katsuki's baby 🪷

one of his large hands slides up from your hip to rest right over your lower stomach, pressing his palm flat against your sweaty skin just to feel the bulge of himself inside you. the pressure forces a wrecked moan right out of your throat. your eyes squeeze shut and you reach up, tangling your fingers through his messy hair and dragging his head down.

he leans in until his forehead is resting against yours, his chest heaving as he takes in a shaky breath. his lips part against yours, letting out a low moan straight into your mouth as he rolls his hips again. your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, as you grip his hair tighter between your fingers.

“i could stay like this for fuckin’ hours,” he grunts, his eyes screwed shut.

“no one’s rushing us, kats,” you murmur against his lips, teasing him just a little.

at the sound of your voice, his head completely drops into the crook of your neck, his whole body tense as he lets out a guttural groan.

“…you’re killin’ me,” his voice is impossibly rough and muffled against your skin as he buries himself back into your cunt.

everything is so hot and wet and sticky between you two, the heavy air in the room making it almost impossible to catch your breath. and his weight on top of you just makes your head dizzier.

all you can even process right now is the delicious way his cock stretches you open —every slow thrust of him fills you up so good that it leaves you completely senseless.

and god, you don’t want it to stop. not even for a second.

you want more of it, more of the unbearable stretch, more of his hands bruising your skin, more of his hot breath against your neck. you just want to stay tangled up together like this until the boundaries blur and you two completely melt into each other.

There were always neighborhood children around during those summers, and one boy in particular seemed to appear wherever you went. His name was Rintaro, and Satoru already knew him from previous summers, having played with him whenever he visited his grandmother.

You barely remembered him from the years before, but that changed rather quickly when you were eight. Rintaro was around more often that summer, and whenever Satoru was helping his grandmother with something, you would wander off and play with him. It was completely innocent to you. You were eight, after all. You climbed trees, chased butterflies, played stupid games with sticks, and argued about which one of you could run faster. You never thought there was anything remotely suspicious about it, but Satoru apparently had a very different interpretation of the situation.

The thing with Satoru is that he noticed each and every thing or detail about your life and you simply didn't have any sort of clue about it.

One afternoon, Satoru had been outside helping his grandmother carry baskets of vegetables from the garden, while you were sitting on the grass with Rintaro, attempting to build something that vaguely resembled a miniature house out of twigs and feathers. By the time Satoru came back inside, you were laughing about something Rintaro had said, and the moment his big blue eyes landed on you, his expression changed. He didn’t say anything at first, but you knew him well enough to recognize the pout forming on his cute little face. You looked up at him with a grin, completely aware that you were about to make his afternoon considerably worse.

“What?” you asked.

“Wha-nothing!” he shrugged.

“You look angry....Toru, are you tired?"

“NO! Just a little sleepy is all.”

You glanced at his face, the pout was still there and so was the irritation in his tone “Okay...hey! Look we made this house.”

“Together? It doesn't even look like a house, a light blow will break it, just like that, besides...it looks hideous".

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment before the most mischievous smile spread across your face. “Hideous? Rintaro likes it...maybe he is my best friend now.”

Satoru’s head snapped toward you so quickly that you almost laughed.

“WHAT? No, he's not.”

You blinked “No?”

“No.”

“But... Rintaro is always kind so why?”

“Because I AM your best friend.”

You burst out laughing, which only seemed to make him more offended. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his face away from you with the dramatic dignity of a child who had just suffered the greatest betrayal imaginable. “You can’t just replace me.”

“I didn’t replace you Toru"

“You just said that he is your best friend.”

“I said maybeeeee”

“Same thing.”

“Uhhh, no it 's not.”

And then, because eight-year-old Satoru Gojo apparently possessed the emotional maturity of a particularly antsy cat, he stopped talking to you entirely. He wandered into the living room where his grandmother had just placed a large plate of freshly cut watermelon on the table for the two of you, stared at it for several seconds, and then picked up the entire plate.

You watched him in disbelief.

“Hey! Where are you going with that?” He didn’t even look back. “These are for my best friend.”

You frowned. “But I’m your best friend.”

“I’ll make a new one.” Your mouth fell open, you suddenly struggling for a comeback for a mess that you created.

“You can’t do that.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because I AM your best friend.”

He finally turned around, the most smug little expression appearing on his face. “Then don’t have another one.”

You huffed, puffing your cheeks out as you crossed your arms, while Satoru walked away with the watermelon like he’d just won some enormous game. At the time, neither of you understood what was actually happening. You only knew that Satoru hated the idea of someone else becoming important to you, and apparently that was enough to make him steal an entire plate of watermelon.

Growing up, it would happen again, and again, and again.

As you grew older, the circumstances changed, but Satoru’s jealousy never really disappeared. He never minded you having friends, no...not really. He understood that you needed people outside of him, and he never wanted to become the kind of person who controlled who you spoke to or where you went. But there was a very specific point at which his patience seemed to vanish, and that was whenever someone began taking up too much of your attention.

If you started sitting beside someone else at lunch too often, Satoru would suddenly find a reason to sit beside you. If you began spending more time with somebody after school, he’d conveniently appear with some ridiculous excuse about needing your help. If you laughed too hard at somebody else’s jokes, he’d casually show up leaning his weight with his hand on your shoulder and would spend the rest of the afternoon trying to make you laugh harder..."Bro- that guy was so lame, I feel bad for you having to laugh at those lukewarm jokes" He never admitted what he was doing, and you never called him out on it because, at that age, you simply thought it was another strange part of being best friends.

The funny thing was that Satoru didn’t seem to care nearly as much when he was the one making new friends. He could spend hours with people without giving it a second thought, and you rarely felt the need to interfere. You trusted him completely. Besides, whenever he started getting close to somebody new, you didn’t want to become the nosy female best friend who suddenly demanded all of his attention. You wanted him to have his own life.

Well, congratulations because you are that nosy female best friend now but there was one thing you noticed as you grew older.

The jealousy changed when dating entered the picture for him. Friendship was one thing, romance was another and somewhere along the way, you began realizing that you were jealous too.

It started on a random day. You would see a girl laughing with Satoru and feel something uncomfortable twist inside your stomach. You would hear someone mention that he had been talking to somebody after class and suddenly find yourself wondering who she was, what she looked like, whether she was prettier than you, and why you cared so much. You would watch girls approach him simply because he had grown into that ridiculous combination of tall, broad, handsome, and unfairly beautiful, and you would pretend you didn’t notice when they flirted with him.

You noticed.

Now, the thing is that you too seemed to notice each and every thing about Satoru, it's just that he wasn't aware as well.

And that realization became harder to ignore because you’d dated other people by then. You had gone out with handsome guys, funny guys, popular guys, athletic guys, guys who were taller than you and guys who were more muscular than Satoru, but somehow none of them ever made you feel what white haired, blue-eyed freak would.

It didn’t matter how attractive they were.

They weren’t him.

They weren’t the nerdy boy who used to steal watermelon and pout when you played with someone else. They weren’t the boy who had sat beside you in that tiny treehouse while the rain poured outside. They weren’t the boy whose terrible jokes could still make you laugh when you were in the worst mood imaginable. They weren’t the person whose presence had become so deeply embedded in your life that sometimes you didn’t even realize you were looking for him until you couldn’t find him.

And Satoru was beautiful.

There was absolutely no point pretending otherwise.

You weren’t some innocent monk, some sheltered girl who had never noticed attraction before. You were human, sometimes a vile one at that...but still human. You could be petty, jealous, angry, possessive, hurt, unreasonable, and occasionally downright spiteful. You could recognize when somebody was attractive, and you could certainly recognize what Satoru had grown into.

You simply had never wanted anyone the way you wanted him and the thought of it being too late for you was eating you from inside.

The realization came almost reluctantly, but once it settled inside you, there was no unknowing it, no stopping it from taking form. Perhaps that was why the party had affected you so so badly.

Because you had spent years watching Satoru get jealous over you while convincing yourself it meant nothing. You had watched him pull you closer in crowded streets, rest his head on your shoulder, find excuses to sit beside you, flirt with you just enough to make your heart stumble, and then act as though none of it had happened.

You had never been certain whether he meant any of it.

But that night, watching him sit beside Utahime for hours, watching him laugh with her and give her all the attention you had become accustomed to receiving, something inside you had finally snapped.

And then there was Sukuna.

Sukuna, of all people...

He was the kind of person Satoru had always hated. The kind of person whose reputation preceded him, the kind of person who could walk into a room and make everyone instinctively look his way. He was confident, intimidating, attractive, and completely aware of the effect he had on girls.

More importantly, Satoru hated the man's guts. That was all you needed to know. You didn’t have to say it aloud. You didn’t even have to think about it for very long.

Sukuna was the key.

If Satoru wanted to spend the entire night making you feel replaceable, then perhaps you could remind him that you were perfectly capable of making him feel the exact same way. Maybe it was childish, maybe it was cruel, or maybe it was the worst possible decision you could have made.

But sitting there that night, watching Satoru’s eyes follow you while you sat on Sukuna’s lap, you realized something that frightened you more than the jealousy itself.

You didn’t just want Satoru to notice. You wanted him to hurt, just like you were and deep inside, beneath all the anger and alcohol and wounded pride, you wanted to know whether seeing you with someone else would finally make him feel what you had been feeling all along.

-

The restaurant had been almost offensively romantic, which was probably why Sukuna must have chosen it. Warm amber lights hung low above the tables, soft music played somewhere beneath the murmur of conversations, and every few minutes a server would pass by carrying plates that looked far too beautiful to eat. Sukuna sat across from you with one arm resting lazily beside his plate, occasionally reaching over to steal something from yours despite having ordered the exact same dish for himself, and you had to admit that the date was going far better than it had any right to.

He was attentive without being overbearing, funny without trying too hard, and, much to your annoyance, remarkably good at making you forget why you had agreed to come here in the first place. You had spent the first half of dinner telling yourself that this was nothing more than a game, that you were simply borrowing Sukuna’s presence to make a certain white-haired idiot jealous, but somewhere between sharing dessert and arguing over which of you had chosen the better appetizer, you found yourself actually laughing at his jokes.

Then your phone buzzed against the table, and you glanced at it before remembering the real reason you had been so eager to make this date public. You looked at Sukuna’s hand resting beside yours, then at his face, and with the most innocent expression you could manage, you reached across the table and intertwined your fingers with his. Sukuna looked down at your hands, then up at you, one eyebrow rising in silent amusement. “You’re planning something,” he said, and you smiled as you lifted your phone.

“Nouuuu, I’m taking a picture...Kuna”

“That’s not what I asked, pretty."

Wait...was he getting jealous?

“Hey— I just like to post updates on my profile.” He gave a low laugh but didn’t move his hand, and you quickly snapped the picture, making sure his fingers and his gorgeous rings were clearly intertwined with yours, before uploading it to your Instagram story with the simplest caption you could think of: getting to know him. You stared at it for half a second before locking your phone, and something wickedly satisfied curled inside your chest, blooming into the silent victory of getting to his nerves...because you knew Satoru. You knew him better than you knew most people, perhaps better than you knew yourself most times, and you knew there was absolutely no chance that blocking him had actually stopped him from seeing your life. Somewhere, somehow, there would be a fake account, a second account, a friend’s account, perhaps even some ridiculous anonymous account with a profile picture of a golden retriever and three followers, and he would find your story.

You knew because you too had a fake account to stalk him.

What you didn’t know was that Satoru had already been playing the same damn game. He had seen the story within minutes, stared at the picture for far longer than he wanted to admit, zoomed it to make sure it was your pretty fingers. Oh! so she matched her nail paint with his dick's eyes, cool. He then laughed once under his breath because, of course, you had chosen Sukuna. Of all the people in the damn world, of all the men you could have chosen to have gone out with, you had chosen the one person Satoru had spent years warning you about. He didn’t even need proof to know that this wasn’t some sudden romantic revelation. He knew you. You never posted temporary people.

You hated gossip, hated people dissecting your life, and had always been particularly careful about what parts of your personal life you put online. If you posted someone holding your hand, there was usually a reason. Which meant this was not about Sukuna. It was about him. It had to be. And perhaps that should have made Satoru feel victorious, but instead it left something bitter sitting beneath his tongue because he had no idea what you were trying to accomplish anymore, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to accomplish either. Still, if you wanted to play, he could play too!

