting before him.
Making no attempt to run.
It pleased him. He had a contingency if you tried to dart away - he was faster and stronger and he’d hold you down and tie you up until you were ready to listen to reason. But he really didn’t want to resort to that.
“Baby, I just don’t think you’re good at making your own decisions, so let me make them for you. There’s too many people who want to take advantage of you and your happiness and I’ll cut through them all. I’ll keep you happy and safe and I’ll give you everything. Please just understand. You don’t have to even think about it - don’t worry about a thing.”
More tears dripped from your eyes, and he caught them easily with his thumb. You looked beautiful at the best of times, but he always liked the way you looked most when you were crying. He enjoyed the sight of you all helpless beside him, your face contorted with a despair that only he could comfort.
“How can I stop thinking about this?” You asked. “I can’t- things can’t go back to the way they were before now that I know all this. We need to stop- this needs to stop.” Your hand moved to your stomach, and the sudden horror of realisation crept into your expression. “All of this needs to stop.”
“No.” Sukuna said simply.
He spoke calmly, but inside a rage was simmering. He knew what you were implying - that not only should you break up, but you should get rid of the baby too. That was simply unacceptable to him. Not when he’d worked so hard.
“Don’t be stupid, baby. Do you really think you can live a life without me? You were miserable before I came into your life, do you really think you wouldn’t be miserable after?”
He leaned closer to you, so close that his breath was fanning against your face, his lips almost brushing against yours. His hand moved down to your chest, pressing down to feel your fluttering heartbeat.
“I’m the same man I was before you found any of this out, so what does it change? I know you love me, I know you want me. It changes nothing. We’re going to be happy, we’ll be together, we’ll be a family - because I know that’s what you want.” He paused, observing the way your eyes darted nervously, hanging on his every word. “You can’t live without me anymore. Admit it.”
“But what if I can’t live with you either?” The question came out all meek, barely loud enough for Sukuna to hear it. “How do I know that one day you’re not gonna turn around and kill me?”
Your eyes were shiny with terror as you met his gaze, and Sukuna found himself incapable of holding back the laugh that bubbled up in his chest. You looked so sweet, all scared below him and yet still leaning into his touch, still making no effort to put distance between the two of you. For all your words of opposition, he didn’t believe you’d act on any of it.
Even if you were disgusted by his actions, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be anything but attracted to him, still clinging to the relationship like it was the only thing worth having. There you were, voicing a fear that he’d kill you, and you couldn’t even find the will to scamper away. God, he was pleased with himself. He hadn’t realised just how deeply he’d dug his claws into you.
“Because then my life would have no purpose,” Sukuna said. “Everything I do, I do for you. I don’t kill for sport or pleasure, I kill out of a devotion for you - a gift to make your life easier, if you like. I would sooner pluck my own eyes from their sockets before I would bring you any harm. You’re the most precious thing in my universe, the only thing I cherish. I promise you, with me you’ll always be safe.”
Miraculously, your eyes seemed to light up. A soft blush blossomed across your cheeks and you quickly lowered your face as if to obscure it from him. Still, he’d seen it, he was aware that the words had struck a chord. You were still clinging to morality, trying to put your foot down - but it was fruitless.
You loved him.
That was all there was to it.
Through the good and the bad, you still desired him.
“But those were gifts I didn’t want. We would’ve found our way together despite it all, now everything’s just so fucked up,” you murmured.
“I wasn’t taking that chance.”
Sukuna’s fingers found your chin, forcing you to look up at him. His lips brushed yours tentatively before kissing you, drawing you in close to him. You could’ve pulled back, could’ve shoved him away - you did neither. Instead, you kissed him back, parting your lips when he pushed his tongue into your mouth, letting him move on top of you - pressing you back down onto the sofa.
“I’ve always needed you to be mine.” He whispered upon breaking this kiss. “Since the day we met. When it comes to you I won’t take any chances, I want you at my side for all eternity. My soul calls for yours and I know yours calls for mine. I know you want to let this all go, to accept me as I am. So do it, just do it, baby. I’m yours as you are mine.”
“Sukuna-”
“Please, baby. I love you. Please. I’ll give you a life you’ve only ever dreamed of.” His lips were pressing kisses all over your face, practically worshipping your body. He hoped his affection was enough to convince you of his devotion and remind you just how much you loved him.
“Sukuna, was the Mahito thing even real? Was that- was that your fault too?” Your voice came out all shaky, and he got the idea that the answer to that question was pivotal in your judgement of him.
He was wounded you’d believe he’d be part of such a heinous plan.
Sure, he was a killer, but he’d never hire some psycho to rough up you and your friends - that was a step too far.
“Fuck no. Baby, I already said I’d never do anything to hurt you. I liked Shoko, and finding that house eerily silent was one of the scariest nights of my life. I wanted to rip that guy to pieces with my bare hands and I probably would’ve if you weren’t in the room.”
Swallowing, you nodded slowly, clearly grateful for the fact that he at least wasn’t responsible for that. Still you seemed nervous, eyes a little unfocussed as he continued to kiss you. He was watching you carefully, trying to puzzle out where your mind was going, but struggling to read your largely vacant expression.
He wanted to make it all better, wanted to find a way to make you understand that everything was going to be okay. You couldn’t seem to comprehend that you were currently in the midst of shock - that in a few days time you’d be able to view everything with more objectivity and weigh up how much more worth your relationship held when compared to those measly lives Sukuna had taken.
“Without you I would’ve been raped and killed by Mahito,” you said slowly.
“Yeah, baby.”
There was no telling what might’ve actually happened, but he supposed that was probably a true enough guess.
“Without you, I’d be Ryu’s depressed little housewife, or a victim of Kashimo’s fetish.” Again, the words came out slowly, as if you were trying to process them yourself. Perhaps you were trying to convince yourself of them, and that fact made him very happy.
He knew you were a little broken, but seeing you jump through so many mental hoops to justify him had his heart racing. You were so perfect, so well trained, he really did want to keep you forever.
“Exactly. You get it, baby. I’m just trying to protect you. Everything I ever do, it’s all for you.” He nuzzled his nose against yours affectionately, fingers brushing against the soft skin of your cheeks. “I love you. You’re so happy with me, I see it. We can be a perfect little family. Hell, we can start over somewhere else, get out of this dead-end town and really make it. Wouldn’t that be nice? Just you and me, no distractions?”
No Yuki, no influence from your parents. That was Sukuna’s dream scenario.
He was staring down at you like a cat who had just dropped a dead bird at your feet. He was so pleased with himself, so proud of all he’d done, so proud of his plans for your future. He understood how you could be disgusted by his actions, but he needed you to see it for what it was.
This was love.
It was love that most people were never capable of achieving or experiencing. It was devotion in its rawest form, and he knew that you’d be able to see it with just a little time.
“I love you too,” you whispered shakily, the words leaving his heart racing. “I don’t want this to end. I’ve got so little to hold on to. After Mahito I feel so lonely and hopeless, I can’t- I don’t want-” the words came out choked, and you let out another breathy sob, cutting yourself off.
Again, Sukuna dried your tears. “I’m not going anywhere, baby. All you have to do is accept me, and I’ll keep you safe forever. I’ll stay by your side for as long as you have me. I’ll love you as long as I’m still living. Just accept me for what I am. Accept my love as it is.”
And for that evening at least, you did.
No more words were spoken on the matter. You lost yourself in his kisses, giving yourself to him wholly as you had so many times before, letting his hands roam your body freely, just as they always would. You kissed him like you might never kiss him again, with a passion that had his head spinning, leaving him desperate for more.
He showed you his devotion in the only way he knew how, thanking you silently for not running from him, by lowering himself between your legs - pushing your thighs apart and feasting on you until you were twitching and whining his name. Your hands were in his hair just as they always were, winding between the strands needily.
And just like the night before, when he took you to his bed he filled you with a romance and love reserved solely for that very situation. Now that you knew him fully, he would give you everything he’d ever held back - he’d make love to you as something truly sacred, something to be cherished and loved until the end of his days.
Perhaps even beyond that.
And as he’d drifted off to sleep with you firmly in his grip, he’d been naive enough to believe that was the end of it - that you had chosen him and forgiven all that had been uncovered. You were so enchanting to him that he couldn’t even consider the idea that you weren’t fully resolved in your decision.
Awakening hours later to a cold bed had him feeling like a bucket of ice cold water had been tipped over his head.
It was a feeling that only grew at the sight of a neatly penned letter left on the dresser on your side of his bed.
Sukuna,
I'm sorry but I can’t do this. I love you, I really do, but you need serious help. I never wanted you to kill for me. I don’t want you to keep killing for me. I think it’s better for both of us if we put an end to it here. I don’t want to live a life stained by death anymore and you shouldn’t either. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done, I think you need to move on too.
I’m sorry. Goodbye.
Sukuna stared at it for a few minutes before calmly placing it back down on the dresser. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, but he took a deep breath and gathered himself before swiftly getting dressed.
You couldn’t just leave him, the two of you were soulmates.
The note made it clear you still loved him, as did all of your actions from just a few hours prior, which meant there was no chance in hell that he was letting you slip through his fingers. You were just scared and confused and needed him to set you straight just like always.
And he could do that easily.
—
The rain had practically soaked you through by the time you reached Yuki’s place.
You hadn’t risked wasting time packing anything - hadn’t even wanted to chance the rustling of putting on a rain jacket before fleeing Sukuna’s apartment. He had never been the heaviest sleeper, and you were certain he’d been more alert than usual that evening following your conversation.
So you’d stumbled out in nothing but one of Sukuna’s hoodies and your pyjama trousers, slipping your feet into a pair of trainers and running with nothing in your possession except your phone, wallet, and Sukuna’s gun.
It was nearly 1am when you rang Yuki’s doorbell, praying that she’d answer, hoping that she’d even want to deal with you after the sour nature of your previous meeting.
She’d been right about it all. Sukuna was rotten. He’d killed and he’d killed and you were certain that he’d never stop killing. And the worst part was that there was a sick part of you that could see the romance in it all - a horrible, rotten aspect of your mind that could accept it.
Kashimo, Ryu, and Yorozu had all wronged you in their own ways - had all caused you pain that Sukuna had so lovingly culled. It was wrong, it was evil, you knew that. But that didn’t stop it from being romantic. Nor did it prevent a sick part of you from loving him for it.
Because his words reminding you of your happiness weren’t wrong. You had been happy with him. He’d given you everything you’d ever wanted, even if he’d had to take to achieve that in the first place. You’d still be happy with him now, if you closed your eyes to the elephant in the room and let him treat you as he always had.
That had been an attractive prospect when you’d laid there in his arms contemplating your escape, because you were certain that you’d never stop loving him, no matter what happened, no matter how much time passed. And you were certain that if you’d stayed there in his arms until the morning, you would’ve stayed forever.
It was why you’d forced yourself out.
For the sake of everyone else in the world, you couldn’t stay at his side. You couldn’t abide by his nature, or the sick and twisted definition he had of love when it came to you. You couldn’t allow any further corruption by his hands. This was the one chance you had to end it before it would all be too late for you, before you’d willingly allow yourself to fall into his grasp and stay there for all eternity.
Yuki looked exhausted as she opened the door, chestnut eyes widening in surprise at the sight of you dripping water all over her porch.
You weren’t sure why you’d gone to seek her out over your parents - perhaps it was a subconscious choice of safety, for you knew that Sukuna was more than capable of breaking into your childhood bedroom at your parents house, and that was likely the first place he’d go to seek you out.
Besides, you didn’t wish to explain the situation to your parents. You were far too exhausted for that.
“Are you okay? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yuki I-” you hesitated, and fresh tears bubbled up in your eyes. Yuki took stock of your haggard face, concern lining her brow. You deserved better than her - even after everything she was still worried about you. “Sorry, I’m sorry-”
“Come on, let's get you dried up. You’re gonna freeze out here.” Her voice was soothing, and her arm came to wrap around your shoulder, guiding you into her home.
She wasn’t pushy with you, hurrying about turning on lights and brewing some tea. She instructed you to head to her room and pick some dry clothes to change into, considering you were visibly shivering. You weren’t sure if the tremors were coming from the cold or from the adrenaline of fleeing your boyfriend in the middle of the night.
Your heart panged at the thought of him still in bed, the desire to run back into his arms building in your chest.
You made your best effort to squash it back down.
Once changed into one of Yuki’s sweaters and a pair of comfy shorts, you headed back down to the living room where your friend was waiting. A hot mug of tea was set out on the coffee table, and Yuki draped a blanket over you the moment you sat down in your space on her sofa.
“You look exhausted,” she said.
It was a neutral statement, one that you imagined had been picked carefully. After your last conversation, Yuki seemed wary of you - overly aware that she was walking through a minefield and subsequently straying well clear of things that could immediately sour the evening. If you weren’t in total crisis mode you probably would’ve laughed at the irony of her avoiding attacking Sukuna the one time you were open to hearing it.
“It’s been a long night.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded. You wanted to tell her everything, eager to burst into tears and rerun every terrible thing you’d learned over the last twenty-four hours. But you couldn’t. There was a loyalty to Sukuna engraved deep within you, one that wanted to preserve his safety even after everything. If you told Yuki the truth she’d make you call the police.
You didn’t want that for him.
So you changed the subject.
“Is Choso not here?” You asked. They’d been living together for a little while, and you’d been surprised when Yuki had sent you up to her bedroom to get some dry clothes, figuring that Choso would be sleeping in there. You were surprised to find an empty bed.
“No…” She hesitated. “He’s been busy lately, staying with his bandmates and stuff. Things have been a bit difficult between us since- well, you know. I don’t like being touched anymore. That can strain a relationship.”
You lowered your head in shame. You’d barely discussed Yuki and her wellbeing the last time you’d seen her - all you’d done was get angry when she attacked Sukuna. At the time that had seemed like the right choice, but now you just felt stupid. Even if you hadn’t asked him about it directly, there was no doubt in your mind that Sukuna had left Yuki to her fate back at the lakehouse.
He’d made it abundantly clear that the only person he cared about was you.
And you’d had the audacity to call Yuki a liar.
“Why are you here?” She asked, clearly no more keen to discuss the topic of Choso than you were to discuss Sukuna. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I don’t think someone ever shows up in the middle of the night for a good reason. Especially not looking as miserable as you do.”
It was clear that she’d already connected some dots in her mind, her eyes darting towards your stomach for a miniscule moment. She knew that Sukuna was the root cause of your presence, but you were certain she had little understanding of the true extent of your despair. Either way, she stayed silent, urging you to speak first before she imparted any judgement.
She’d learned from the last time.
“I’ve been so stupid, Yuki.”
She opened her mouth to respond, probably to agree, but she clearly thought better of it, remaining quiet once again and allowing you to continue.
“Sukuna- he-” you realised that you didn’t even know where to start - not unless you wanted to spill the whole story. “I can’t have his baby,” you said finally. “I just- I can’t.”
Yuki leant forward, again she seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “Did something happen? You seemed…happy with him the other day.” You were grateful for her decision to glaze over the details there - you’d had plenty of terrible moments throughout your friendship, but at the end of the day you’d always be able to move on and find solace in each other.
You nodded, your gaze trained on the ground. You were aware of how badly Yuki wanted to push, her desperation for details poorly disguised. It was no secret that she’d been waiting for this moment, standing by patiently until Sukuna finally slipped up and forced you to open up your eyes.
“What-” she hesitated, before seemingly reframing her question. “Why did you run from him in the middle of the night?”
“So he couldn’t convince me to stay.”
That was just the problem with Sukuna, with you. As long as he was conscious, he was perfectly capable of talking you into anything. Even now, outside of his direct sphere of influence, you were still second guessing all of your decisions, wondering if it was best to keep your mouth shut and go running back to his side.
“Why would he have to convince you?” Yuki asked, pulling at the string of conversation with great care, as if certain it would snap and you’d clam up if she said the wrong thing. To her you were a ticking time bomb, ready to blow if her actions were the slightest bit off the mark. You wished you hadn’t gained that reputation with her.
You were a shitty friend. You knew it.
“I thought you were happy.” She emphasised again, when her question was met with only silence.
Shuffling uncomfortably on the sofa, you drew your knees up to your chest, hugging them against you in an attempt to console yourself. It felt odd to have to comfort yourself like that - you’d grown so accustomed to Sukuna’s presence, to strong arms wrapping tightly around you and shielding you from any bad thoughts that would come your way. It had become so familiar that you’d almost forgotten how to look after yourself.
How could you condemn him like you were? All he’d done was be good to you.
If only you’d never found out. If only the cat had stayed in the bag where it belonged.
Your voice was shaky as you finally spoke, mumbling into your knees. You didn’t really want her to hear, but you were certain she’d be unwilling to drop the topic. “He’s done- there’ve been some bad things. You were right, oh god, I’ve just been so stupid. I’m sorry.”
“What things?” She asked, brown eyes wide with alarm. “Babe, what has he done?” She brushed aside the worry in your tone, leaning forward with interest. She didn’t want to hear your sobs and apologies, she wanted to hear the truth.
And that was the one thing you couldn’t provide to her.
“I can’t- I said I wouldn’t-” your breathing picked up, your loyalty to Sukuna crushing at your windpipe, keeping any words buried within your chest. You wouldn’t betray him. You were certain that you couldn’t even if your mind had wanted to. Your body loved him with a ferocity that was unmatched.
To turn on him was unthinkable.
“Please. You can tell me.” Yuki was pleading with you. She’d stood up from her position on the couch, kneeling down in front of you, a hand brushing against your knee. “You look like a mess. Whatever happened, it's okay, I won’t get mad at you or say I told you so or any of that shit. I’m here, but you need to let me help you.”
Yuki’s words were kind and caring. They were the right thing for her to say in the moment - exactly what you’d want to hear from a friend who you’d asked for help from in the middle of the night. And yet, a flicker of irritation ignited within you. You hated how enthusiastic she seemed about the situation, how ready she was to condemn Sukuna, like she’d been waiting for this the whole time.
She believed that he’d hurt you. You could see it in her eyes, in that sympathy that flickered within those chestnut irises. And you hated it, because she didn’t understand at all. Sukuna would never hurt you, and you’d never hurt him.
Not physically, mentally, or socially.
You weren’t going to betray him. You’d run from him for the sake of protecting those around you, for the sake of letting Sukuna heal from the obsession you’d ignited within him. You hadn’t run out of fear or hatred, but out of an awareness that it was for the best.
“Do we need to call the police?” Yuki’s voice drew you back to reality, a fresh wave of revulsion coursing through you. The last thing you wanted was for the police to be involved. You wanted Sukuna to be able to live, wanted everything to be swept under the rug because you knew his life had more potential than years of imprisonment.
It wasn’t fair.