So later that evening, when Utahime suggested getting ice cream, Satoru drove them to the tiny little shop hidden at the edge of the city, the one you and he had discovered years ago during one of your ridiculous late-night bicycle rides, after being burnt out from finishing your assignments. It was the place where you had once sat across from him at nearly three in the morning, lecturing him between spoonfuls of ice cream about how much sugar he consumed, while he had laughed and ordered another serving purely to annoy you (Not that he wasn't craving it). Now Utahime sat beside him, laughing at something he said, and Satoru lifted his phone. He took a photograph of the ice cream, then angled the camera just enough to catch Utahime’s hand reaching into the frame. He posted it with no caption. He didn’t need one.

He knew you would understand.

And you did. Hours later, lying awake in bed with the room dark except for the glow of your phone, you saw his story and felt your stomach drop before you could stop it. The photograph itself wasn’t even particularly intimate, which somehow made it worse. So he is having fun with her? You resented that you knew exactly where he was, how he could move with sharing all your favourite places with her. You knew that little shop. You knew the table they were sitting at by heart. You knew which corner he always preferred because the light above it flickered and he used to complain about it every single time saying he gets a headache because of them.

You knew the exact flavour of ice cream he had probably ordered because he had been eating the same one since he was sixteen. You stared at the screen until the photograph blurred slightly due to something warm in your vision, then scoffed at yourself and threw the phone onto the bed as though that would somehow make the feeling disappear.

The scoreboard said Satoru 2. You 1.

You had started the game, and apparently he had decided he was going to win it. The ridiculous thing was that neither of you had to do this. You could have simply spoken. You could have walked into his apartment, sat down, yelled, cried, admitted you were hurt, admitted you were jealous, admitted that the entire party had gone wrong because neither of you knew how to say what you actually wanted to say. But instead you were both behaving like two idiots with access to social media, and apparently that was enough to turn years of friendship into some twisted competition where whoever looked happier won.

The next day, Sukuna dropped you near the lecture hall, his hand intertwined with yours as the two of you walked across campus, and for a brief moment you almost managed to convince yourself that this was normal. You almost managed to pretend that you were simply a girl walking beside a handsome guy who had taken her out on a date, rather than someone who was constantly measuring every moment against another person who wasn’t even there.

That was util you saw the tree. The old tree near the centre of campus, the one with the thick roots rising slightly above the ground and the broad branches that had provided shade during countless afternoons, and the sight of it pulled you backward through years of memories so quickly it almost hurt. You and Satoru had spent hours beneath that tree. You would lie with your head in his lap while absentmindedly twisting little flowers between your fingers, talking about absolutely nothing while he studied, and he would occasionally look down at you over the top of his book and tell you that you were distracting him, even though the tiny smile on his face always gave him away.

You knew what that place meant for you both. Which was why the sight of Utahime sitting beneath it made something inside you go completely still. She was there with Satoru, laughing at something he had said, and you realised with a strange little jolt that you had never even known she was at your university. Perhaps she had been there all along. Perhaps she had come from one of those formal circles and clan gatherings Satoru always complained about, the kind of traditional social events he used to swear he hated attending, surrounded by people who cared more about names and families than actual human beings. You had always teased him that he would eventually marry some terrifyingly elegant woman from one of those circles, and he would always insist that women like that weren’t his type. Yet there she was, sitting beneath your tree, and when she shifted closer to him and laughed, you felt something acidic crawl up your throat.

Apparently, he had been lying.

You kept walking beside Sukuna, forcing yourself not to look back, forcing yourself to keep your fingers comfortably intertwined with his even though suddenly the gesture felt like a performance you were no longer enjoying. You wanted Satoru to see you. You wanted him to hurt. You wanted him to realise that you could move on too, that you weren’t going to sit around waiting for him while he paraded his new relationship in front of you. Yet when you looked at Utahime leaning toward him beneath that tree, you realised that victory didn’t taste anything like you had imagined it would. It tasted bitter and disgusting. It tasted like swallowing spit from your enemy's shoes. It tasted like looking at the person who had been your home for most of your life and realising that someone else was beginning to occupy spaces you had once believed belonged to you. You hated yourself for thinking that way. You hated the jealousy. You hated how childish it was.

Most of all, you hated that despite everything you had done to make him jealous, you were the one who kept ending up hurt.

Two days later, you found yourself standing in the front row of Sukuna’s football match wearing his jersey, surrounded by screaming students and the chaos of the crowd, and for a little while you managed to feel almost triumphant again. Sukuna had looked genuinely surprised when he saw you there, and you had smiled brightly enough that anyone watching would have assumed you were hopelessly smitten. The game itself was intense, and every time Sukuna touched the ball, the crowd erupted, while you shouted his name until your throat hurt, fully aware that if Satoru happened to see you like this, wearing another man’s jersey and cheering for him like you belonged there, it would probably drive him insane.

You had crossed some invisible line now. You knew that. This was no longer just a harmless story posted on Instagram. You were building an entire alternate reality around a person you barely knew anymore, and the worst part was that you weren’t even sure you wanted the reality itself. You wanted the reaction. You wanted him to look at you and feel something, anything. When the final whistle blew and Sukuna’s team won, the stadium erupted, and Sukuna turned toward the crowd, searching for someone. You assumed it was you. For one ridiculous second, your heart lifted. Then he ran toward the fence and wrapped his arms around one of the cheerleaders, Ana, who had been waiting for him at the front. You stood there, still wearing his jersey, watching them hug, and instead of feeling jealous of Ana, you felt something much stranger. You felt nothing. Not the sharp, ugly ache you felt whenever you saw Satoru with Utahime. Not the sudden need to look away. Not the jealousy that made your chest hurt. Nothing at all. You simply watched. And that was when the question finally arrived, quiet and devastating: if you were genuinely falling for Sukuna, if you were actually beginning something with him, why didn’t this hurt? Why was your heart perfectly capable of watching another girl wrap her arms around him, while the sight of Satoru merely sitting beside Utahime could make you feel physically sick?

That night, when you finally returned home and crawled into bed, you made the mistake of checking your phone again. Satoru’s story appeared near the top. You tapped it and your stomach instantly dropped. He was in Okinawa and he sure as hell wasn't alone. Utahime was there. A weekend away? A fucking weekend getaway? You stared at the screen in disbelief, your thumb shaking and hovering uselessly over it while your mind scrambled for some explanation that would make the sight less painful. A date was one thing. Dinner was one thing. Ice cream was one thing. But a trip? That was different. That was planning. That was time. That was choosing to spend an entire weekend with someone. You threw your phone onto the mattress and covered your face with both hands, feeling utterly ridiculous because none of this was supposed to matter. You had started this. You had posted the first picture. You had chosen Sukuna. You had turned this into a game. And yet somehow you were the only person losing.

Why, why, why, why?

As if your emotional disaster wasn’t already sufficient, your academic life had decided to collapse alongside it. You were failing exams you should have passed easily, missing things during lectures, forgetting deadlines, staring at notes without actually reading them, and every time you sat down to study, your brain would automatically reach for the same old memory. Satoru teaching you, Satoru leaning over your desk, Satoru explaining the same concept three different ways because you had somehow misunderstood all three, Satoru tapping your forehead with his pen when you stopped paying attention, muttering that you were hopeless while secretly making sure you understood everything before the exam. He had been part of your routine for so long that you hadn’t realised how much of your life had quietly been built around him until he was suddenly gone from it. Now you had no best friend, no peace, no decent grades, and apparently no functioning love life either. You had managed to lose almost everything simultaneously, all because you had been too stubborn to admit that what actually hurt wasn’t Utahime, or Sukuna, or the party, or even the stupid Instagram stories. It was Satoru.

He called you again that evening. Then again the next day. Then again after that. You watched his name appear on your screen until you couldn’t bear it anymore, but you still didn’t answer. You eventually listened to one of his voicemails, and his voice came through sounding frustrated and exhausted when he told you that this entire thing had gone far enough, that your friends weren’t idiots, that everyone could tell something was wrong, and that you both needed to stop behaving like children and talk. Shoko had apparently told him almost exactly the same thing, though you didn’t know that yet. Somewhere behind the scenes, your friends were desperately trying to push two impossibly stubborn people toward the conversation they should have had weeks ago, but neither of you was willing to take the first step.

Satoru had your email. He knew the time you reached university. He knew where you lived. He knew which café you went to when you were stressed and which library corner you preferred when you actually wanted to study. You knew his schedule almost as well as your own. There were a thousand ways to reach each other. A thousand opportunities. Yet neither of you did.

Beneath all the jealousy and anger, you began to wonder whether he had actually stopped trying because you weren’t worth the effort anymore.

Maybe the person you had known your entire life had finally decided that losing you was easier than fighting for you. Maybe all those years of friendship had only seemed permanent because you had never imagined a world in which either of you could choose to walk away.

You sat alone in your room, scrolling through photographs you should have deleted, finding pictures of Satoru asleep on your couch, Satoru making stupid faces at the camera, Satoru standing beside you beneath the old tree, you wearing Satoru's sunglasses, Satoru with his arm around your shoulders, and each photograph seemed to carry its own little piece of a life you could no longer access. You had thought jealousy would make him come back. You had thought making him hurt would make him understand. Instead, all it had done was teach you exactly how much it hurt to watch him live without you.

The scoreboard said Satoru 4, You 1.

And suddenly the score didn’t feel funny anymore.

You had started this game because you wanted him to feel jealous, but somewhere along the way you had forgotten what you were actually trying to win. You weren’t even trying to prove that you could make Satoru regret losing you. You had simply wanted your best friend to look at you and realise that you mattered, and instead of telling him that, you had chosen every possible way to make him believe the opposite. Maybe that was your punishment. Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was simply what happened when two people cared too much and were both too terrified to say the one thing that could have saved them. You closed your eyes and let your head fall against the wall, feeling the exhaustion finally settle into your bones, and for the first time since the party, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility you had been avoiding from the beginning.

Maybe it was time to let him go.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting for the fantasy you had built around him, stop expecting him to magically understand what you couldn’t bring yourself to say, stop measuring your worth by whether he looked jealous when another man held your hand, and stop pretending that you were winning when every victory left you feeling emptier than the last. Maybe Satoru had already moved on. Maybe Utahime was genuinely becoming important to him, and was a nice girl to be with. Maybe Sukuna was simply someone who had entered your life at the wrong moment, caught in the middle of a war that had never really been about him. And maybe, after years of having Satoru beside you, you had finally managed to lose the one person you had always believed you would never have to lose.

The thought hurt so badly that you finally stopped fighting it.

You looked at your phone one last time, thinking about his previous attempts to talk to you and for several long seconds you simply stared at it, wondering how something as simple as answering a phone, admitting your feelings could possibly feel more terrifying than losing the person on the other end.

Then you turned the screen face down. For the first time, you didn’t check his story. you didn’t wonder where he was doing anymore, you didn’t try to calculate the score.

You simply lay there in the darkness because you lost it all, alone with the awful realisation that perhaps the game had never been about who could make the other jealous.

I'm so deep in love with you, what do I do?

Wassupp guys…

"Ah, shit," he groaned, flipping off the burners in quick succession as you stared at what had previously been your perfectly clean kitchen.

You pressed a soft kiss to Umi's forehead as you cooed to soothe her, glaring up at him as he sheepishly stared at the remains of the breakfast he'd surely have to dump.

Was this just your life now?

A whiny baby and a whinier baby daddy? Burned breakfast before you had the chance to even use the bathroom?

"Can I just get like, a coffee?" You asked, not even feeling like telling him off as you turned towards the couch, tempted to just collapse and feed Umi so at least one of you didn't have to go hungry.

"Yeah, whatever you want," Gojo mumbled, all low and defeated. "I'll just order delivery."

"Thanks," you exhaled, curling up into the corner of your couch and lifting up your shirt to let Umi drink, her chubby little fingers digging into your skin as you made a mental note to trim her nails later.

To your surprise, after he placed an order, he actually did start to clean the mess he made. Wiping down counters as he chewed his bottom lip, throwing out the food he failed to cook properly before doing the dishes and sweeping the flour off the floor.

Sometimes, it felt remarkably strange to watch him act all...domestic.