“No, no.” Gently, you pushed Yuki’s hand away, shuffling back from her ever so slightly. She seemed a little shocked, perhaps even disappointed. “I can’t talk about it, I just- I need to get my head in order, I’m so fucking tired…”
Yuki bit her lip nervously, clearly trying to think up a way to convince you of sharing more. There was little that would be effective on you that evening. The feeling of Sukuna’s body on top of yours, filling you up with his warmth, was still overly present in your mind. You held a great fondness for him that hadn’t even begun to fade, and for that reason all of Yuki’s suggestions would fall upon deaf ears.
It had taken all of your willpower simply to leave, and that resolve was only hanging by a meagre thread. It was nothing more than a valiant attempt to cling to morality, to remind yourself that you had suffered at Sukuna’s hands. But still your heart betrayed you, begging you to go back and swaddle yourself in the happiness that your lover always brought you.
To do any more than simply walk out his apartment required a drive that you just didn’t have.
“If he’s done something you need to-”
“Yuki, please.” Your voice came out all shaky, tears once again prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Just let me go to sleep. I can’t do this right now. Tomorrow I’ll- tomorrow I’ll try. But please, just let me be for now.”
She wasn’t happy, but she relented all the same, her shoulders dropping in defeat. She offered you a sympathetic smile, and you supposed that she was trying to reason with herself that a promise of tomorrow was better than nothing at all.
“Okay. That’s okay, I get it. Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning,” she said, bidding you goodnight and sending you off to your room.
Heading up to the spare room, you were only able to hold it together long enough for the door to shut behind you. The second you were alone, the sobs wracked your body once more, and you flung yourself down onto the bed, hiding your tears in the sheets below. Your traitorous mind wished it was Sukuna’s chest you were buried against, your imagination summoning his scent to your nostrils, even in that room where he’d never been.
You wondered if he was still asleep - curled up in his bed all wrapped up in some nice dream in which you were still there in his arms. That was where you wished you were, where your heart longed to be despite everything.
God, what was wrong with you?
The pain in your heart felt unbearable, as though some essential part of you had been ripped clean from your chest. You were terrified at the idea of going back to him, terrified at the thought of what he might do to every person you’d ever cared for in your life. But you were also terrified of a life without him.
A loneliness would creep into that empty space in your chest, calling out for him, longing for the other half who you loved so deeply.
You were doing what was right. Staying far away from him was best for everyone. You were the one who had made him crazy - maybe without you he could live a normal life. And yet, jealousy crept up your throat at the thought of him moving on and loving someone else. You wanted his devotion, you wanted him.
Really, you were just as bad as each other.
Somewhere in your soul you’d always known there was something wrong. Always had that nagging suspicion that Sukuna was far more dangerous than he presented himself as. And you’d ignored it. You’d loved him all the same, against all warnings.
Now it had to stop.
You had to stay away before the rot that bloomed between the two of you spread any further than it already had.
So through all your tears, you turned off your phone rather than calling him like you wanted to, and you crawled into the bed. Ryu didn’t deserve his fate. Neither did Kashimo. That was what you had to keep reminding yourself of. For all Sukuna’s talk of his love language and his desire to protect you, his penchant for murder was nothing so beautiful.
It was cruel and cold. Not romantic.
You couldn’t allow yourself to see romance in it - no matter how significantly Sukuna’s explanation might have swayed you to understand it that way. Nothing he’d done was normal, and none of it was okay, and you needed to hold onto that belief and stay away so long as you wanted to retain your own humanity.
God, you were pathetic.
How had you ended up where you were? Sad and alone and pining for a man whose hands were stained red with blood.
If only you’d never met eyes with Sukuna all those years ago, perhaps you’d be living a different life. A life unburdened by death and decisions that all led to your misery.
But you knew somewhere within you that was nothing more than a fantasy. You and Sukuna had always been destined for each other - one day he would’ve found you, no matter what. He’d always find you. You were two halves of one soul, no matter how hard you tried to condemn him and deny it.
Really, you’d been stupid to even believe that you could make it through a single night apart after trying to flee from him.
He’d never let you go.
You’d huddled yourself tighter between the sheets at the sound of the window rattling and sliding open, wishing you could make the last forty-eight hours disappear if you just willed it hard enough. There was a soft thud of someone dropping into the room, quiet footsteps making their way over to the bed and hesitating beside the lump of your body hidden beneath the duvet.
Fear gripped your body, and you wished that fear was born from something primal - a fear of him hurting you or killing you where you lay. But it wasn’t. No, your fear came from the depths of your heart, because you knew that the moment your gaze fell upon those crimson eyes, all of your resolve would vanish, never to be recovered again.
And he would’ve finally succeeded at rotting you from the inside out.
A hand fell upon your body, stroking at your form through the duvet cover. It was a touch that felt familiar even with the barrier between the two of you. It was all you could do to not lean into it, to not seek out the warmth that his body had always provided.
How could the hands of a murderer be so warm? How could they feel so gentle and pleasant against your skin?
“Come on, baby. I know you’re awake.” His voice sent a shiver straight through you - one that shook your body so violently that it earned you a deep chuckle from him. You hated how attracted you were to the sound, how it summoned heat to your core.
You were repulsive.
“Don’t shy away from me now,” he purred.
Fingers gripped the edge of the sheets and tore them from their position atop you - any hope of denying him fading as his handsome face came into view. There was fury and hurt in his gaze, an anger possessing his body that he was barely keeping from seeping into his otherwise even tone.
“Come on. We can work this out.”
a/n: reader genuinely needs therapy but instead she's got manipulator prime making life harder for her :(
anyway next chapter will be the finale, so tune in to find out if sukuna gets his way or if yuki saves our girl!
hope you enjoyed and thank you for the support! comments and reblogs are appreciated as always! <3
✮ I CAN'T BE YOUR SUPERMAN ⸺ in which you had a beef with underground rapper!choso and he finally had enough.
the wet slapping sounds in the dressing room sounded loud, and the filthy moans felt damn near deafening. it almost felt like the whole venue could hear them, even though some girlie was currently out on stage screaming her lungs out about heartbreak and some asshole ex.
nobody really knew when it all started. well, maybe fans did. probably back during that interview.
q: it’s no secret fans think you and choso make a great pair. do you think there’s any chance of a collab? a: well he’s cute, sure. but i'm not really into artists whose whole lyrics revolve around sucking their own dick. sounds like music for dudes with tiny cocks tbh
or maybe it started later, when he fired back in one of his new tracks with a nasty little line: "all these pop bitches look the same, i couldn't tell 'em apart even if i fucked 'em all at once."
maybe things finally hit their breaking point tonight, at the annual awards show where you ended up presenting him an award and accidentally loosened your grip, nearly dropping the trophy, making him bend down and catch it, then you giggled behind your hand.
“oops, i’m such a mess today. who would’ve thought our favorite little rapper would throw me this off balance.”
whatever the fuck it was, it all led to this: you pressed against a table in an empty dressing room, a huge body trapping you from behind so completely you could barely breathe.
his hand moved faster than you could react. fingers wrapped around your chin, tilting your head back just enough to expose your throat. his lips brushed against your neck, then his tongue slid out, hot and wet, and you couldn’t stop the quiet moan slipping from your throat. he dragged his tongue slowly along your skin, teeth grazing your jaw lightly, and the second he tried turning your face toward him, you jerked away.
“i’ll fucking kill you if you ruin my makeup.” “such a pretty face with such a filthy mouth. don’t worry, i’ll find somewhere else to leave marks on you.”
his mouth dropped lower again, this time latching onto the spot where your neck met your shoulder. he bit down, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make you gasp. then he soothed it with his tongue, sucking a bruise into your skin while his hands found your waist. the butterfly top was thin as hell, and he shamelessly yanked it down, exposing your tits.
“fuck, look at you.” your nipples were already hard, sensitive, desperate for attention. he didn’t keep you waiting. his palms wrapped around your chest, thumbs lazily rubbing over your sensitive nipples in slow circles. “perfect tits just begging to be played with.”
you bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you moan, but then he pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers with just the right amount of pressure. “ah!… hnnnh!” “yeah, that’s it. lemme hear those pretty little sounds.”
he kneaded your chest, teasing and squeezing your nipples on purpose, tugging at them until you arched back against him, your ass pressing against the huge cock straining in his pants.
“nice skirt,” he muttered against your skin. “bet you wore it for me.” “wore it ’cause it matched the top.” “doesn’t match shit. you wore it so i’d have easy access.” “in your dreams.”
his hands left your chest, and for a second you thought maybe you’d pissed him off. instead, he grabbed the hem of your miniskirt and yanked it up to your waist, exposing the wet patch soaking through your panties. the cool air hit your skin and made you shiver.
he spread your legs apart, forcing you to stand wider. one hand slid around to the front, dragging slowly down your stomach until his fingers found your clit through the fabric. he pressed down hard, rubbing over it through the thin lace, and your knees almost gave out instantly.
“ah! fuck… choso!” “look at you. already wet for me, huh?” “fuck you.” “that’s the plan.” his fingers pressed against your pussy through your panties, feeling the heat there. “jesus christ, you’re soaked. and you’re really gonna stand here and tell me you didn’t plan this?”
“my body just does what it… nnngh!… does…” “there she is,” he practically purred, working slow, torturous circles against you. “wanna act all tough? your pussy says otherwise. soaked my fingers through your panties already. guess she’s my biggest fan, huh?” you wanted to argue, but the words died in your throat while your fingers gripped the edge of the vanity hard enough for your knuckles to turn white.
his thumb sped up, flicking against your clit in fast, ruthless motions. you were so wet slick was already running down your inner thighs, and he pushed his middle finger barely an inch inside you before pulling it back out, coating his thumb with your wetness. “that’s right, baby. gonna show you just how small my cock really is."
the sound of his voice right by your ear, the wet noises of his fingers playing with you, the sight of it all in the mirror — it was too much and somehow still not enough. you heard the sharp click of his belt buckle, the rough sound of his zipper. then he freed his cock, the tip nudging insistently against your wet folds.
but he didn’t push in. not yet. instead, he wrapped a hand around himself and dragged the tip between your folds, sliding up, spreading your lips apart, pressing right against your clit, then back down, rubbing the head against your entrance without actually entering you. over and over again. slow and fucking torturous.
“wanna feel just how messy you got for me,” he muttered, almost to himself. he watched his cock slide through your pussy, collecting your slick. “look at that. you’re fucking soaked because of me. got me covered in you.”
“you asshol— choso, please…” “shh, i know, i know. but first i wanna see what kind of mess you can turn into. wanna feel you dripping all over my balls before i stretch this sweet pussy out.”
he kept rubbing against you, dragging himself through your folds for another fucking minute. every time the tip brushed your clit, your whole body jolted, muffled little cries slipping from your lips. “aaah!… just… ngh!…”
finally, when your legs were shaking so hard you could barely stay upright anymore, he lined himself up. he pushed in an inch — just the tip — then pulled back out immediately. then again, a little deeper this time.
“look in the mirror,” he ordered. and you did. your eyes were glazed over, cheeks flushed, chest rising with ragged breaths. one of his hands gripped your thigh while the other guided himself against you. “want you to watch me fill this cocky little pussy with my cock.”
then he slammed into you in one rough thrust all the way to the base, and you watched your mouth fall open in the reflection. a high, broken sound tore out of you, eyes widening when you saw yourself taking all of him. he was big, stretching you almost painfully, but your body adjusted greedily anyway, clenching tight around him.
“fuck… haaah! mmngh, fucckk, cho—” you whined, palms pressed desperately against the vanity. “look at that,” he grunted, nearly pulling all the way out before snapping back into you again. the sound of his hips smacking against your ass echoed through the room. “look how you take it. what happened to all that shit you were talking now, huh?”
you could barely think straight, let alone form words. he filled you so deep, so completely, stretching your walls while they squeezed around him greedily, and the mirror showed everything — your tits bouncing, his hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. “still… haah!… still waiting for somethi— mmmh! — impressive.”
he laughed, but it broke off into a groan. he sped up, thrusting harder now, the mirror fogging up from your breathing. his hand left your thigh and cracked against your ass with a sharp smack. “yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he hissed, smacking the other cheek next. “can pretend all you want. your pussy’s squeezing me like it wants me buried in here forever.”
blindly, you reached back, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head toward you. he hissed from the pain, but it only made him thrust deeper, harder, his rhythm stuttering. “fuck— ha! ah! — you…” “already am, baby,” he shot back right against your ear, breath hot and uneven.
his hand found your clit again, rubbing tight circles over it in perfect sync with every snap of his hips. the double stimulation was overwhelming. you could feel the pressure building, your orgasm winding tighter and tighter low in your stomach. “cho… please… mmnh!” “please what?” he leaned down, licking a stripe of sweat from the side of your neck. “please faster? please harder? use your words, pretty girl.”
“please, just fucking move.” “there’s my good girl.” he fucked into you faster, deeper, and the sounds filling the room were obscene “the wet squelch of his cock sliding into you, your breathy moans, his low groans, the vanity creaking and rattling against the wall.
he buried his face in your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and you let him, because it felt way too fucking good to stop him. “gonna leave my mark on you,” he muttered against your skin. “make sure everyone out there knows whose pussy this is.” “you don’t” haaah… own m—” “tonight i fucking do.” his teeth scraped against your shoulder.
his thumb circled your clit while pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach, hot and relentless. your thighs trembled, your breathing broke into shaky little sobs. you wanted to hold out longer, just to make him work for it, to prove he was just another asshole with an ego way too fucking big, but he was so deep inside you, filling you so perfectly, hitting places nobody else ever could, and you couldn’t hold back anymore.
“choso… nngh!… i–i’m gonna.. fucckk!” “cum on my cock. cum on my cock and look me in the eyes when you do it. wanna feel your greedy little pussy milk every last drop outta me.”
your eyes locked with his in the mirror — completely glued to each other, and that was what finally shoved you over the edge. you came with a broken cry, your pussy clenching around him over and over while he kept fucking into you through it. “haaah! ah! fuckfuckfuck! choso!” “fuck, that’s it. squeeze me. squeeze my fucking cock.”
he was close too. you could tell from the way his rhythm started breaking apart, from the bruising grip he had on your thigh. you reached back and wrapped your hand around his throat. “pull out,” you said, your voice rough. “if you cum inside me, i swear to god i’ll cut your dick off while you’re sleeping.”
he froze for half a second before laughing. “you’re fucking insane,” he said, but he still pulled out with a low groan. his cock was wet and swollen, and he jerked himself off twice, three times, eyes flicking between the mirror — your ruined makeup, your fucked-out expression and your bare ass, red from all the smacks, before he came with a loud groan.
“you look so goddamn pretty, fuckfuckfuck.” his cum splattered across your thighs, dripping down onto your soaked skirt, your stomach, even a drop landing on your exposed back. he was still coming, body twitching while he slumped weakly against your shoulder, breathing hard.
you pushed yourself off the vanity on shaky legs and turned to face him. his cum cooled against your skirt, your top hanging open, your hair completely wrecked while he stared at your swollen, wet pussy and smirked. “can’t let the others see you lookin’ like this, can we? want me to clean you up?”
more ? art from @ thatsallitchief on x | sparkle from @ kthice
a/n: this is not dub-con / non-con, more like a hate-sex but without actual hate lol; wanted me some em and christina aguilera story
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Was the very first thing Satoru heard when he opened the door after your sharp knock. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, white hair messy from running his fingers through it all evening. He had expected his girlfriend to maybe, idk give him a hug or kiss after a long day?! but nooooo. You had other plans, clearly.
You pushed your way into his dorm without waiting for an invitation, and Satoru stood there dumbly for a solid three seconds, mouth half opened, before he closed the door behind you with a soft click. Then you grabbed him by the neck of his sweater and yanked hard, tugging him by the collar into his bedroom. His big frame following behind you obediently, his voice coming out in a stuttered mess.
"ba-babe what's w-wrong?"
As you backed his big body into his bed, your pretty manicured fingers hooked into the waistband of his shorts and tugged at it along with his boxers. Your voice rang out again. "You heard me Toru. boxers off." You pulled them down and his thick cock flopped out already twitching with interest. And by the time you settled on top of him, you had one hand on his cock, stroking it impatiently to life and with your other hand, you tugged your panties down. They were already soaked with the sweetness of your cunt. When they were off, you balled them up and shoved them into Toru's mouth, gagging him.
He was already whining, his cock sensitive from your rough handling. Precum slicking your palm as you worked him, then you lifted your hips and began to sink down on his cock, not wasting anytime to tease. The fat pink mushroomy tip of his cock notched at your hole, pushing in as your cunt stretched to take all of his hardened length.
With your lack of patience, you took his cock with little to no struggle, usually there would be a struggle, but you slid down. Sitting on every inch of that thick girth. He mewled weakly at the feeling, the muffled sound vibrating against the cotton in his mouth.
Then came your interrogatory questions.
"Ignored me yesterday? huhh asshole." Your eyes sharp and locking onto his bright blues with anger in them.
His face screwed up, maybe a little annoyed that you called him "asshole". He groaned, shifting on the bed a little, trying to adjust himself more comfortably.
"aah- i didnft, bahbe." Muffled and unclear, his words came out. You didn’t understand what he was trying to say.
You rolled your eyes and pursed your lips into a pout at his feeble attempt at explaining himself. And just grinded down on his cock. "Yeah, you ignored me, Toru." You said again firmly. "Saw my messages and didn't even send a text back."
He looked at you like he was in pain and he tried to talk again, but the panties muffled his voice. You reached two fingers in and tugged them out of his mouth. Finally able to speak properly now, he said "No babe, I didn't! I was studying... for that calc test, remember."
He sounded so pathetic, your pussy squeezing him nicely, around every vein of his trobbing length. You frowned, hands planted firmly on his chest, now.
"Is some test more important than me, your girlfriend?"
Fuck no. He screamed silently in his mind. How could a test ever be more important than his girlfriend's perfect pussy swallowing his cock right now he thought. "Hm toru?" You huffed again, breaking his attention, rocking down on his cock for emphasis.
"Fuck no babe" he blurted out. "Nothing's never more important than you, ever"
That response earned him your fingers digging into his shoulder, you lifted up and then took all of his cock again in one smooth drop. His hands flew to your waist now, he wanted to thrust up into your puffy cunt, drive his cock in deeper. Hoping to fuck into your tight gummy walls.
You saw that pleading look on his face. His eyes glassed over with need, you were still annoyed, so you shoved your panties back into his mouth before he could repeat another desperate, 'sorry'. You were gonna use him good, cause he didn't deserve to speak freely right now.
Your hips rolled slow at first,savouring the way his thickness split you open. Every ridge dragging along your walls and you could feel him throbbing inside you. Hot and heavy. His muffled whines pushing the fabric between his teeth. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn't dare take control. Not when you had that fire in your eyes.