Like he really lived here instead of the frat house across the street.

Doing chores without complaints, existing in your life like he always had a place in it. You guessed he would from now on. You couldn't exactly untie yourself to him when you shared a daughter.

Would he always stick around to do the laundry? To order you food and vacuum the floor? Or would he get sick of fatherhood after a few more months? Resign himself to being the kind of dad who only sent cards around birthdays and holidays?

It was hard not to think that.

Not when you'd heard so many horror stories and seen it for yourself how easily men could discard someone the moment a better option came along.

It was simpler to assume that someday you would get replaced by a younger, prettier model. One who didn't have a child he never asked for.

Gojo was the kind of guy who'd marry someone like him. Rich and beautiful and well-bred.

Not the broke girl he accidentally knocked up in college.

"Um, by the way, my parents asked to keep her overnight next weekend," he awkwardly said, sheepishly running his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was on edge.

"Don't you think she's still a little young for sleepovers?" You asked, pushing a few wispy strands of white hair back from her face as she sleepily shut her eyes.

"I mean, I don't know, they just asked," he floundered, blinking too fast as he finished cleaning, drying his hands off on a paper towel and tossing it in the trash.

"Gojo," you said his name, resisting the urge to roll your eyes as you squinted, trying to figure out what his angle was here.

Was he going to try and ask you on a date?

Jealous that Suguru had taken you out before him?

A sick thought crossed your mind that maybe the only reason they both seemed so interested was because they liked the competition. You felt a little fucking ill considering it, picturing them bickering over who would get you to be their girlfriend first - just to dump you when they got bored.

You wanted to believe Suguru was genuine.

That he had a crush on you too - before you let his best friend put a baby in you.

"There's also, uh, a party next Friday, and I just thought, that maybe you'd wanna go," Gojo added. "Or go hang out with your other friends. I don't know, you deserve a break and-"

"Fine," you grumbled, gritting your teeth. Despite how their spawn turned out, you didn't mind his parents. They were relatively normal. Responsible.

More importantly, they adored their granddaughter.

And for some reason, actually liked you too.

At first, you were sure they probably secretly hated you. Harbored resentment for screwing up the big plans they had for him.

Instead, it seemed like they thought you were the only reason he'd gotten serious. Or well, as close to it that someone like Satoru could come.

His mother had confided in you that she was grateful he'd gone from a frat president to a father.

"You're her dad too, you know you have a say in decisions like these," you muttered under your breath as she popped off your nipple.

You glanced up at Gojo, expecting him to play it all off, pretend to be all unbothered like usual. But his blue eyes were soft, touched. Looking at you all tenderly as he scooted a couple inches closer.

"I never want to make you uncomfortable," he murmured.

"Thanks," you cleared your throat, the words coming out nearly a whisper as Umi squirmed in your hold, her head turning towards her dad, reaching out for him. "I'm just saying, she's ours."

You wished you'd kept your mouth shut once it came out.

But it was the truth.

She wasn't just yours, or just his.

She belonged to both of you.

It was just fucking annoying that he smiled at you all soft and cute, eyes crinkling as he echoed, "Yeah, ours."

ꕤꕤꕤ

You were supposed to be having a girl's night out.

How that ended in you at Gojo's goddamn frat party four drinks in?

Your head was too fuzzy for you to precisely recall.

Chest sore and swollen, nipples rubbing uncomfortably against the pads in your bra, the tiny dress you'd shoved yourself back into for the first time in nearly a year and a half rolling uncomfortably up your thighs as you downed another shot. A chorus of giggles erupting from friends you sincerely missed hanging out with, an arm wrapped around your waist as someone slurred in your ear, "Don't look so sad."

"I don't look sad," you argued, huffing at her as you untangled yourself. "I'm very happy."

Not particularly.

But you couldn't stop yourself from desperately trying to believe you weren't miserable walking around the house that had landed you in this situation before.

You'd only managed to get a few conversations in with Suguru all week. Mostly just talking about how much you both enjoyed your date (even if you spent the majority of it in your car) and how he missed you and Umi, too busy with some paper he had to write and his part-time job to visit for more than a handful of minutes at a time.

Gojo, on the other hand?

Wouldn't fucking leave your apartment.

Usually something would draw his attention away, whether it was school or work or one of the other thousand responsibilities he seemingly had.

But every time you needed him (and every moment you very much didn't), he was there. Whenever you needed someone to watch Umi so you could go to class. Whenever you were attempting to take a shower in peace.

Sleeping on your couch even when though the springs creaked and groaned with just the slightest movement. Waking up at midnight to coax Umi back to sleep with a bottle you pumped.

He had managed to successfully pack you a lunch in the fridge this morning, accompanied by a little note saying he hoped you attended the party tonight.

You weren't going to come.

But somehow, your paths always seemed to intersect right when you hadn't planned on it.

"How's it going with Geto?" Shoko asked, as if she wasn't friends with him and your baby daddy and hadn't already heard first hand.

"Good," you answered before half-heartedly shrugging. "I think."

It wasn't like he was your boyfriend yet.

Or the two of you were exclusive.

For all you knew, he could be talking to ten other women.

"How's Gojo taking it?" She pressed, a hint of amusement betraying her bored tone as she tilted her head to the side.

"I don't know," you mumbled, wondering if the guilt the question stirred was normal. Neither guy had ever treated you remotely normal - no wonder you were constantly so confused when it came to them.

Her mouth parted, but then Utahime came up, squealing and giggling as she drunkenly grabbed her arm.

You excused yourself, slipping away from them as your head swirled with questions you didn't want the answers to. God, it'd been so fucking long since you'd been drunk.

Chest all warm and fuzzy, your thoughts thick clouds that kept slipping away from you as if someone had stuffed cotton balls between your brain and your skull.

Your hangover tomorrow morning would be definitely be a bitch.

But that just sorta sounded like tomorrow you's problem.

People let you squeeze past them - even though you heard familiar whispers as you slipped through the thick throngs of sorority sisters and assholes trying to get recruited.

Slut.

The common theory around campus was you were just some poor whore who managed to baby trap Gojo.

Like you'd held him fucking hostage and demanded that he take care of all your needs or that you were somehow just playing hard-to-get to manipulate him into doing what you wanted.

Clueless that what you wanted was for him to just move on already.

"You're here."

You stalled at the sound of his voice.

Freezing right before the bathroom, glancing back to see him standing there, a red solo cup in hand and a cheeky smile plastered on his face. "You actually came."

"Uh-huh," you replied, not sure how you were supposed to feel as your throat went all dry.

"You look gorgeous," he grinned, letting his brilliant stare sweep over you, looking you up-and-down three times before his eyes finally settled on your face. "Holy shit."

"I'm drunk," you muttered, blinking a few times as you tried to come up with an excuse to evacuate. "I really need to pee."

"I'll go with you," he eagerly said, before realizing how that sounded and backtracking, "I, uh, I'll wait outside."

And like a needy puppy, he really did just stand there when you shut the door to the bathroom, pacing the tiled floor as you kicked aside a few empty cups to sit on the closed toilet seat and take a couple minutes to breathe.

He didn't seem drunk.

Maybe he could call you an uber or something or walk you across the street back home.

Staying seemed like a mistake waiting to happen. Someone would say something or you would do something stupid and you'd have just another mess to take care of in the morning.

You got up to splash water on your face, a pathetic attempt to sober up as you sighed.

No matter how much you wanted to, hiding away and pretending none of your problems existed wouldn't solve anything.

But when you opened the door, Gojo wasn't alone anymore.

No, just like you knew there would be here, a pretty blonde was grabbing his bicep, squeezing tight and laughing at something he said that surely could never be that funny. She had dragged him a few feet away from the door, trying to subtly pull him deeper into the crowd.

You couldn't see what face he was making.

You didn't think you wanted to.

Fuck.

You knew this was a bad idea.

But once again, you doubted your fucking instincts and paid the price.

Slipping your way back through, nearly spilling a few drinks as you had to force your way past where people had clustered, head swiveling to find the exist despite your disorientation.

A voice in your head begging you to just go, go, go, as you mumbled awkward apologies to anyone you brushed against.

And then you heard a low chuckle, and you were pausing your escape to look back over your shoulder - where you almost immediately spotted your other suitor.

Suguru was leaning against a wall, no drinks in his hand, but an easy smirk on his face as he listened to some dark-haired girl beside him.

God. Of course.

Zero for two tonight.

Minding your own business probably made you an easy mark.

How simple was it to sneak under your nose when you were walking around blind to what they did behind your back?

Once they were outside of your apartment, they were free agents.

It wasn't like you had caught them actually having sex with anyone. But you'd been the pretty girl at a party they smiled at before. You knew where it led.

They could go fuck whoever they wanted.

You could too.

All the maturity you'd been clinging to, pretending you were so abundant in flung out the first fucking window you saw at the realization that all you were ever going to be was a prize for them to win.

You fumbled for your purse once you finally made it through the front door and into fresh air, blinking too fast as you yanked your phone out and scanned through your contacts. Clumsily clicking on the screen until you found the one you wanted.

"Hi, um, Sukuna?" You breathed, swallowing hard. "Can you come pick me up?"

you do it again.

his fingers curl into fists above his head and he makes a broken little sound that catches in the back of his throat. his hips jerk up under you like he can’t help it, chasing more, and you splay a hand over his abs to guide him back down.

he whines. he’s just strung so tight.

“stop moving.”

“i’m not—” his voice cracks. “i’m not, i swear i wasn’t trying—”

“it’s okay, just stay still for me.”

“…m’sorry.”

fuck. you almost lose it right there. you have to close your eyes for a second and just sit—feel him twitching inside you, feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast—and remember what you were doing.

satoru’s apologies always do that to you. the strongest sorcerer, who has never in his life said sorry for anything, whispering it into the room because he moved his hips wrong while you were riding him.

he’s watching you when you open your eyes. his are wide and blue and wet at the corners, and his face is doing the thing it does when he wants to say something smart but can’t find it.

you fold down over him and kiss him slow and deep. he whines into it, mouth chasing yours every time you shift back an inch.

“you’re being so good,” you say against his lips.

his whole body shudders. “say it again,” he breathes.

“you’re so good, satoru.”

“—fuck.” his eyes squeeze shut. a tear slips out, tracking down his temple into his hair. “fuck, please, please.”

“please what? use your words, baby.”

“i am—” he moans when you clench around him. “i am using my—fuck, i don’t know. i don’t fucking know, baby, just—please keep—please—”

you sink down and grind deeper, catching him at the angle that makes his eyes roll back and his mouth drop open. his hands tug against the rope and don’t come free. won’t come free, because he promised. he’s holding himself down for you with nothing in the world but his own word.

you press your lips to the edge of his jaw, then the wet corner of his eye.

“i know,” you whisper. “i know, baby, i know—”

he sobs. he actually sobs, once, into your hair, and you feel him pulse inside you.

“you feel so good,” you tell him. “you feel so fucking good, baby, look at me, look at me—”

he opens his eyes and god, the blue of them is bad this close. so wide and glassy and so stripped of anything but you. his mouth is parted, and his cheeks are flushed pink all the way down his chest. snowy hair sticks to his forehead in wet strands, and he’s looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“i think about this,” he whimpers. “i think about this all the time.”

“yeah?”

“all the time, baby, all the—god, all the time. i—”

you kiss him again, tender, the way you know he wants but never asks for. he sighs against you and kisses you back like he’s starving.

“i love you,” you murmur against his lips.

his face breaks all at once. the last of his constant performance collapses out of him like something falling from a great height, and what’s underneath is softer than you expected, so completely unguarded that it steals your breath.

you keep kissing him, keep grinding on him.

“—love you,” he chokes into your mouth. “fuck, i love you, i love you so much, i can’t—”

“i love you. it’s okay.”

he comes with his wrists straining against the rope and his eyes still open, pupils blown and locked on you. it moves through him: his breath catches, his stomach tightens under your palm, and his hips come up to meet yours again. the sound he makes into your mouth is almost startled. and then his whole body finally, finally goes loose against the sheets.

you don’t move.

you keep your forehead to his, hand pushing back his hair, him still inside you and his pulse hammering and his breath still coming in small hitched inhales like he can’t quite come down from it.

you don’t untie him yet. you know him. he wants it a little longer.

“hi,” he whispers eventually.

“hi.”

his throat works. he’s looking for a joke.

“…thank you,” he says instead, quiet, and it sounds like he means it for something bigger than tonight.

Trying?

Moving on?

Your chest aches, but you smile through it. “Maybe he just needs to figure some stuff out.”

Shoko exhales. “You’ve ruined him. You know that, right?”

You laugh. It sounds brittle and slightly amused. “I don’t think I’m that powerful.”

“You are,” she says dryly. “I watched this man— this man who used to brag about how hot girls lined up for him after missions— literally panic when his dinner date tried to kiss him.”

Your heart flips. “What?”

“He flinched,” she confirms. “Like, full-body jolted. Said, and I quote, ‘Sorry, I’m just not used to someone else’s face being that close. It feels wrong.’”

You’re stunned into silence.

Then: “He said it felt wrong?”

“Mhm.” A long pause fills the space for a moment. “And then he left. Mid-date. Suguru watched him walk outside and immediately call your number. You didn’t answer, did you?”

You hadn’t.

You’d seen his name light up your screen and tucked your phone under your pillow, heart hammering, unsure what you were even to him now.

That night, he left you a voicemail.

You hadn’t listened to it.

Not until now.

You pull it up after exchanging goodbyes with Shoko. Hands trembling, and you press play.

“Hey,” his voice murmurs. There’s a sharp exhale. “I know you probably don’t wanna talk to me. That’s fair.”

Theres a second of silence...

“I thought… maybe I needed to know what it would be like. To be with someone who isn’t you. To see if I could want something else. And I can’t.”

He laughs, soft and its self-deprecating.

“I couldn’t even hold her hand without thinking about the way you tuck yours under mine like it’s automatic. Couldn’t sit across from her without hearing your voice in my head telling me to chew slower because I eat like a gremlin.”

You close your eyes, breath shallow.

“You’ve ruined me, sweetheart,” he whispers .“And I think I’d let you do it a thousand times over.”

The message fizzles out to an abrupt end.

You stand there in the quiet kitchen, phone still pressed to your ear like the sound of him might come back if you just wait long enough.

Your pulse is loud in your throat.

You don’t think— you just go.

Keys. Shoes. The door slamming behind you hard enough that the frame rattles.

The night air hits your face. Cool and sharp because it's 10pm and you're running. You don’t remember deciding to run but your feet are already moving, pavement blurring under you, streetlights smearing gold across your vision.

Every step feels like it’s carving something open in your chest.

Three nights ago his mouth had been so careful against yours. Three nights ago he’d breathed against your temple like the whole world had gone soft just for the two of you. Three nights ago he’d looked at you like you were the only solid thing left.

And then he’d tried to date someone else.

Tried.

Failed so completely that Shoko called it pitiful.

You don’t slow down until you’re outside his building. The code for the gate is still muscle memory. The stairs take forever and no time at all.

You reach his door.

Knock once.

Twice.

The lock clicks.

He opens the door looking like a kicked puppy— eyes wide, hoodie sleeves too long, heart cracked open.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then you don’t say a word— just throw your arms around him and bury your face in his chest.

He holds you like he never wants to let go again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so— sorry.”

“I’m not,” you whisper back.

You lean up.

Kiss him like he’s the only person in the world worth knowing.

Like he belongs to you.

Because he does.

His mouth is warm and a little desperate under yours. One of his hands slides up into your hair, the other locking around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

You feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast against yours. You feel the tiny tremor in his fingers.

When you finally pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours.

“I hated it,” he says, voice low and rough. “Every second of it. She kept talking and all I could hear was you. She touched my arm and it felt like static. Wrong frequency. Wrong everything.”

You don’t answer with words. You just kiss him again, slower this time, tasting the apology still sitting on his tongue.

He walks you backward into the apartment without breaking the kiss. The door clicks shut behind you. Somewhere a lamp is on, casting soft gold across the floor. His place smells like the laundry detergent he always uses and the faint citrus of the cleaner he pretends he doesn’t buy just because you once said you liked it.

He presses you gently against the wall by the entryway. Not hard. Just enough that you can feel how solid he is, how carefully he’s holding himself back.

“I kept thinking about the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Like I’m something worth keeping. She looked at me like I was a prize she’d already won. I couldn’t stand it.”

Your hands fist in the front of his hoodie. The fabric is soft from too many washes. You know every loose thread.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” he says. “I knew the second I sat down across from her that I’d made a mistake. But I stayed. Like an idiot. Like maybe if I just forced it hard enough it would start feeling right.”

You tip your head so your lips brush the corner of his jaw. “Did it?”

“Not even close.”

He kisses you again, deeper, and you let him. Let the heat of it pull everything else out of focus until there’s only the two of you and the quiet apartment and the way his body fits against yours like it was designed for exactly this.

When he finally draws back there’s a flush high on his cheeks. His eyes are bright in a way that has nothing to do with residual cursed energy and everything to do with you.

“Stay,” he says. Not a question.

You nod.

He takes your hand the way he always does, fingers sliding between yours like they belong there and leads you further inside.

The couch is still a mess of throw pillows from the last time you were here. One of your hair ties sits on the coffee table. Evidence of a life that never quite stopped belonging to both of you even when you tried to pretend otherwise.

He sits first and pulls you into his lap without ceremony. You go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, arms looping around his neck.

For a long moment you just look at each other.

Then he starts talking again, quieter, like the words have been waiting behind his teeth for days.

“She ordered something with cilantro and I almost told her you hate cilantro. Almost said it out loud. Like my mouth forgot who I was sitting with.”

You brush a strand of white hair off his forehead. “You left mid-date.”

“Yeah.” A short, self-conscious laugh. “Suguru gave me the look. You know the one. The ‘you’re an idiot and I love you but also please stop’ look. I walked outside and called you before I even thought about it. Needed to hear your voice. Needed to know you still existed in the same world as me.”

You remember the way your phone had lit up. The way you’d shoved it under the pillow like that could protect either of you from whatever this was becoming.

“I listened to the voicemail,” you tell him.

His arms tighten around you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence settles for a few heartbeats. Comfortable. Heavy with everything neither of you has said yet.

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to the side of your neck, soft and lingering.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it properly,” he murmurs against your skin. “That you’re it for me. That nothing else even comes close. That I tried to prove myself wrong and only proved the opposite.”

You tilt your head to give him more room. His mouth follows the line of your throat with careful, deliberate attention.

“You don’t have to figure it out,” you say. “Just keep showing up.”

He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. There’s something open and a little raw in his expression.

“I will. Every time. Even when I’m being an idiot about it.”

You kiss him for that. Slow. Thorough. The kind of kiss that says you already knew and you’re still choosing him anyway.

His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, palms warm against your waist. Not demanding. Just anchoring you to the present.

You feel the way his breathing changes when your fingers find the nape of his neck and scratch lightly the way he likes.

“Stay the night,” he says again, quieter this time. Almost a plea.

“I’m already here.”

He smiles against your mouth. The real one. The one that softens everything about him until he looks almost young again.

“Good.”

Later, when the apartment has gone fully dark except for the city glow through the windows, you end up tangled together on the couch under a blanket that smells like both of you. His heartbeat is steady under your ear. One of his hands keeps tracing idle patterns along your spine like he can’t quite stop touching you now that you’re close again.

“Shoko’s going to give me so much shit for this,” he says eventually, voice drowsy.

You huff a quiet laugh. “She already did. Called the whole thing pitiful.”

“She’s not wrong.”

You press a kiss to the center of his chest through the soft fabric of his hoodie.

“I don’t care if it was pitiful,” you tell him. “I’m glad you figured it out.”

His arms tighten around you one more time.

“Me too,” he whispers. “God. Me too.”

Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, everything is quiet the way it only ever is when it’s the two of you.

And for the first time in days, it feels like enough.

—

The lab was quiet. Another experiment gone wrong— his sixth attempt— and Satoru Gojo did not fail six times. Period. The word alone was foreign to him. Chemicals he shouldn't have gotten ahold of. A lab he had full access to. He was like a kid in a candy shop, and if anyone could pull this off, it was him.

Failed. Again.

Sleep pulled at him harder than it should have. Just an hour. His body could handle three days without sleep—one hour would be fine. When he woke, drool had smeared weeks of data into illegibility. He groaned, dabbing at the page. And then he froze. Beakers that had been meticulously cleaned now had fingerprints. Ones he didn't place.

Someone else had been here.

Listening, Satoru whipped his head around the room, eyes trying to catch anything in sight. Slightly panicked, no one else was meant to be here; if there was, he would be royally fucked. Facing the intruder, seeing a mirror reflection of himself, wherever his shirt had gone, along with his pants, and everything else.

Stopping in his tracks, he patted his body, making sure he was indeed wearing clothes and not raw dogging it in a lab.

Staring like a deer in headlights, Satoru watched as he(?) clenched his finger, moving his appendages like they were new and getting accustomed to them. Except it wasn't Satoru moving, but someone else who looked exactly like him.

Identical.

"Yo, what the fuck?!" the voice called out, the same to his, but had a little bit of an edge to it, not noticeable to the average listener. "Who are you?"

"I should be saying the same to you..." His eyes narrowed approaching the figure cautiously, like a stray cat on the streets that was particularly aggressive.

It was almost impossible for him to have a doppelganger who looked this similar to him, and it's not like he had a secret twin hiding somewhere; he hoped not, at least.

Satoru tried coming up with some sort of explanation, anything to explain the man before him. "A clone...perhaps?" he mumbled.

"So that's your what, hypothesis?" Satoru, the clone, asked, catching onto Satoru's drift. "What the hell is with this red and blue goo anyway?" he scoffed, wiping the remaining off of his skin.

"How did you get in that?"

"I woke up with it," he said as though the answer was obvious. "You seriously think I would roll around in mystery shit for fun?" he rolled his eyes.

Satoru finally came to the realization that perhaps it was not something out of this world coincidence, but rather his own calculated mistake in his own.

A wicked grin spread across his face. Either he has finally lost his mind from inhaling copious amounts of chemicals, or he has done something even more wonderful!

Life, not only a new life but an existing life of himself!

He couldn't possibly let this scientific breakthrough slip through his fingers. Life with his replica was uneventful, to say the least. It was hell trying to get his new experiment back home with him. Satoru told himself it would be worth it in the end, so he persevered.

For science!

He let Satoru 2.0 do what he wanted, being like himself in most aspects. Habits, diet, and build were similar. Intelligence surely differed in more ways than one. Satoru 2.0 seemed to lack the knowledge he had. He wasn't disappointed, not in the slightest; this only aided his research.

A few days in, and he had 8 pages of notes on the clone. He didn't know if or when this experiment would end. Satoru was going to make the most of this.

Personality was different; the man before him was crude and lacked the reserve Satoru had. It was like he came from a different universe. Satoru groaned in his seat, getting a headache from all the hypotheses filling his head. He'd resorted to calling him Satoru 2.0—referring to someone who wasn't technically someone else by his own name only confused his thoughts.

All Satoru 2.0 did was complain.

Satoru suspects he only does it to provoke him. It was working. He heard his own voice in his head enough, hearing it externally while his thoughts were running amok, too fast for him to grasp; his eye twitched.

"Is this what you do all day?" Satoru says, head dangling off the bed. Satoru had spent most of the day studying and documenting whatever Satoru 2.0 did. It was obvious he was itching to get outside.

Satoru didn't want to risk being out the same time and people catching on that there were more than two Satorus. They were completely different; he would be appalled if others thought they were the same person.

"Pretty much... I mean, sometimes I play D&D or a quick battle of Digimon." Satoru shrugged.

"Dude, you're seriously lame as hell," the other grimaced. "I thought your closet was the only depressing thing in here," he acts as though he isn't wearing his clothes. Sure, it was styled differently, lacking one of Satoru's flannel shirts, which he threatened to burn if it came close enough to touch his skin. "I am starting to doubt we are the same person."

"Based on our DNA results and the corroborating information, I can assure you that we are the same person." He said matter-of-factly, his clone groaned loudly, stopping whatever scientific rambling that Satoru was about to proudly go on.

"C'mon, bro, let's go out, what's the Greek life out here?" he sat up, a mischievous grin on his face."Ya' know-"

"Don't need it." Satoru quickly responded. He has never been much of a partier, much less into fraternities. There was no substantial appeal to him. Dirty, crowded houses of inebriated peers did not seem attractive in the slightest.