You leaned forward. bracing your hands on his chest again. your nails scratching lightly over his skin. you started bouncing, proper on him. The wet slap of your bodies filling his dorm room, each drop of your hips, took him to the hilt. Your cunt fluttering around him, squeezing like you wanted to milk him dry.
"You think studying is an excuse, Toru?" You asked between breaths. your voice low and sweet but edged with that annoyance. "I sat there waiting for one little text. And you left me on delivered."
He shook his head fast, Eyes wide and desperate, the panties kept him from forming real words. Only desperate sounds escaped. "mmph-haah-please."
You smiled at that, Mean and pretty. Then, you reached back and grabbed his balls gently. Rolling them in your palm while you kept riding him hard. his thighs trembled under you, cock twitching violently inside your heat. You knew he was close already, always your sensitive, pretty boy.
But you weren't done.
you slowed down again, grinding in circles. Letting his tip kiss that spot deep inside you that made your toes curl. Your own pleasure built slow and hot, moaning softly. Letting him hear how good he felt even when he had been bad.
"My perfect boyfriend can't even spare thirty seconds for me?" You cooed, tugging the panties out once more so you could hear his answer.
"I'm sorry, babe. i swear i didn't mean to," He gasped out immediately, voice wrecked. "Was buried in books and lost track of time. Your messages... fuck i saw them later and felt like shit."
You clicked your tongue, shoved the panties back in. "Too late for sorrys now, Toru."
You rode him faster, chasing your own high. Clit rubbing against his pelvis with every grind, pleasure sparking up your spine. His hands slid up your sides. Thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt. You let him because it felt good. Because even when you were punishing him, you still craved his touch.
His muffled cries grew louder, hips jerking up to meet you despite trying to stay still. you could feel him swelling inside you. So close, and you clenched around him on purpose, tight and rhythmic.
"You're gonna cum inside me," You told him, voice firm. "And you're gonna thank me for it after."
He nodded frantically, tears of overstimulation gathering at the corners of his eyes. You lifted up almost all the way, then slammed back down. Once. Twice. Three times, then your orgasm crashed over you first, walls pulsing hard around his cock. Soaking him with your release, crying out his name, sharp and sweet.
That pushed him over. He came with a broken whine. Thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt and spilling deep while your body milked every drop. His whole frame shook under you. big hands gripping your waist like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
You stayed seated on him for a long moment, catching your breath. Feeling the mess between you, his cum leaking out around his cock where you were still joined.
Finally, you pulled the panties from his mouth and tossed them aside. You leaned down and kissed him slow. Tasting the faint trace of yourself on his tongue. He kissed back eagerly, desperate and loving.
"Don't ignore me again Satoru," You whispered against his lips.
"Never again, babe," He promised, voice hoarse, his arms wrapping around you tight. "You're more important than anything. Always."
You smiled soft now. The annoyance melted into warmth and rocked your hips once more, lazily and affectionate. Feeling him twitch inside you even after he had finished.
The night was still young and you had plenty more ways to remind him exactly who always came first in his world.
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with your love life in ruins, the last thing you want to do is think about romance. unfortunately, between passive-aggressive notes and an infuriating neighbour named 4B who won’t leave you alone, love might not be done with you just yet
pairing: frat!jo x reader
content: mdni idiots in love, satoru as a faceless voice for a while, larping abt frats again, one (1) frat party scene, voyeurism, p in v, slightly intoxicated but consensual sex, cunnilingus, slight public sex/hidden sex 30k+
note: there are some images in this fic for immersion but if there's any difficulty in reading them, please click the alt text option! alternatively, you can read this on ao3 !!
When you eventually gained the courage to break up with your shitty boyfriend, you knew it would be a public spectacle considering he’s the vice president of Tau Delta Phi. What you didn’t expect, however, was to find yourself spotlighted in the living room of some random houseparty, an empty red plastic cup in your hand and whatever had been inside now poured over your ex-boyfriend’s head.
It was almost funny watching humiliation and rage surge across Naoya’s face, marked by that red-hot blush you’ve seen far too many times, spit flying from his mouth when he yells that you’ll regret this, he’ll make sure you do. To no surprise he had you kicked out, leaving you stranded on the side of the road at 2am, alone, slightly intoxicated, and with a massive hole punctured through your concept of love.
Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.
ARTS505: Screen Media Practice
Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love”
Weighting: 30%
Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m.
Length: 3–5 minutes
For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.
Go fuck yourself.
The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.
Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.
She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.
Okay, so maybe you do miss her.
Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.
Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself.
It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment. Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.
shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in
we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio
but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out
you: ?
utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study
shoko: booo u whore
you’re a cockblock y/n
you: i literally didn’t do anything
if anything utahime is cockblocking you
but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break
shoko: we aren’t
utahime: we are
shut the fuck up shoko oh my god
shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy
you: im going to kill my new neighbour
hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad
shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth
you: hell no im not a snitch
utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things
hows the assignment going?
shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!
you: ? do u want me to snitch or not
and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?
shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth
also come lib
you: give me a sec
i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied
utahime: yeah thats actually scary
write a note or something
shoko: and then come library
you: give me fifteen minutes
Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.
It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.
You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.
Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.
There, problem fixed.
With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.
Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.
By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.
You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.
are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue
also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b
You crumple the note in your hand.
That fucking asshole.
The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.
You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.
snitch
A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.
you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all
You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.
you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me
You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.
and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon
It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.
then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now
You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.
i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door
so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is
It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.
also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons
You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.
digimon is NOT just for kids
You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.
For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.
Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.
The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.
hey 4a,
first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth
— 4b
Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.
4b,
sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something
— 4a
You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.
4a,
thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening
also important question do u own a screwdriver ??
thanks, 4b
You frown then write back:
why?
Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.
i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge
do u own one or not? please.
— 4b
The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.
u better give this back
You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.
people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck
You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door.
“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.”
The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.
When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor.
Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note.
returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz
You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet.
Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work.
If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness.
Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it.
You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted.
It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead.
Your own weakness pisses you off.
With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength.
You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze.
“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”
You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?
“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.
You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.
Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”
You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.
“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”
A pause. You scrunch your nose.
“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”
You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.
“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”
There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.
“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.
“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”
“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”
“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”
“And did you tell her that?”
“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."
“You’re never getting a second date.”
He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”
Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.
You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.
“Hi.”
There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”
Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.
There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.
You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”
You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”
“I’m sick, jackass.”
He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”
Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”
That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”
“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”
You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”
There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.
“Oh, I might be into this.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”
“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”
“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”
You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”
“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”
You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”
His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”
“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”
“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”
“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”
“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”
That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.
“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”
That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”
The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”
You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”
“Okay, six months, not bad.”
Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”
4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”
You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”
“Is there room for one more?”
A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”
You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”
“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.
4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”
“Trust me, that was the plan.”
You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.
“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.
“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”
“And would you try?”
You sip from your glass, ignoring him.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”
“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”
You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”
Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks.
He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first.
He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part.
So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression.
Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice.
Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that.
It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them.
But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster.
Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.
The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.
Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning.
“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest.
The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.
Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.
Because Gojo doesn’t lack.
Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting.
The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find.
When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator.
A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note.
im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b
You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out.
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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you.
“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.”
“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness.
She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”
“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.”
“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.”
You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up.
“What is it?”
Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen.
gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions?
It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.”
The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him.
You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite.
You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”
“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”
You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”
She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.”
“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”
Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”
“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”
“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.”
“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently.
“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.”
You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”
Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”
You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”
“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”
“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”
“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.”
The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.
“I just thought you should know.”
You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”
“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.”
“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.”
“I thought you were over your ex?”
You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut.
You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram.
So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you.
What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.
“Y/N?”
You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”
Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”
“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”
That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”
“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.
“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”
You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”
Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts.
The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying.
Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece.
You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.
feeling better?
A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.
You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.
“The fuck—”
“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.
From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”
You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”
There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”
“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”
You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”
“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”
You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”
“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.”
You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy.
For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.
“So,” you start.
“Yeah?”
“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”
“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.”
You hum. “What course are you doing?”
“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”
You snort. “Nerd.”
“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”
“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?”
He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.
“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?”
You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done.
“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”
Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.”
You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”
“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”
You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.”
He hums. “You never know. I get around.”
That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?”
“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”
You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”
He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”
You sigh. “Kill yourself.”
“See, this is what I mean.”
“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”
He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”
“I’m not being grouchy.”
“At least try and make your point come across.”
“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”
“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.
The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.
“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”
You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”
“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”
You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”
“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”
You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.
Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.
“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”
There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”
Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”
“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”
Fuck, that was on your list too.
“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.”
“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?”
You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.”
“Really? That sounds stressful.”
“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.”
“Because is it ever that serious?”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar.
“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.”
“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.”
“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.”
“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.”
A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.
“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.
Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.
“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”
“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”
“I’m superseding my opinion.”
“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”
You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.
The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.
But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.
The lighter takes three tries to catch.
“What’s that clicking sound?”
“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.
“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”
“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”
The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.
You hit record.
“Okay, your turn,” he says.
You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”
“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”
“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”
He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”
You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.”
“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly.
“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.”
“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?”
“Google is free.”
You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.”
The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright.
There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?”
“Please, it was a fluke.”
“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”
You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor.
He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?”
“Consider it a formal complaint.”
“I’m snitching to the landlord.”
“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.”
“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.”
You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move.
For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both.
Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise.
“Oh!”
From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.”
You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”
“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”
“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”
“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”
Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything.
Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button.
On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?”
You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?”
You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it.
Your face warms.
Stupid.
So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window.
“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke.
“Good luck with that.”
“Good luck with your love thing.”
You look down at the camera again.
“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”
Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.
You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.
One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.
You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.
“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.
“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.
He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.
You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”
It’s a routine you’ve come to love.
Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.
You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react.
Probably.
Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day.
It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him.
Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell.
Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.
A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave.
And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru.
He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs.
Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake.
A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car.
You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?
A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar.
You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking.
“Hey, you in the band shirt!”
Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning.
No.
No, because that voice—
You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body.
And what a body.
Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets.
He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally.
“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.”
Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.
Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer.
“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”
You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.”
Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone.
Gojo blinks.
You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time.
Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him.
His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you.
“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”
You shake your head.
“Scooter? Skateboard?”
“No.”
“How do you get around?”
“Feet.”
He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice.
“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”
“I don’t have anything for you to wash.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.”
You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!”
“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.”
You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?”
Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”
You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin.
Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!”
“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”
He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”
You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”
“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”
“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”
Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”
You grimace.
He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”
“I don’t have five dollars.”
“For just three dollars—”
“No cash.”
“For one encouraging word—”
“Not happening.”
“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly.
“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?
He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.”
“How are you so blatantly shameless?”
He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.”
Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower.
Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly.
“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?”
“Those are the only options?”
“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.”
“Add a financially unavailable option.”
“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.”
“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.”
Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.
“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”
Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall.
You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage.
“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”
“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.”
“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”
“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”
His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.
Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”
You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest.
“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.”
“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.”
“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”
“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him.
“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”
“No.”
“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.”
“I’m not giving you a fake name either.”
“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”
“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?”
“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.”
You need to get out here right now.
You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk.
“Do I know you?”
“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”
“But it feels like we know each other.”
“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.”
“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”
You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face.
“First initial?”
“N. For No.”
“Last initial?”
“O.”
“Does it have an A in it?”
“Do you know when to quit?”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”
You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus.
“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”
His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”
For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.
His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission.
Then someone calls, “Satoru!”
His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.
He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?”
You both look over in the direction of the carwash.
Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo.
“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?”
Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.”
“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.”
Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”
“She asked for you.”
The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully.
A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away.
Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed.
“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around.
You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
4B is Gojo Satoru.
Gojo Satoru is 4B.
Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.
You never do wear that band shirt again.
Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again.
It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour.
That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down,
4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.
So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.
After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.
The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.
It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.
You wonder if you should bring it up.
It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep.
You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication.
You should probably bring it up.
But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop?
In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken.
You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away.
There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.
But you definitely did not.
You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.
But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts.
The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt.
Fuck.
You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall.
You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough.
Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander.
You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away.
It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”
“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”
He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft.
“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”
Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.”
“Since when?”
You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged.
“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”
Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping.
In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.”
His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own.
He turns around.
You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.
“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”
You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.
The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”
“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.”
You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.”
He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.”
You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”
He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”
“Satoru!”
His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”
Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”
You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”
He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”
He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.
“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”
You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”
“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.”
Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”
In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”
“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.
He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”
You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.
The sounds from his side of the wall change.
There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.
You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.
The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room.
You’re not a freak. You can’t be.
You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do.
Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?
You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw.
You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?”
“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”
You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting.
“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.”
“What does that mean?”
“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.”
You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”
“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?”
“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”
“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?”
You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.
Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.”
She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”
Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something.
You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you.
Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.
Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands.
“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention.
“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.”
“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.”
“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.”
“What favour?”
“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”
Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”
Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence.
Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”
You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back.
“So? What do you want?”
“I need help finding someone.”
You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue.
“For revenge or…?”
He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?”
She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?”
“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”
There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs.
“Hey, breathe through your nose.”
You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.
“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.”
You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse.
Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat.
Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”
Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday."
You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically.
Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”
“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying.
You try to shake your head as subtly as possible.
“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”
You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her.
“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?”
He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”
Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.”
“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”
Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”
“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.”
Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.”
“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.”
For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt.
Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.”
You kick her foot again.
“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”
Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”
You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly.
“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”
“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful.
“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.”
He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door.
You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”
“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out.
“Where are we going?”
You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”
“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”
“Please, Shoko. Please.”
She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”
You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.”
“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.”
“He almost knows.”
“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”
You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”
“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”
“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”
Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up.
“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.”
The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you.
“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”
“I know that,” you grumble.
“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask.
“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”
Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.”
“Uh.” You blink. “What?”
“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.”
“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?”
You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.”
Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”
You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall.
Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?”
You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face.
You sigh.
“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”
Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality.
Or maybe it’s just you.
But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you.
And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc.
He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number).
When it doesn’t come, he slumps.
Fuck, he was so far gone.
It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it.
He also wants you.
Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen.
utahime: party this weekend
show up or dont
idc
He snorts.
gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm
its chill though if u dont want me there
i wont go ive got plans anyway
Another notification drops down after he hits send.
shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend
that was a mistake
DO NOT COME
Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes.
Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem.
A problem for who?
Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard.
gojo: actually ykw
wouldn’t miss it for the world <3
utahime: wait im uninviting u
gojo?
i said u cant come
dont leave me on read you dick
Gojo laughs, turning off his phone.
He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you.
“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.
The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”
There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.
Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.
You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.
Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.
Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.
Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously.
You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face.
The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life.
Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek.
You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway.
Then your stomach drops.
Gojo.
The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal.
What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys?
Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.
There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun.
It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs.
You turn away before he can look your way.
The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first.
By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic.
So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room.
Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals.
For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are.
But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear.
Maybe.
The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope.
“Having fun?”
Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this.
And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his.
His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y.
You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.”
Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.”
“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.”
He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.”
You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya.
He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.”
He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?”
Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.”
“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”
“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words.
“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.”
“Fuck off, Naoya.”
His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.”
“You put your hands on me!”
“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.”
“Well, it felt ugly.”
For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges.
“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.”
The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing.
You take another step back.
“I said leave.”
Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”
“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down.
His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him.
Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?”
Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”
“Move,” you hiss.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?”
“You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”
Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack.
But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it. It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair.
“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation.
Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell.
“Not your business, Gojo.”
“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?”
You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”
Gojo glances back at you.
You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly.
“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.”
Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”
He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair.
Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop.
Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you.
“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s the president of—”
You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.”
Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly, “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”
Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill.
How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there.
“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.”
“It has to be me, Satoru.”
Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.”
Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up.
“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.”
Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?”
Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”
He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you.
“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”
“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone.
You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger.
Naoya’s face pales.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?”
Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.”
The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again.
Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?”
You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.”
Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile.
“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.”
You nod and adjust.
Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”
Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.”
“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.”
“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo.
“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.”
Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.”
Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”
You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”
“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.”
You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya.
For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene.
And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him.
You slap him.
The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it.
Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good.
Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”
“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”
Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?”
Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.”
The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks.
Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”
“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”
“I was invited.”
“By who?”
Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.
A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”
“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”
“How did he get inside?”
Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party.
But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none.
“Creep,” someone mutters.
“Get him out,” another voice says.
Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—”
“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!”
Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way.
It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is.
The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going.
You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall, both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust.
The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops.
You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.
“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?”
“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down.
His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates.
“Okay, it might sting a little.”
Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.”
You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood.
His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs.
“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.”
You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.
“Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”
He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”
You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days.
Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.
Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.
He smiles at you cheekily.
“Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.”
‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.
“You!”
“With him?”
“Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?”
Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire.
Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.
Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”
You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away.
“No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”
“Why are you here then?”
“You threatened me to come.” You point out.
“Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.
You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”
“That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”
You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”
Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?”
“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”
“You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”
“Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”
When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”
Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”
You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest.
You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.
Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”
“I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”
“Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.
You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.
“That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.
“That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”
Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”
“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.
Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.
“We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”
Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.
So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.
You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.
Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?”
You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.
Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.
The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”
“It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip.
“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”
You hum. “Maybe.”
“I think I would remember someone like you.”
That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.
“Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.”
“Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.”
“Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”
The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.
“Maybe if you gave me a name.”
You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.”
His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.
“I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.
“Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.”
As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind.
Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.
Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.
“Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.
Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.
“Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”
Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.”
“And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.
You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it.
“Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”
“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”
“Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.
Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.
He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?”
“Take me to the bathroom?”
Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold.
“Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”
Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.
He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.
“Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.
He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.”
You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.”
“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”
You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.
“You cold?”
“What?”
“Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”
You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”
“It’s not that,” you bite your lip.
“Then what is it, pretty?”
“You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”
Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”
He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”
His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.
“You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.
The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?”
Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”
His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately.
“That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”
He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak.
“Please,” you whimper.
“Please what? Use your words, pretty.”
“Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.
He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he commands.
You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows.
“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.
You nod, rutting forward pathetically.
“Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.”
He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”
He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.
“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.
The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.
“Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back.
“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?”
But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.
“Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.
Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.
“Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile.
“I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!”
Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.
“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”
You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark.
“Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.”
“Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—”
“Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged.
“You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.”
Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand.
“Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns.
Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.”
He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.
“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”
You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!”
Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”
Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace.
“Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.”
The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.
“That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck.
“Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.”
He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.
“You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.”
You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much.
“Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.”
He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.
“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.”
His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain.
“Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.
“I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.”
You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you.
He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh.
“Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.”
Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.
“Still with me?”
You nod, before you fall forward into his arms.
When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.
You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.
For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.
How the fuck did you get home?
Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.
And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.