Alcohol dulled the senses anyway; he preferred to stay aware. The taste alone was revolting.

"Fine, stay here cooped up in here like some city rat. I don't care, but I am losing my fucking mind in here." Satoru 2.0 whined, staring outside the window.

He knew there was a party today, reading one of the texts on Satoru's phone, prompting his continuous whining. Satoru was skeptical about what his clone would do; they shared the same appearance, and he would prefer keeping his clean slate reputation on top of his stellar grades. "Imagine what kind of research you could get out of this."

"Research? What kind?" Intrigued, Satoru whirled his chair around, giving his full attention.

"You're the genius here, think about it." He wasn't wrong; there was substantial research to be found when his replica interacted with others besides himself. A change of environment was an essential scientific process.

"It's a win-win. I get to get the fuck out of here, and you get to analyze or whatever you do," he bargained, hand pushing his hair out of the way, a habit Satoru quickly wrote down. Perhaps Satoru 2.0 wasn't completely asinine.

"Fine, but you must report back everything. Interactions, behaviors, everything."

"Whatever, whatever." Satoru 2.0 lost no time readying himself, taking Satoru's spare phone. He seemed to work the technology just fine.

—

When he arrived, he didn't expect his nerd ass counterpart to know more than 4 people, himself included. To his surprise, a man with brown hair met him at the door, thoroughly shocked to see his face.

"S-Satoru?! No way— I didn't think you'd show up!" Haibara said, a name Satoru soon learned as he led him into the house. A smell Satoru had savored after he's been stuck in that lame apartment. It was just as good hearing his own name rather than 'Satoru 2.0'.

"You look so different, man, what's with the switch up?" he asked, pouring him a concoction from a jug into a red solo cup. "Almost didn't recognise you," he laughed.

Satoru shrugged, taking the cup and throwing back half of it in one go. The burn was welcome. "Needed a change of pace. Been cooped up too long."

Haibara's eyes went wide. "Dude, you never drink. Last time someone tried to get you to take a shot, you gave them a twenty-minute lecture on ethyl alcohol's effect on synaptic transmission."

"People change," he smirked.

The party was everything Satoru had been craving. Bodies pressed together, bass vibrating through the floorboards, the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol.

This was living. This was what that lab rat was missing out on while he categorized his fucking beakers by size and color. He genuinely did not see the allure; while he nerded out over aspects of life, he would be living it out in this strange place.

He'd been working the room for about an hour, charming his way through clusters of people who apparently knew "Satoru" but couldn't quite place this version of him. The glasses were gone, for one.

Rolling the sleeves of the plain black t-shirt he'd found in the original's disappointing wardrobe. The shirt was too big on him—well, on them technically—but he'd made it work, the fabric draping in a way that suggested he'd just thrown it on without caring, which he had.

"Yo, 'Toru!" A voice cut through the noise, and he turned to find a guy with black frosted tips waving him over to a corner where a group had gathered around someone sitting on a couch. "Get over here, man. We're doing shots."

Now that caught his attention.

He sauntered over, pushing through the crowd with the easy confidence that apparently didn't come standard with his model. The weirdo probably would've stammered something about germ theory and backed away slowly. Fucking nerd.

And then he saw you.

You were sprawled across the couch, tiny skirt riding up just enough, legs stretched out with a red solo cup balanced on your thigh. Your eyes met his, and something sparked recognition, sure, but something else too. Interest.

"You're in my spot," he said, grinning down at you. Your long nails tapped the cup nervously, eyes glancing around as if you didn't know he was talking to you.

Your eyebrow furrowed. "Pretty sure I was here first."

"Yeah, but I'm prettier."

The laugh you gave him was worth the corny line. "You wish, Gojo."

So you knew his name, that's even more Interesting. Dweeb hadn't mentioned anyone worth mentioning, or anyone at all other than a scientist, but here you were, looking at him.

He was pretty sure you were not one of the figures Satoru spent hunched over his desk reading about. He dropped onto the couch beside you, closer than necessary, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. "You gonna save me a shot, or what?"

You held up the cup between your legs. "Come get it."

—

Satoru left his seat, kneeling, spreading your legs as he placed the shot in between your thighs, your skirt hiking up to reveal more of your thighs. You almost didn't recognise him in his new get-up or attitude.

"Don't be shy, baby." He smirked. You didn't even know the dorky little shit could ever be like this. So charming, sexy.

His hands covered the tops of your thighs, head dipping lower to the plastic red solo cup rested in-between the the flesh.

He buried his head in your thighs, slurping the liquid from inside the cup. It was too much. He was really putting on a show. He was hot, and he knew it, just as much as he knew the answers to all the professor's questions.

Taking up all the class time he could, taking up as much space in between your ever-so shaky legs. It made you wonder if this was even the same guy, thought interrupted by his finger groping your thighs.

Your mind started to glitch, wondering what he would look like if there weren't as many people here, if your panties and skirt were off, and him licking up the wetness in your panties and not the cheap alcohol.

Fuck, you didn't even care if the others watched. You wouldn't usually get down in front of so many people, so suddenly, even. Did it really count as a record if you already knew him, spending most of the semester staring at his hair?

He was good eye candy, especially in a class you barely understood. Satoru wasn't your typical pick, well, not previously. The nerd thing was cute and all, but seeing him like this was making your pussy flutter.

His cerulean eyes look up at you, not behind a pair of thick glasses, watching you watch him. As if he were seeing your reaction.

The tips of his ears were tinged pink, even brighter in contrast with his bright white hair. You wanted to touch him so bad, take him away so that you could get the real thing.

Holding back, you lean your head back, holding your hand over your mouth to stop from saying something stupid or worse. The display was bordering on pornographic, which didn't bother you; you've done worse in worse places.

Satoru picked up the rim of the cup, tongue going up the sides, placing it flat to the rim.

Fuck...

The rest of the party blurred after that. He stayed glued to your side, hand finding your waist, then your thigh, then your waist again, like he couldn't decide where he wanted to touch but knew he needed to be touching you somewhere.

You learned things about him—about this side of him—that didn't match the guy from class at all. He reminded you of the frat guys you used to mess with, a lot smoother and a hell of a lot cuter.

You never met one who wasn't a dick for brains, at least.

But when you asked about class, about Professor Yaga's lecture on cellular biology, he went quiet for a beat too long before deflecting. "Don't wanna talk about school at a party, babe. That's against the rules."

That was suspicious to say the least, you would've thought, given the chance to 'nerd off', he'd take it happily. You brushed it off even as the thought lingered in your head.

You should've noticed then. Should've caught the discrepancy. But his hand had slipped lower, thumb tracing circles on the inside of your thigh, and rational thought had packed its bags and left the building.

He grinned, sharp and wolfish. "Made me wanna find out if you taste better than cheap vodka." You fell back onto the seat, pulling him with you.

When you mentioned you wanted a change of scenery, eyelashes falling low as you played with the thin chain around his neck. A move you have performed more times than you can count. Realisation dawned on his face as he led you to a car outside.

"Only one way to find out."

He didn't need more encouragement than that.

His mouth found your neck, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there while his hands worked your top. Impatient. Desperate. Like he couldn't get you naked fast enough. You felt the same way, fingers fumbling with his belt, his jeans, needing to feel him, all of him, right now. Your patience was shorter than the skirt you were wearing.

"Fuck, you're so soft," he groaned against your collarbone, pushing your top aside to reveal the lace underneath. His thumb traced the edge of your bra, teasing, watching your face for every reaction. "Been thinking about these tits since I saw you on that couch. Wanna put my mouth all over 'em."

"Then do it."

He did.

His mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking marks into the swell of your breasts before finally, finally pulling down the lace and taking your nipple between his lips. You gasped, back arching off the bed, and he hummed in appreciation, the vibration making you squirm.

"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "Love how responsive you are. Gonna make you feel so good, baby."

His hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your skirt, fingers dipping between your thighs. You were already wet. "Fuck. You're soaked."

"Do something about it, Toru," you managed, breath hitching as his fingers found your clit through your panties.

He laughed, low and dirty. "I like the way you think."

He pulled back then, settling himself between your legs with a purpose that made your stomach flip.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your thong, dragging them down your legs slowly, agonizingly slowly, watching the reveal like it was the best thing he'd seen all night.

"Pretty," he observed, running a thumb through your folds, spreading your wetness. "So fuckin' pretty."

He ate pussy like he was getting a grade for it. His tongue worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, soft and teasing one moment, firm and demanding the next.

His fingers joined in, two of them sliding inside you with an ease that made you moan, made your hips buck against his face.

"You like that?" he asked, words muffled against your cunt. "Yeah, I can feel how much you like it. Squeezing my fingers so tight, baby." You couldn't form words, could only moan and grip his white hair—so soft, you'd wondered about that.

It was methodical in its intensity, thorough in a way that reminded you, absurdly, of how he answered questions in class. It made you wonder where he learned this from.

But there was nothing academic about the way he moaned against you, the way his tongue delved deeper, the way he looked up at you with those impossible blue eyes while he worked you toward the edge; you couldn't help but gush around him.

You never would have thought Satoru to be a messy eater; you didn't think him to be an eater at all, to be honest.

"Close," you gasped. "Fuck, 'toru, l'm close-"

He doubled down, fingers curling to hit that spot inside you while his mouth sucked your clit, and you shattered, crying out his name as you came on his tongue.

He didn't stop, didn't let up, worked you through every wave of it until you were shaking, oversensitive, pushing at his head. Both of you were interrupted by the ringing of his phone, tempted to ignore it till he saw the name displayed at the top. Picking up the phone, much to your dismay, he started typing viciously, irritation visibly growing on his face.

"Hate to say this, babe, but we gotta cut this short, 'kay." He grumbled, shutting the phone off and stuffing it in his back pocket. He licked up the rest of your release and pulled up your panties and skirt skillfully. You exited his car satisfied but thoroughly confused as he drove off with a wink and a wave.

What the hell?!

—

When he got back to the apartment, Satoru was waiting up like an excited puppy, notebook in hand. "Well?" he asked, practically vibrating. He wouldn't be surprised if he got off on research results."What did you observe? Any notable behavioral differences in the subjects? Did anyone suspect—"

"You really pick the worst time to call. I was in the middle of something super scientific." He pouted, "I got laid," Satoru announced, just to watch his counterpart's face crumple.

"You WHAT? The experiment was for observational purposes only, not for—"

"Relax, nerd. I didn't actually sleep with anyone." He tossed himself onto the sofa, grinning at the ceiling. It was not a total lie; he didn't sleep with anyone, as close as he was to doing so, until Satoru called. "But I did meet someone." he technically met a lot of people.

Satoru's pen stopped moving. "Who?"

The replica started describing you, leaving out some details like the body shot and eating you out; the dork didn't need to know everything. "I talked to her tonight. Got her number."

"She's in my Bioethics class…you're kidding?"

"Relax, I'm not gonna steal your girl. She seemed pretty into us, bro." he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

Satoru blinked behind his glasses, as if that thought never crossed his mind. "She did?"

"Oh yeah, super into you, can't believe you didn't hit that yet." he paused, "You know if you like her, I got you a hell of a start. If not, this may help your experiment."

"I never said that." Satoru shook his head, thinking for a moment. "I guess it wouldn't hurt..."

"I am great, I know." He pulled out the phone, scrolling to your contact. "Here. Text her tomorrow. Ask her to study or some shit. Don't know how far your nerd-ass will make it though."

"My nerd-ass has worked perfectly fine for twenty-two years."

"Yeah, and look where it's gotten you." Satoru gestured vaguely at the apartment, the stacks of books, the half-finished experiments, the single bed in the corner. "Alone with your Digimon cards."

"They're not cards, they're- you know what, never mind." Satoru took the phone, staring at your name. "And you're sure she... she seemed interested? Unwilling participants are never fun."

"Bro." He laughed, just slightly. "Take my word, she's interested as hell."

ー

It took a week for Satoru to say anything to you. Guys like him, you assumed he would be texting by the time you were pulling your panties back up.

Hey, it's Satoru. From class. I know this is random, but I was wondering if you wanted to study together sometime? There's a coffee shop near campus that's pretty quiet.

You stared at the message for a solid thirty seconds. After the party last week, you'd half convinced yourself it was a dream. But here he was. Texting you.

Sure, it pissed you off that he was now texting you, but you typed back, fingers moving with speed. He never bothered saying anything to you all semester; you were suspicious, to say the least.

If this was his way of getting into your pants, you'd give it a chance. Less blatant than many other attempts to get with you. It's better than a dick pic, you were curious about what was under those khakis though…

When were you thinking?

His response was immediate. Tomorrow? Around 2? I'll send you the address.

Tomorrow. He wanted to see you tomorrow.

Although you were planning on going shopping, checking out the new clothing store that opened at the mall. You'd been waiting for them to open, but you could postpone your shopping trip.

You spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of barely contained anticipation. It's not like this was your first dick appointment, but you knew what to expect. Satoru was different than your usual types.

A café wasn't your typical spot, but you could work with it. Changing your outfit four times before settling on something casual but cute and easy to take off.

The coffee shop was exactly the kind of place you'd expect him to like: quiet, filled with the smell of old books and fresh espresso, cozy corners with overstuffed chairs. You spotted him immediately, tucked away at a table near the window, laptop open, glasses perched on his nose, looking so fucking adorable.

"Hey," you breathed, sliding into the chair across from him.

He looked up, and for a moment, his expression was polite. "Hey. You came."

"Of course I came. I said I would."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He pushed his glasses up, a nervous habit you were starting to find endearing. "I, uh- I got you a drink. I didn't know what you liked, so I got you a vanilla latte. That's what most people seem to— but if you don't like vanilla I can get you something else, I just didn't want you to have to wait in line and-"

"Satoru." You couldn't help but smile. "Vanilla latte is perfect. Thank you."

"Oh. Good. Good." He nodded a smile, stretching his lips slightly. "So, um. Bioethics. Chapter six?"

You studied together for two hours, and somewhere between discussing utilitarian approaches to medical resource allocation and him explaining the difference between deontological and consequentialist ethics with hand gestures that somehow helped you understand the concept further.

Your leg bounced under the table. His change from the other day was confusing. It was like whiplash trying to deal with the thoughts racing through your mind. The most repetitive one being, what the hell?

He looked so cute in his flannel and glasses, much different from the other day, but still hot. You wanted to pounce on him till you forgot his name.

You didn't do that, obviously. But you thought about it.

"Same time next week?" he asked as you packed up.

"Yeah," you said, a little confused. No offer to head to the back or to his place. "Same time next week." You couldn't believe you spent two hours getting ready to study.

The texts started slowly at first. Him sending you articles he thought you'd find interesting. He sends memes that make you laugh. Gradually, they became more frequent.

Good morning texts. Goodnight texts that made your heart clench. No unsolicited nudes or any flirtatious messages, it was puzzling.

When the coffee shop that both of you frequented was closed, and he offered that you come over instead, you took the opportunity immediately.

His apartment was huge, much more than an average college student would be able to pay for. You didn't question it, slipping your heels off. He led you inside to the couch, where he had an area set up for both of you to study.

Today, he had ditched the flannel and wore a crewneck sweater. You scooted a little closer to him on the couch. He looked through the textbook trying to find a particular page. Humming when he finally found it.

Throughout the study session, you took the first step and gradually touched him. You thought it was the alcohol that made him so bold; you can work with shy guys.

At first, his hands, your nails tracing over his veins, and then his hair, playing with the short hair of his undercut. He didn't seem to mind in the slightest, letting your hands wander where they wanted.

You did as little as graze his collar, and he was nose deep in your panties, now his little playboy exterior missing, and he was acting like you weren't even there.

"And this…" He paused, laughing slightly. "You're not even listening."

"I am." You lied, making eye contact with him. You haven't been listening for about an hour now, responding with hums. You liked the sound of his voice as he explained topics. You'll have him go over them later anyway, not like you'll be listening then either.

"Then what did I say?" He asked, putting a page through the textbook before closing it shut. He waited for a moment for your response, "See, I knew you weren't listening, starting to think you didn't come over just to study," he stated simply.

Duh, you don't usually put this much effort in, not like you ever had to anyway, men are easy.

"If I didn't?" you leaned in closer, tilting your head just slightly. Your eyes glancing down towards his plump lips, you didn't even get to kiss him last time. Lifting from your knees, you kissed him on the side of his mouth.

He froze, mind visibly thinking about what to do next. It was simply a test, but he pulled you closer onto him, practically on top of his lap. His lips were soft, tongue exploring the inside of your mouth.

You moaned into his touch, hips grinding against him. You broke away, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. You traveled down your neck, leaving hickies in your wake.

It's immediate, the way his hips buck up into you, his bulge pressing right against your core through both your clothes, and he groans in the air, the fresh mark you're sucking into his throat.

One hand squeezing your ass while the other is splaying across your lower back, pressing you harder against him. His touch was awkward, like he didn't know where to touch.

You roll your hips experimentally, whimpering when the friction hits just right, and his whole body tenses beneath you. His head falls back against the couch cushion, exposing the long column of his throat, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly.

Those bright blue eyes behind his glasses crack open just to stare up at you, pupils blown so wide the blue is barely visible.

"That's it," he breathes, and his hands are pushing up the hem of your shirt, leading his hands as you shove the thin fabric off over your head.

Bringing his hands to your breast— just barely shaking against your lace-covered tits. You don't even bother with the clasp— yanking your bra down, spilling your tits out into the open air, and his mouth is on them before you can process the loss of fabric.

Wet and hot and desperate, tongue dragging over your nipple while his fingers work the other, pinching and rolling. He lacked the same technique you seen before, instead slobbering over your tits.

His sweater is in the way. Too much fabric, too soft, too there when you need to feel his skin, see what has been hiding under his baggy clothes. You tug at it, and he pulls back just long enough to rip it over his head, white hair staticky and wild, and god—he's huge. Broad shoulders, thick chest, arms that make you feel tiny even straddling his lap like this.

You run your hands down his pecs, over the faint trail of hair disappearing below his waistband, and he shudders.

That phone call better have been worth it for him to take this from you.

"Yeah, touch me," he huffs, grabbing your wrists and pressing your palms flat against his stomach.

You grind down again, and his hips stutter up, his thick length pressing against your clothed cunt in a way that makes stars pop behind your eyes.

The friction is everything—denim rubbing against denim, the seam of his jeans catching right on your clit as you rock against him. His hands fly to your hips, guiding, controlling, forcing you down harder and faster until you're both panting.

"Shit-" He chokes, head dropping forward to watch the place where your bodies meet. You follow his gaze and see the way his cock strains against his jeans, the dark spot of pre-cum already soaking through, your hips move in frantic little circles trying to get more pressure exactly where you need it.

"'Toru-"

"I know, I know." He leans up to catch your mouth again, all spit and tongue and messy, open-mouthed kisses that leave both of you gasping. His hands slip down, grabbing your ass and spreading you open over his lap, and the new angle makes you see white.

You're grinding right against his length, the ridge of it catching your clit with every roll of your hips, and you can feel the coil tightening low in your belly.

He must feel it too—how close you are—because his grip turns bruising, forcing you to keep the pace even when you're shaking. "Don't stop," he stutters against your lips.

You nod frantically, unable to form words, too focused on the pressure building and building and building.

His teeth sink into your bottom lip, and that's it—the coil snaps and you're coming undone on top of him, grinding through it while he groans against your mouth and his hips jerk up helplessly beneath you.

Your vision goes spotty, coming down from your high gradually. Slumped against his chest and trembling, you feel him shake beneath you. Look down and see his jaw clenched, veins prominent in his neck, eyes squeezed shut.

"Your turn," you whisper, and you meant to sound sexy, but it comes out wrecked. Neither of you had heard the door open, and the figure standing there watching the scene unfold.

"Damn you actually did it…" Satoru stood by the door with a shocked grin on his face. You froze, your cloudy haze clearing up at the sight of two Satorus. "Y'know, I was about to complain about how dumb your classes are, but…" he whistled.

Were you losing your mind?! Sure, your orgasm was pretty damn good, but nowhere near hallucinating.

Panicked, you climbed off of Satoru, whose hands you had to swipe off of you. Satoru's nonchalance wasn't helping, as you tried covering yourself from the man at the door.

"You have the worst timing…" Satoru groaned beside you.

"You're one to talk. I was in the middle of working my magic when you decided to call over some bullshit, payback bitch."

While the two of them went at it, you were left completely dumbfounded. "Satoru?" Both of them answered, "What the hell is going on? You have a twin?" Two Gojos, standing in the same room, looking at you with expressions that ranged from inconvenienced to proud.

You stared in shock at the two men. Well, not one but two Satorus, according to both of them. That would explain why the weird behavior and why he looked so different when you saw him outside of classes and studying. "So... you're the same person?" you examined, looking between them.

"Pretty much, Alstein over here mixed the wrong shit up," he affirmed. "I wouldn't say 'same', I am nothing like him," Satoru replied, denying any accusation that he was anything like his replica.

"Einstein," Satoru flatly corrected, "but pretty much."

You nodded cautiously. You may not be the smartest person in the world, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this was insane.

"And you're just…... okay with this?" you asked, gesturing between them. "With him running around pretending to be you?"

Satoru shrugged. "It's been useful for research, when he's not trying to burn my flannels, at least. I wouldn't say he was pretending to be me, when he technically is me." He looked back at the other man, "on a biological level at least." He added scornfully. The other didn't fail flipping him off, picking up on his more than arrogant tone.

"They're an abomination against fashion." Satoru 2.0 shuddered dramatically. "Seriously, wear something else, your taste is ass."

"I like flannels."

"Again, zero fucking taste."

You couldn't help the exasperated laugh that escaped. It was absurd, standing here with two identical men arguing about fashion choices like one of them hadn't created an entire clone of himself. If he wasn't lying at least.

"So all those times at the parties, and the car," you said slowly, looking at the clone. "That was you."

"Guilty." He didn't look regretful at all, pretty proud himself. "There's no way this virgin has these skills, babe," he gestured, poking his tongue out playfully.

"The car?" Satoru looked between you, "What happened in the car?"

"The first time I got out, ate her out in the car, before you woefully interrupted." Satoru sighed, reminiscing on the moment as his eyes looked toward your breast, his gaze was anything but polite.

"You couldn't have said something two weeks ago; now I have to go back and add that to the data log." Satoru glared, rubbing his temples.

"Don't get distracted, assholes. I would have preferred not getting involved in this 'experiment'." You used your fingers to add quotations around experiment. "And all the study sessions?" You turned to the real Satoru.

"Correct." That would explain why he wasn't as eager to get in your pants compared to his counterpart.

"And the texts?"

They exchanged a look. "Uh," Satoru mumbled. "That was... both of us. Sometimes."

"Bro- babe," the other started, "think about it, you're like a research assistant, y'know." He tried to make the situation seem better than it was. You couldn't deny it; it was pretty fucking cool that he made a clone of himself, but that didn't negate the fact that you were just an unknowing subject in their schemes.

"Is that what this is? Research?" Both of them nodded cautiously. You should storm out, block them, and pretend this never happened. Go to the mall as you would have, instead of messing with these two. But then the cruel thought of missing out on two Satoru's crossed your mind.

You had worked hard fake studying to get in Satoru's pants, and his little clone wasn't half bad at giving head. Groaning, you prayed you would not regret this. "Fuck it, you better credit me in your paper."

You've already made it this far.

"You'll be in the acknowledgements, I promise," Satoru—the real one—grins, surprised by your response, and it's that same infuriatingly charming smile that made you get onto his couch and car in the first place. "But uh, we might need to collect a little more data first."

His clone's already moving before you can process the words, sliding onto the couch behind you while the original stays in front. You're trapped between two identical bodies, two sets of impossible blue eyes watching you with matching intensity.

"Wait—" The protest dies in your throat when four hands find your skin simultaneously.

The one behind you—Satoru, you need to start calling them something—drags his nose up the curve of your spine, breathes hot against your vertebrae. "Smell so good," he murmurs against your shoulder blade.

The real Satoru cups your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. His thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, and you hate how your body responds, how your nipples peak under the clone's wandering hands. "I—" You gasp when his mouth closes over the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise. "Fuck."