You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text.
shoko: alive?
actually don’t answer if you’re dead
if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok
You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking.
you: im alive!!
thank u so much for taking me home btw
i owe u :3
She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears.
shoko: i didn’t take u home (?)
gojo did obv
he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out
You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label.
water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru
Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers,
because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me
“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away.
You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.
There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room.
the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3
“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in.
There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door.
no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?
You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror.
face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor
Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead.
There’s another note stuck to the towel rack.
if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor
From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes.
clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist
welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan
water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower
drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug
soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(
in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper
You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers.
The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey.
eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush!
The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><”
You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname).
Satoru.
Satoru.
Satoru.
Then, you find the last one on your front door.
if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru
And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.
Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.
You let out a short scream.
He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand.
“Oh—”
It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a rush.
“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?”
“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”
You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”
His face falls. “Was that not cute?”
You blink. “Cute?”
“Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.”
“The sticky notes?”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”
You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?”
“Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?”
“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?”
His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.
“I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”
Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.
Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.”
“Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”
“You literally panicked ten seconds ago.”
“Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”
Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”
“No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”
He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”
It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.
“I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.”
“Are you asking me out?”
He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him.
In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.
You almost pull back.
But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.
He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.
One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.
There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.
You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.
“So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”
From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.
“Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”
Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do.
a/n: oh my GOD this is another draft that i started writing in 2023 (?) and is affectionately known by my friends and i as the jorkin' it fic <3 b99!au fic coming next !! not that i don't love the other fics i've written but it's definitely my favourite wip so i hope you all love that one too! thank you so much for reading until the very end and i hope u enjoyed :3
helping toji work out always gets a little distracting. . .
“c’mon, you gotta count, doll.”
toji’s lying flat on the floor, hands behind his head as he starts another set of crunches. you’re sitting comfortably on his hips to keep him in place, but you’re clearly not taking your job very seriously.
every time he sits up, instead of calling out the next number, you lean in and give him a quick kiss.
“that was… um…” you mumble, tapping your chin like you’re actually thinking. “three? no… wait— four?”
he comes up again— another kiss.
“you forgot already?” he says, clicking his tongue after.
“…maybe.”
another crunch. another kiss.
he smirks, finally catching on.
“you’re not even trying to help me work out here.”
“i am!”
“nice try.” he raises a brow. “you’ve had me on the same rep for two minutes.”
you try your hardest to look innocent, but the smile on your face gives you away.
“i just keep losing count..”
“mhm.”
he comes up again, stopping just inches from your face before you can steal another kiss.
“if you want a kiss,” he says, that smug grin spreading further across his face, “you just ask, hm?”
“but this is more fun..” you pout.
he sighs, but one hand settles on your waist.
“fine.”
this time, he leans in first, stealing a kiss before dropping back down.
“…now count for real.”
“one..” you start counting again.
he sits up again— you kiss him.
“…one,” you repeat.
toji just looks at you for a second before letting out a laugh.
⊹ 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐘. ── ⦂ minors are not allowed to interact.
ִ ⟡ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓 ˖ dean winchester ⅋ f!reader. ❜ ࿐ ⊹ ׂ
🖊️ ❛ 𓂃 it turns out that his gun has more than just one use. content ♥︎ warnings. gunplay, rough motel sex, impact play, creampie, light bondage, strong language.
dean winchester is a horndog.
it’s no secret. it’s not something he hides. it’s a fundamental, baked-in part of his being, like his love for his car or his questionable taste in music. and you love it. you love the way his eyes darken with a specific kind of hunger that’s reserved just and only for you, the way his hands always seem to find their way to your body, no matter where you are. he loves the idea of doing just about anything with you, and you’re always, always willing to play.
right now, you can’t see the look on his face, but you can feel it. your face is pressed into the cheap motel mattress, the scent of stale fabric and him filling your senses. your hands are pulled tight behind you, his worn leather belt cinching your wrists together, the buckle digging slightly into your skin. he has you on your knees, ass in the air, completely at his mercy.
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
your ass is on fire, a deep, pleasant throb radiating from the globes of your cheeks. they’re swollen from where he’d been smacking you, his big, rough calloused palm leaving stinging prints that were already turning into bruises. he’d fucked you just as hard, a frantic, desperate rhythm that left you breathless and seeing stars.
he hasn’t pulled out yet, but the motion has stopped. he’s just sitting back on his heels, his weight a comforting pressure on your calves, his cock still buried deep inside you. you can feel yourself clenching around him, your slick walls trying to coax another thrust out of him. your hole is sopping, utterly ruined and dripping his cum down your inner thighs in thick, milky trails.
a low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “look ‘atcha,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “so sweet and tight. took about every lil’ drop, baby.”
he finally slides out of you, and the sound is obscene, a wet, sloppy noise that makes you whine at the sudden emptiness. you feel a cool draft hit your wet skin. he stays kneeled behind you, and you know he’s just admiring his handiwork. you can picture it perfectly: his cock, slick with your wetness, a perfect white ring of his own cream still clinging to the base of the head. he’s probably got that smug, shit-eating grin on his face.
you feel his fingers tracing the edges of your hole, dipping into the slickness and teasing the swollen, sensitive flesh. he swirls a finger around, making you squirm, your hips twitching.
“still want more, huh?” he murmurs, his voice a low promise. “she’s always been so greedy.”
his fingers disappear, only to be replaced by the sharp, open-palmed smack of his hand right against your dripping cunt. the sound is wet and loud in the quiet room, a sting that has your whole body jolting.
you just groan in response, pushing your ass back towards his hand, a silent plea.
you hear a soft metallic scrape, the sound of him reaching for something on the nightstand. you assume he’s just grabbing the lube for another round, but when he comes back, what presses against you isn’t his fingers or his cock.
it’s the cool, heavy press of metal.
it’s his gun. the norinco 1911A1. the one he babies same as the impala. the one that’s always on him wherever he goes, a permanent fixture tucked into the back of his worn jeans. dean presses the tip of the barrel right against your dripping slit, the cold a stark, shocking contrast to the heat of your body.
a soft, surprised choked mewl escapes your lips. your hips jerk.
“shhh,” he whispers, his voice right by your ear. “hold still.”
he uses the barrel to nudge your folds apart, the metal sliding through your slickness. then, slowly, deliberately, he slides it in.
you let out a loud, shuddering moan. the feeling is insane. the cold steel slipping inside your hot, tight core, the weight of it, the smooth, unyielding texture. it’s wrong and dangerous and so, so, so right. he pushes it in slowly, the barrel gliding deep inside you until the front sight is pressing against your g-spot.
he didn’t put the safety on. you know he didn’t. he likes the risk, the sharp, thrilling edge of danger that makes everything feel more real, much more intense. when you started dating dean, you learned that risk wasn’t just a part of his job; it was a part of him, and it bled into everything, especially the bedroom. you didn’t just accept it; you craved it just as much as he did.
“feel good, don’t it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp.
you can only nod, your face still mashed into the pillow, your body trembling.
he takes that as his cue. he grips the handle of the gun and starts fucking you with it, his movements slow at first, pushing the barrel in and out of your tight, wet cunt. the cool metal slides against your hot inner walls, a friction that’s completely alien and unbelievably good. you start to bounce back on it, meeting his thrusts, your own hips moving in a desperate rhythm.
the sight of it turning him on.
a strangled groan rips from his throat. you hear the frantic, slick sound of his hand wrapping around his own cock. he’s watching you. watching his gun disappear inside of you, watching you ride it, watching his cum drip from your overused hole. he starts jerking off, his pace rough and frantic, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged pants.
he’s fucking you with his gun and fucking himself with his hand, and the sheer, filthy depravity of it all sends you hurtling over the edge. your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, a violent, all-consuming wave that makes your whole body seize, your inner walls clenching hard around the cold steel buried inside you.
your scream is muffled by the mattress, but dean hears it, and it’s all he needs to tip him over to the edge. his body locks up, a sharp curse bitten off as he cums hard, his hot seed spilling over his stomach and onto the sheets, just as your limbs give up, a trembling, satisfied mess.
.✦ ݁˖ introducing rapper!chris and singer!reader — .✦ ݁˖
.✦ ݁˖ getting high. in the studio together. no swag gap. high sex. freaked out. him spoiling reader. obsession. private but not secret. matching sets. batman and catwoman. making movies(iykyk). has reader’s picture in his wallet. love texts. loyal. flowers once a week. lipgloss on his lips. date nights. at each other’s concerts. secret matching tattoos. compliments every minute. his muse. photobooths. nail marks on his back. songs dedicated to each other. stealing his clothes. random make outs. .✦ ݁˖
Toji Fushiguro had always lived his life in the shadows of fleeting touches. Women came and went through his cheap apartment like whispers in the night.
They chased the thrill of his scarred body and the way his cock stretched them open. Most moaned loud and desperate, clawed at his back and begged for more. He gave them what they wanted. Hard thrusts and heavy loads that left them shaking. But none of them ever lingered in his mind after the sweat cooled.
He never pined for any of them. He never wondered if they hoped for something real. Toji knew the score. They wanted the danger. The pleasure, not the man who carried ghosts and empty pockets.
He had never felt truly loved beyond the heat of bodies slapping together. One night stands filled the void for a few hours. No one stayed to see the morning light hit his tired face. No one asked if he was okay after he buried himself deep. They used him as much as he used them. Or so he told himself.
Then you appeared. Across the corner of a dimly lit bar. Your pretty face caught his eye like a soft light in the dark. Toji bought you a drink. His voice came low and rough when he leaned in. "You're pretty. Real pretty, Doll." It wasn't out of the ordinary for a big handsome man like him to chat you up. You were always eye-catching. But something shifted that night.