"That's not a no." The real one's eyes crinkle with amusement. He leans in, kisses you slow and deep while his twin—clone—whatever—works his way down your back. Teeth scrape against your shoulder blade, your spine, the dip just above the swell of your ass.

You break the kiss with Toru— you decided to call him that. He didn't seem to mind— his hands spread your cheeks apart, when you feel his breath against your sensitive rim.

"Look at that," one murmurs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "She's already dripping. You think she wants my mouth here, too?"

"Only one way to find out." Satoru's watching over your shoulder, eyes darkening as his replica drags his tongue through your folds from behind, a long, slow stripe that makes your knees buckle. You missed his tongue.

"Fuck-" The word punches out of you as Toru's tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, presses against your entrance, then lower still—"Oh god, what are you—"

He answers by licking into you from behind, tongue flat and hot against that tight ring of muscle, and your brain short-circuits completely.

"That's it." Satoru's got his forehead pressed to yours, watching your eyes go wide and glassy. "Lay back." You don't have a choice—Satoru's hands guide you down until you're flat on the couch, and then they're positioning you however they want, rolling you onto your stomach and pulling your hips up until you're on your knees with your face pressed into the cushions.

"Perfect," someone breathes. Could be either of them. "Look at this view."

Something slick and cool drips down your crack—lube, you realize, lots of it—and then fingers are spreading you open, exposing you completely.

"Who wants first?" Satoru's voice, from somewhere to your left.

"She squirted on my face already. You owe me." Toru's right behind you, and you feel the thick head of his cock nudging against your wet folds.

"That was your choice. You could've fucked her anytime."

"And miss watching her come apart on my tongue? Never." He pushes in just an inch, just the tip, and you whimper into the pillow, your hole clenched around nothing, anticipating him. "But now I want to feel that tight little pussy squeezing me while I fill her up."

"Greedy," he scoffs. "Fine. But I get her mouth." Satoru's on his back now, cock standing wet and ready. Your mouth waters, tongue flicking at the slit before taking him into your mouth. He moaned, your tongue swirling around his cock expertly.

Toru, behind you, groans against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight up your spine and making you moan around the real Satoru's cock. Your thighs tremble on either side of that beautiful face, and you feel his tongue curl inside you.

"Shit—" Satoru's head falls back, hips twitching, and you feel him hit the back of your throat. "Y-you're amazing." You hum around him, sending vibrations to his cock, only making him gasp louder.

Toru pulls his mouth away just long enough to gasp, "Don't make him cum too fast, babe." Then he's diving back in, tongue stiff and pointed, fucking into your dripping hole while his nose bumps against your hole with every movement.

You're caught between them, suspended in pleasure. Every time you try to focus on sucking Satoru's cock, the clone does something devastating with his tongue that makes your throat clench and your vision blur.

Every time you try to rock back against that perfect mouth, the other pushes your head further down, cock hitting the back of your throat.

"Look at me." Satoru tugs your hair, just enough to drag your eyes up to his. They're almost completely black, pupils blown wide behind his thick glasses, cheeks flushed. "That's it. That's so fucking good."

Behind you, his replica's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He pulls you down onto his face like you're nothing but a toy for his mouth, tongue plunging deep, then retreating to lap at your clit in quick, cruel circles.

You come with a broken scream around Satoru's length, your entire body convulsing, and you feel Toru behind you groan against your pulsing cunt, feel him drink everything you give him like it's the finest thing he's ever tasted.

Close, Satoru tried to pull your head off of him, you stay planted, he cums down your throat in warm spurts.

His thighs twitching under your grip, it didn't taste bad, slightly sweet even. "Jesus Christ." He falls back against the couch cushions, chest heaving. "That was-"

"Not done." Satoru's voice was determined. He's sitting up now, pulling you into his lap, and you feel his cock—still hard, still leaking— press against your soaked folds. " I'ma show you how it's done, virgin."

Satoru's eyes light up despite his recent orgasm. "How many times- I'm not a virgin." He leans forward, cups your face, kisses you slow and deep— the taste of his cum still lingering.

You nod frantically. "Fuck me, Toru." Hands finding his condom-covered cock, making slow strokes. At least he knew better.

"God- love your voice, baby." Toru's hands guide your hips, and you sink down onto him in one long, wet slide. "Ohhhh fuck- yes so tight, so fucking tight-"

You can't help the sounds you make, can't help the way your head falls back and your mouth drops open. The stretch was dizzying but so delicious. You hadn't been fucked good in weeks, savoring the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. He's so thick, so deep, and the angle lets him hit somewhere inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

"Look at that." Satoru's voice is awed. He's stroking himself again, already hardening at the sight of his twin fucking you slow and deep. "How perfect she looks stretched around our cock."

Our cock. The word shouldn't make you wetter, shouldn't make you gush on his length until he groans and grips your hips hard enough to bruise. But it does.

God, it does.

"Don't cum in two pumps, virgin."

"N-not a virgin, dickhead." Satoru groaned. "Ride her." Watching with hungry eyes. "Want to see you fuck her properly, or I'll do it myself."

The other obeys instantly—because of course he does, they're the same person, they share the same brain, the same desires. Even if they deny it, they are two sides of the same shiny coin. "You wish," He lifts you easily, almost casually, and starts bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing. "Like this?" Each word punches out of him with every thrust. "Like- fuck watching her tits bounce?"

"Yeah." Satoru's hand moves faster on his cock. "Just like that. Harder."

"We'll give him something actually useful to report, baby."

You're nothing but a toy between them, a perfect little hole for them to share, and the realization should horrify you, but instead it sends electricity crackling through every nerve. Toru fucks up into you brutally, no gentleness now, just pure need, and you can feel every inch of him dragging against your walls.

"Oh god—oh god, I'm gonna-"

"Not yet." Toru's hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just present. You hear Satoru move. Feel the couch shift. Then his mouth is on your shoulder, teeth sinking in, and his hand joins his twin's on your hip, fingers intertwining.

"Please-" It comes out broken, desperate. "Please, I need-"

"I know what you need." Toru's thrusts are losing rhythm, getting sloppier. "Feel that? Feel how close I am? Want to come?"

"Yes—yes, please-"

"Come with me, babe." He releases your throat, hand sliding down to press against your clit, circling roughly. "Come on my cock."

The command snaps something loose inside you. You come, clenching down so hard, Toru roars, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and deep and endless. In front of you, Satoru comes, his release splashes across your stomach, warm and wet and marking you.

"So you can ejaculate…interesting," Satoru commented, noting it in his head to write down later.

You can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but slump between them, trembling, completely and utterly ruined. But they're not done with you yet. "Bedroom." Satoru's voice has an edge to it now, dark and hungry, that makes your pussy stir despite itself. "We're not done. Not even close."

The other lifts you easily, still half-hard inside you, and carries you toward the hallway. "Agreed. Need to try some things. Not the only one with hypotheses, dork."

"For science, of course," they say in perfect unison.

And despite everything—despite the ache in your knees and your juices dripping down your thighs and the absolute madness of this situation—you laugh. Then moan as the movement shifts his cock inside you. "For 'science', right…" you agree weakly.

They laid you out on Satoru's bed. The sheets are cool beneath your overheated skin, a brief respite before they're on you again—one on each side, bracketing your body with their heat.

Toru's already mouthing at your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin while his hand trails down your stomach. "Want to try something," he murmurs against your pulse. "Want to see if we can make you squirt together."

Your breath catches. "Together?"

Satoru grins, that familiar, charming smile, made infinitely more dangerous by the context. "He fucks you from behind. I'll be in front."

"It's basic physics," Toru adds, nipping at your collarbone. "Double the stimulation, double the pleasure. Or whatever."

"Quadruple, technically." Satoru's hands on your stomach, fingers intertwining. "Since there are two of us."

"Sure-" You swallow, try again. "Just get inside of me."

They move with the kind of synchronization that only comes from being literally the same person. The clone one positions himself at your back, cock brushing against your ass, while the real one lifts your hips and settles in front of you, his length sliding through your soaked folds teasingly.

"Ready?" Satoru says behind you, his voice is strained, barely holding onto control.

You answer by taking him deep into your pussy, moaning around him, and that's all the invitation the other needs. He pushes in in one smooth motion, seating himself completely against the other, and the world narrows to the feeling of being utterly, impossibly full.

His cock stretches you perfectly, reaches places you forgot existed, and every thrust presses him against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

Above you, Toru groans and thrusts deeper into your cunt. "Oh fuck-"

"Can feel her clenching around me." his thrusts are measured at first, controlled, like he's savoring every inch. "Every time you move, her pussy squeezes me l-like a fist."

They find a rhythm eventually— two bodies moving as one, using you between them. "Look at that." Satoru's voice is reverent. He's pulled back just enough to watch, to see both cock disappearing into you over and over. "Look at how well she takes us. Like she was made for this."

Toru's thrusts are getting harder, faster, and less controlled. "Fuck—she's getting tighter—she's close."

"And I'm the 'virgin', sure." But Satoru's eyes are half-lidded, his hips stuttering. "Want to feel her come on both of us at the same time."

The words alone might be enough to push you over. But then Satoru reaches down, fingers finding your clit and circling brutally, and Toru tangles his hand in your hair and holds you deep. You cum gasping.

You feel Toru moan above you, feel him pulse hot and deep inside your clenching walls. Satoru follows a second later, glasses crooked on his face, hips jerking as he paints your walls, and you realize neither wore a condom. Had it been any other moment, you would've cussed both of them out and broken their dicks off, clone or not.

When you finally come down, you're shaking. Actually shaking, muscles trembling uncontrollably as they ease you onto your back and arrange themselves on either side of you.

The day blurs into night in a haze of pleasure. They take turns— sometimes literally, swapping positions so seamlessly you can't tell who's inside you anymore.

Sometimes they're both inside you, one in your cunt and one in your mouth, or one fucking you while the other watches and whispers filthy things in your ear.

—

You're in the shower— finally, blessedly cleaning up— when the curtain slides open and two identical bodies crowd in behind you. The water's hot, the steam thick, and their hands are everywhere at once.

"Thought we'd help." His voice is innocent, but his cock pressing against your ass is anything but.

"Make sure you get really clean." One in front of you, hands soaping up your breasts, your stomach, sliding lower between your legs.

You lean back against the other's chest, let the water cascade over you while the clone's hands grip your hips, steadying you as you lift one leg over the real one's shoulder, then the other. He supports your weight easily, holding you suspended while the others cock aligns with your entrance.

"Look at that," the one holding you breathes. "She's gaping a little from earlier."

"Let me see." Behind you, peers over your shoulder. "Oh. Oh, fuck. She really is."

The one holding you—you think it's the real one, but honestly, they keep switching, and you're too fucked out to tell—tilts his head. "I bet we could both fit."

"What?" Your voice comes out strangled.

The other behind you hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing down your spine, over your tailbone, pressing gently at your tightest ring of muscle. "He's right. You're so warm and stretched already from 'Toru fucking you."

"Oh, I'm not 2.0 anymore? You got real influence, baby." Toru is holding you nuzzles against your inner thigh, tongue darting out to taste where the others' cum is still dripping from you despite the shower washing it away. "You can take more. You're a greedy girl, aren't you? Wanting both of us?"

Toru's cock slides between your cheeks, not entering, just... resting there, hot and heavy against your tightest hole while Satoru's tip nudges at your weeping cunt.

"Whatcha think, sweetheart?" They ask in unison, and the effect is devastating.

"Please put them inside me. Both of you."

"See? Told you she'd say yes."

Toru, behind you, laughs, and the sound vibrates through his chest pressed against your back. "You owe me twenty bucks."

"You bet on whether I'd beg for you at the same time?" You're indignant for approximately half a second before his cock notches against your ass, and Satoru lines up with your cunt, and all higher brain function evaporates. They don't push in together. That would be too easy, too merciful. Instead, they take turns.

Satoru slides in first—just the tip, just enough to make your eyes roll back as your abused cunt clenches around him greedily. Then he stops, holds perfectly still while the other behind you presses forward, stretching your pussy inch by agonizing inch.

You cry out. The water swallows the sound, but they feel it, feel every vibration of your body as you're stretched wider than you've ever been.

"Shh, shh, you're okay." The one in front kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips, all tender and sweet, while his twin works his cock deeper into your ass. "You're doing so well, sweet girl. Taking us both. So fucking p-perfect."