He took you back to his place. The sex was not the usual frenzy. You were not overly desperate like the others. No loud squealing or nasty pleas for his cock. It was sensual, slow. He savored undressing you. His fingers traced your skin as he peeled away each layer. He breathed in your perfume, memorized how you smelled. In the dim lighting of his cheap apartment you looked so beautiful naked. His eyes lingered, his hands were almost gentle.
When he pushed inside you his thick cock struggled to fit into your tight cunt. He paused, breath heavy and laboured. "You okay?" he asked, deep green eyes entranced you as you stared into them, you nodded, slow and sure. He pressed deeper and kissed you softly, consuming your soft gasps and kept going. That night after he came inside you, he even kissed you to sleep, lips brushed your forehead. Something in him attached right then. He felt it. A pull he couldn't shake.
Weeks turned into something more. You gave your body so freely because you loved him. You cared for him in ways no one else had or tried to. You saw the man behind the scars and the jagged edges, and Toji loved how tender you were with him. It filled a hollow place he never knew existed.
Tonight the city hummed outside the window. The room was warm with the glow of a single lamp. Toji sat on the edge of the bed after a long day. His shoulders carried the weight of old fights and newer worries. You climbed into his lap. Your hands found his hair.
"You look tired baby," you whispered.
He pulled you closer. His voice rumbled soft against your skin. "Doesn't matter now. Got you here."
You sank down onto his cock slow and sweet. The stretch made you both sigh. Your tits pressed into his face. Toji buried his mouth in the valley between them. He pressed kisses there. Warm and lingering as his hands roamed your body. They weren't rough tonight. They held you with love. Gently stroking along your back. Firm but caring grips on your hips.
He was not fucking you. Toji was making love to you, his new found version of sex was intimate and tender. You rocked on top of him. Your fingers stayed tangled in his dark hair. Toji closed his eyes, peace washed over his face. Being connected to you like this felt like everything he ever needed.
"Fuck... you feel so good," he murmured against your breast. His lips brushed your skin with every word. "So warm. So mine."
You smiled down at him. Your body moved in a gentle rhythm. The pleasure built slow and deep. Toji savored every second. He kissed your tits again. His tongue traced soft patterns. His hands never stopped touching you. Loving touches that said more than words ever could.
The tension coiled tighter. You felt him throb inside you. He held you closer. His heavy loads always came with such intensity. When he finally came, he filled you up. Thick and warm. The bulge in your tummy showed how deep he was and how full he made you.
Toji groaned low, arms wrapping around you tight and laid you down. Your back met the mattress, and he pressed all his weight into you. His lips found your neck. He kissed there again and again. Soft presses that lingered. You giggled at his childlike affection. The sound was light and happy in the quiet room.
Toji smiled against your skin. "Love that pretty laugh of yours, Doll. Love you like this."
He stayed buried inside you, hands stroking your back. The kisses on your neck continued. You felt cherished and wanted in every way. Not just for your body. For all of you.
In the afterglow, he pulled back just enough to look at you, green eyes soft. "Never had this before. Not with anyone. Just you."
You cupped his face. Your thumb gently brushed over his scar at the corner of his mouth. "I know. And I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed you then, deep and slow. The kind of kiss that sealed promises without words. Women might still wonder about the man they once had. But none of them got this. None of them stayed. Toji couldn't ever inagine any of them replacing you. He never would.
His heart was here. With your tender hands in his hair. With your body wrapped around his. With the way you gave yourself so freely. Toji Fushiguro had finally found love beyond one night stands. And he was never letting it go.
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“Bedazzled girl” part 2. simon riley x bimbo reader tw: gross ("slightly" pedo simon), weird flirting, age gap, bimbo reader is sassy. simon just wants pussy
summary: you met him on a gas station, and suddenly your juicy couture skirt was not the only juicy thing you had.
Simon knew a few things well: good cigarettes, cars, anything military related, and sex. Despite his age, he knew exactly how things worked and what needed to be done - he knew how to handle women. Unlike most men, he knew precisely where the pearl was inside the shell. After countless unserious hookups he thought he had seen it all. However, with you it was completely different, he could tell.
You were a candy, figuratively speaking. A silly, sugary girl who couldn't even fill up a car on her own. And yet, there was something about you that kept drawing Simon in. That's why his gaze kept finding your body as you rode in the car toward the nearest motel.
"You're not worried I might have some kind of venereal disease?" he asked, glancing briefly at you. Your puzzled look made him smirk, but it wasn't until he decided to clarify that he really started laughing. "You know—an STD."
"Well, I never promised you to fuck," you said. That made him pause. And she was right - there had been no promise of sex, just a promise to show him her pussy. That was the deal. Clever girl, after all.
"Fair enough." he shrugged, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He could hardly wait till you got to the motel.
“Got a condom?” you asked twirling a strand of your hair around your slender finger. Your raised eyebrow elicited another chuckle from him, what an audacious, absolutely shameless girl. He started liking you even more. Despite that, he shook his head. Condoms were forbidden in his moral code.
“Nah. Hate ‘em.” he brushed begrudgingly, biting on the toothpick between his teeth. It was evident that you weren’t impressed by the way you rolled your eyes and huffed. Seems like that wee little cunt of yours wanted his friend in her after all, what a pity.
“Pathetic.” you mumbled, turning your head to stare at the window.
The women at the reception looked almost bewildered and calm at the same time when she saw the two of you standing in front of her. After all, you have all kinds of guests in your practice.
The room looked quite nice despite it not being a five-star hotel. After all, Simon was not short on money and still wanted some comfort. Good, you thought.
You threw your juicy bag on the chair, plopping down on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. As you leaned back on your hands, your leg swayed slightly, gaze studying him again.
“No condom, no entrance for your friend, backdoor included.” your voice was confident, like you’ve done that more times that he could imagine. However, you were no ordinary whore, he could tell. Just having some fun, like him.
“So only fingers and mouth.” you added, darting your tongue to graze over your glossed lips. Fair enough, he could work with that. He nodded once and stepped forward.
“That’ll do.” he replied pointing to his belt “get to work then, sugar.”
You managed to unbuckle his belt with ease, not wasting any more time. When your hands swiftly pulled his jeans and boxers down, he saw you licking your lips like you were about to eat a lollipop. Well, you could call it that. Your manicured hand looked absolutely gorgeous wrapped around his cock. He could barely suppress a delighted moan once you began moving your hand, it was too slow for him.
“Fast and deep, love.” he said stepping closer again, putting his palm on the back of his neck. He was worried you’d ditch the idea of a good bj but to his delight your lips were on him next second. This time he let himself be vocal.
Your throat was warm and stretched out just perfectly for him to fit. Your head bobbed up and down as you took more and more each time. You didn’t have a gag reflex and your eagerness made Simon think for a second that this definitely wasn’t your first time sucking a dick. Good for him.
He pushed you deeper, moving his hand to your head, to keep you there. You hummed around him, sending vibrations down, and more pleasure for Simon. His hips moved forward a few times as he looked down at you. He never promised to go easy on you, did he? He pushed your head back, pulling you away with a loud pop. What a pretty sight, all drool and gloss.
“That’s good, got a good mouth on you, sugar.” he said pushing your head back down. He hissed, feeling your hands on his testicles, what a wonderful, considerate girl. “Perfect, darlin’.”
You looked up at him, makeup ruined and mouth covered in drool. It looked like you were doing your best for him. You definitely deserved a gift for your hard work. A few of your erotic sounds left you as you moved faster. Once again his heavy, warm hands kept you down for a few moments before pulling you back by your hair. His touch wasn’t painful or rough at all, but definitely dominating.
“Just a bit more.” he said almost cooing. Then, your mouth was around him once again. However, this time, he kept you in place and moved his hips himself. Under the strong waves of pleasure, he didn’t care about being gentle anymore, pounding in your mouth sloppily. His head fell back, fingers tightening their grip in your hair.
“Yeah…” he whispered, hissing again. It was long before he pulled out, angling himself at your face. His thick cum drizzled all over your face, falling into your mouth as well as you kept it opened. Eager, greedy.
“T’was good.” he said nodding approvingly “Gonna let me feast now?”
You were waiting for that moment not wanting to feel the needy pulsating in your cunt anymore. It was impossible to take.
Your back hit the mattress as you plopped down, You didn’t have to do much, only bend your legs and spread them, the short skirt doing a perfect job and disappearing up to your waist. He rubbed his hands together as one would do before a good feast.
Simon crouched at the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands up and down at your inner thighs. There was a lot to feast on, he could tell. Earlier as well.
“That’s a pretty thin’ y’ve got there.” his voice was low as he practically inspected you. You didn’t feel uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze, you were perfectly shaven, smelling nice and natural, since you cared a lot about your hygiene and inner beauty.
“Gonna stare at me or maybe do something?” you said with a tired-horny sigh. You couldn’t wait any longer. Your eagerness and impatience made him chuckle. His fingers moved to your panties. He wasn’t surprised to see a pair of pretty, leopard vs’. That’s what you were after all, a bombshell of the day. Week, month, even.
He carefully pushed those aside, huffing at the grand reveal. Yes, very much puffy. Puffy and impatiently sticky.
“Well, well. You kept your promise, darlin’. What a wee little thing.” he said grazing his fingers over your slit.
What a lucky day.
— a. n. here’s part 2, y’all! kind of went wild with that one, enjoy! gonna edit the font later, i’m too lazy yet lmao.