Toru's hips meet your ass with a wet slap. "I'm in. Fuck, she's tight. She's so fucking tight around me."

"I know." he starts to move, shallow thrusts that have his cock sliding against the other's cock. One thrusts while the other holds still, then they switch, then they figure out how to move together, opposite directions, so one is pushing in while the other pulls out. "I'll be sure to write that down."

You're nothing but a moaning, drooling mess between them, held upright by two sets of strong arms, fucked from both ends by identical cocks in identical bodies with identical grunts falling from identical lips.

"Want to move to the bed," you manage to gasp out. "Want to see it. Want to watch."

They exchange a look over your head that communication thing that's so unsettling when you're not being split open on their dicks, and then you're being lifted, carried, still connected, still filled, water dripping everywhere as they maneuver you out of the shower and down the hall to the bedroom.

Satoru lies back on the bed, pulling you with him so you're straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep. The clone kneels behind you, positions himself, and pushes back in with a groan.

"Look down," Satoru whispers. "Watch us fuck you."

You look.

Between your legs, two identical cocks disappear into your body, your own flesh stretched thin around them. When they move—and they do, immediately, finding that rhythm again—you can see the bulge in your lower stomach, can see the way their cocks press against each other through you.

"That's me," Toru breathes, reaching around to press on that bulge. "That's my cock right there, fucking into your pussy. Can you feel it?"

You nod frantically, tears streaming down your face, drool dripping onto his chest. "I can feel both of you. I can feel—oh god, I can feel every-"

"Good." Satoru's hands grip your hips, start bouncing you on his cock while the other fucks into you from behind. "Want you to feel us for days. Want you to sit on his cock tomorrow and still feel me stretching you open."

The other laughs, breathless and wrecked. "Possessive much?"

"Shut up and fuck her."

He does. They both do. They take turns being gentle and rough, one whispering sweet praises while the other fucks into you like he's trying to split you in half.

They switch positions—you on your stomach, you on your side, you on top of one while the other takes you from behind—and through it all, they never stop talking.

"You're taking us so well, sweet girl."

"Look at that pretty pussy gripping my cock."

"Can you feel him twitch inside you? He's close, I can tell."

"Shut up, you're closer dickhead."

"Y-you're both-"

You come first, finally, spectacularly, squirting around their cocks while they fuck you through it, both of them groaning at the added wetness, at the way you clench and flutter around them. Satoru follows seconds later, filling your cunt with hot ropes of cum that leak out around his cock immediately.

Toru pistons into your pussy twice, three times, before he stills and you feel him emptying himself deep inside you.

Between their bodies, with their cum leaking out of both your holes onto the ruined sheets, you think maybe sharing isn't the worst idea in the world.

"Round whatever in an hour?" you ask hopefully. Both groan, but they're grinning. You settle back against the pillows, feeling thoroughly used and utterly satisfied. "I'm serious about that credit in your paper." At first, you didn't care that much; it wouldn't hurt having your name down in the history books.

Satoru slides his glasses on after cleaning the lenses. "You'll be the co-author, baby."

"I'm here too, ya know."

"Why would I credit you?" You close your eyes, letting their bickering wash over you like white noise. But looking at the two of them, still arguing while their hands never stop touching, you, one drawing circles on your hip, the other playing with your hair.

"You think you could clone me, too?"

Eight years out of UA and somehow you're still around. Still in the group chat. Still showing up to Kirishima's birthday parties and Sero's terrible karaoke nights. Still completely unaware that Katsuki Bakugo — the number five hero, walking explosion, a man who has never once backed down from anything in his life — has been quietly losing his mind over you since roughly your second year of school.

Everyone else figured it out years ago. Kirishima figured it out first, mostly because Bakugo made the mistake of getting drunk at his own agency's holiday party and saying your name four times in one sentence. Mina figured it out next. Even Todoroki figured it out, which says a lot, because Todoroki barely notices when buildings are on fire.

You did not figure it out. You are, according to every single person in that group chat, the last person on earth who has no idea.

So one night Bakugo sat down with a receipt from a ramen place and a pen that was almost out of ink and wrote himself a list. Not because he needed help — he would tell you he did not need help — but because eight years of doing nothing had clearly not worked and something had to change.

Here's what he came up with.

Rule #1: Don't call her pretty. That's weak. She'll see right through it.

You've been called pretty before. Plenty of times. It rolls off you like water because it means nothing coming from strangers. So the first time Bakugo actually looks at you — really looks, across a table at a group dinner while everyone else is arguing about something stupid — he doesn't say pretty. He says your hair looks stupid pushed back like that and it takes you a full three seconds to realize that's the nicest thing he's said to anyone all night.Kirishima kicks him under the table. Bakugo kicks back harder.

Rule #2: Don't let her see you get soft. Save that for when nobody's watching

You broke your wrist on a mission six months ago and Bakugo showed up at the hospital before your own agency finished the paperwork. He didn't say much. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and glared at every nurse who walked past like they'd personally wronged him. You thanked him for coming. He said he was in the area. He was not in the area. He is never in your area.

Rule #3: If she teases you don't react. Reacting means she wins.

You have exactly one move against Bakugo and it works every time. You call him Kacchan in that flat unbothered voice of yours, the one that makes it sound like an insult and a joke at once, and he goes red before he can stop it. He tells you to shut up. You don't. He never actually wants you to.

Rule #4: Don't stare. Staring is for losers who can't say what they mean.

He stares anyway. Across bars. Across meeting rooms when your agencies do joint operations. Across the space between his couch and yours when the whole group crashes at his place after a night out and you fall asleep first, curled up small and unbothered like the world isn't currently on fire somewhere. He tells himself he's just checking you're breathing. He checks for a very long time.

Rule #5: If she steals your jacket let her keep it. Don't be a bitch about it.

It was cold outside a bar in October and you didn't bring one. He took his off without being asked and put it around your shoulders before you could even shiver a second time. You tried to give it back at the end of the night. He told you to keep it, said something about not needing two jackets anyway, which made no sense, and walked off before you could argue. You still have it. He knows you still have it. Neither of you has ever mentioned it again.

Rule #6: Don't get jealous. Jealous is for weak men.

A guy from a rival agency spent an entire mixer talking to you last spring and Bakugo spent that same mixer setting three separate small fires with his quirk completely by accident, according to him. Kirishima said it wasn't an accident. Bakugo told Kirishima to shut the hell up in front of everyone, which everyone agreed was extremely on brand and extremely obvious.

Rule #7: If she's tired let her sleep on your shoulder. Don't make it weird.

You fell asleep on the train back from a joint mission once, head tipping slowly toward his shoulder like gravity had made a decision without asking you. He went completely still. Didn't move for forty minutes. Told everyone later he just didn't want to wake you up. That was true. It was also not the whole truth.

Rule #8: Compete with her. Don't let her win just because you like her. That's pathetic.

You beat him at darts once, at a bar, fair and square, and he demanded a rematch on the spot. You beat him again. He demanded a third round. By the fourth round he wasn't even trying to win anymore, just trying to make you laugh at his increasingly unhinged trash talk, and you were laughing too hard to notice you'd stopped keeping score.

Rule #9: Play it cool when she touches you. Don't be obvious.

You have a habit of grabbing his arm when you laugh too hard at something, quick and unthinking, gone in half a second. It means nothing to you. It means everything to him. He has thought about that half-second more times than he'd ever admit under torture.

Rule #10: If she's cold under the table don't offer your legs. That's insane. Nobody does that.

He does it anyway. It's a slow dinner, everyone's talking over each other, and your foot brushes his under the table by accident. You don't move it. Neither does he. What starts as an accident turns into something else entirely — your foot pressed lightly against his shin, his ankle hooked loosely around yours, both of you carrying on two separate conversations with the rest of the table like nothing is happening below it. He nearly chokes on his drink when your foot slides slow up his calf, just once, just to see what he'll do.

He does absolutely nothing. Which is how you know it worked.

Rule #11: Don't ask about her ex. That's weak and clingy behavior.

He asks anyway, once, badly, wrapped inside a completely unrelated sentence about something else entirely so it wouldn't sound like what it was. You answered honestly and briefly and didn't ask why he wanted to know. He spent the rest of that night in a genuinely foul mood that had nothing to do with the mission report he'd claimed was bothering him.

Rule #12: If she gets sick you're not worried. You're just making sure she doesn't die. There's a difference.

You caught something nasty last winter and didn't tell anyone because you hate being fussed over. Bakugo found out from Kirishima and showed up at your apartment within the hour with a bag of groceries he refused to let you see the receipt for. He made soup badly. He stayed anyway sitting stiffly on your couch like he'd rather be anywhere else until you fell asleep on his shoulder for the second time in your life. He didn't move again. This time you were awake enough at the end to notice and you didn't say anything either.

Rule #13: Don't remember small stuff about her. That's obsessive.

He remembers everything. Your coffee order. The exact way you take your eggs. The name of the street you grew up on mentioned once years ago in passing. He tells himself it's just a good memory. Kirishima tells him that's not what a good memory looks like for anyone else in the friend group.

Rule #14: Don't get quiet around her. Quiet means she'll know something's wrong.

He gets quiet anyway sometimes when it's just the two of you left at the end of a group hangout and everyone else has gone home. You've noticed. You've never asked. You've started noticing you kind of like the quiet too.

Rule #15: If she insults your cooking don't take it personal.

You told him once that his katsudon tasted like it was made out of spite. He told you to make it yourself then. You did. It was worse than his. He has never let you live that down and somehow still makes you a plate every single time you come over unasked like it's not a big deal.

Rule #16: Don't let her see the soft stuff. Like the notebook. She can never see the notebook.

There is in fact a notebook. Bakugo would deny this to his last breath. It is not a diary. It is a training log that occasionally accidentally includes things like *she laughed at something dumb I said today* written in the margins in handwriting too small for anyone to notice. Nobody has ever seen it. It stays that way.

Rule #17: Don't dance with her at Mina's stupid parties. Dancing is for saps.

He dances with you exactly once badly at Mina's birthday both of you a little drunk and laughing about how neither of you knows what you're doing. His hand sits low on your waist the entire song. Yours rests flat against his chest close enough to feel his heart going faster than the song's tempo would explain. Neither of you comments on it. Both of you notice.

Rule #18: If she calls you at 2am for no reason answer immediately. Don't overthink it.

You called once at 2am half-asleep just to complain about a case that was bothering you and needed someone to talk it out with. He picked up on the first ring even though he'd been dead asleep three seconds earlier. Talked you through it for forty minutes in a voice rougher than usual low and half-awake until you finally calmed down enough to sleep. Neither of you brought it up the next day. You both remembered it anyway.

Rule #19: Tell her the truth eventually. Stalling makes you look like a coward.

He almost doesn't. Eight years of almost. Eight years of jackets and soup and 2am phone calls and a notebook nobody's supposed to see all adding up to exactly nothing because Katsuki Bakugo — who has never once in his life backed down from a fight — has apparently decided this is the one fight not worth having.

Kirishima finally sits him down and tells him flatly that watching this has become genuinely embarrassing for everyone involved. That you deserve to actually know. That you're not going to figure it out on your own because you're the single most unbothered person either of them has ever met and unbothered people don't go looking for things they've never been told to look for.

Rule #20: Ask her out. Just say it. Stop being a coward about it

He shows up at your apartment on a random Tuesday with no plan and no speech prepared which is unlike him in every possible way. You open the door in an old shirt and no makeup unbothered as always and ask what's wrong like something must be wrong for him to be standing there.

"Nothing's wrong," he says and immediately looks like he regrets starting that way. "I just — " He stops. Starts again. "You're coming to dinner with me Friday. Not the group. Just you and me."

You blink at him. For the first time in eight years something in your carefully composed face actually slips just a fraction just enough for him to see it happen in real time.

"Is this a date Bakugo?"

"Obviously it's a date," he says too loud the way he gets when he's covering for something. "What else would it be. Are you always this slow or is it just with me?"

You don't answer right away. You just look at him for a long moment the unbothered mask cracking wider by the second and something like a smile starts pulling at the corner of your mouth.

"Friday," you say. "Pick me up at seven. And Katsuki—"

"What."

"Wear the jacket back. I've had it long enough."