cherry

“You gotta get us out of this mess, Gojo,” you say dangerously low, jabbing your finger into Gojo’s—your—soft chest. Fuck, you’re one moment away from snapping like a rubber band cooled too quickly. And you really don’t know what the consequences will be when you can feel Gojo's power hiding from you—Six Eyes tucked deep in the recesses of his body. You’re not keen to find out the damage a person can do when they wield the Gojo Clan power with all the training of a newborn baby. “What if the curse comes back, you imbecile?”

Gojo laughs, and the condescending peals of it ring high and shrill in the air. 

Is that really what you sound like to other people?

“It won’t come back,” Gojo states with an air of finality which would have you strangling the man if he weren’t trapped inside your body. 

“Oh yeah? Care to enlighten me? Your partner on this mission who could just, I don’t know… maybe, benefit from knowing such information,” you remind viciously, running anxiety-filled fingers through your hair—Gojo’s hair—fuck this is really messing with your head, and why is it so soft? You half-pictured him to use some 19-in-1 crap which surely wouldn’t achieve this silkiness. The attempt to ground yourself begins spiralling into panic. “I swear you fuckin' get off on being better than me or something, Gojo. Well, news flash! You are. Yet look where that genius brain of yours got us now. Nurture versus nature strikes again.” 

Gojo narrows his eyes at you, lips thinning at your attitude. This argument is going to be ugly. You can already tell—feel the familiar stirring of it in your bones. Compelled by fury and determined to meet the nasty retort you know it coming head-on, you yank down the blindfold over your eyes without sparing a thought to the consequence.

A split second later you're on your knees. Accosted by walls of spasming lights and strange shapes, distorting and jumping through colours you don’t recognise, and screeching rivers of particles persist in all directions and you can see sound, how can you fucking see sound? The air waves curl in front of Gojo’s mouth but you can’t hear them, your brain existing somewhere beyond typical overstimulation as it’s confronted with information you simply cannot comprehend. 

You curl up on the ground like a child and squeeze your eyes shut, no more than a decorated corpse. You are unaccompanied by even the presence of mind to pray your suffering will end soon. Only able to endure the atoms vibrating in your eyelids and the lights rotating past them, backlighting the infinite particles like a phantasmagoria designed for war torture.

Without warning, it dims considerably.

You inhale a rattling breath you weren't aware you’d been holding. 

“—alright, it’s— Look at— Hey—”

Gojo’s voice reaches you in fragmented slices. It takes a lifetime for your heart to calm the war drum beat its imitating, and longer still for you to peel open your eyes. Gojo hovers on his haunches an arm's length from your trembling form, and stares down at you with your face. There’s a pinch in his eyebrows but that is the only, and likely unintentional, indicator to suggest he may be perturbed.

“Look at me,” Gojo says, uncharacteristically soft.

You wonder if the natural tone of your voice is deceiving you. There's no way he's actually worried. His ego has cursed you to this body, and while you always knew it would get him in deep shit one day, you simply weren't prepared to be dragged down with him.

You exhale, still curled up pathetically on the ground. “I am.”

It’s the truth. At some point during your panic, Gojo must have slipped the blindfold back over your eyes, rendering him unable to follow your gaze. His own tracks your expression. For a moment he's silent. Then, he's fishing your phone out of his pocket, unlocking it with your face identification, and tapping on it impatiently.

The rings of a call pierce the air and you vaguely recognise Ijichi's voice lilting across the line in your exhaustion. You can do no more than lay there and watch Gojo's lips move.

At the beep of a call hung up, Gojo turns to you resolutely. "I'll sort this out."

—

In the staff common room, you're currently hovering in an armchair and debating the likelihood of you reaching it before the year is out.

You see, Gojo's Limitless technique decided to activate as soon as you lugged your ass out of the transport vehicle when it dropped you back on campus. Now you're finding out you took sitting for granted as you float approximately a couple of inches atop the actual chair cushion. Sceptically, you eye the sight. Doubt about your ability to control the Six Eyes only increasing each second you remain suspended in the air.

“This fuckin’ sucks,” you complain, tipping your head back into, surprise, the air above the chair’s backrest. “Can’t sit down, can’t drink a fuckin’ coffee—which I’m desperate for by the way, can’t go for a—”

“Please shut up,” Yaga monotones, cutting you off and taking a pointed sip of what you know to be coffee in his mug. Bastard. “Complaining will not help your situation.”

“Oh and silence will?” you bite, glaring at the best principal decal printed on the ceramic instead of Yaga himself. 

You may be mad but you're not suicidal.

“Maybe then I'll be able to have a productive thought about how to get us out of this mess,” Gojo pipes up in your light voice. Slouched on a wooden chair nearby, he’s mindlessly watching one of his manicured fingers trace shapes on the table. Like a baby captivated by a cheap, plastic galaxy spinning above its head. “A foreign concept for you, I’m aware.”

You scoff, flipping his back your middle finger. Childish? Sure. But it’s not like you can actually hit him in your current predicament so you have to settle for the small win. 

“How long are we gonna be stuck like this?” you press, ignoring both their requests for silence. “I keep tripping over your lanky fuckin’ legs, Gojo, stumbling like a new born deer or some shit, and this blindfold is makin’ me feel claustrophobic, and I kind of have to pee but I also really do not want to face that right now,” you ramble, leg bouncing with anxiety. “And if I have to touch your dick I might just kill myself to save everyone the trouble.”

You blow out a breath when the words stop their mad dash from your mouth. Noticing the barely-there smile Yaga is hiding behind his mug, and the way Gojo is snickering into the palm of his hand, a frustrated sound rips itself from your throat. Soon you’re going to blow a fuse and then they’ll really be sorry. 

“I’m serious!” you yell. “I do not want to touch your dick, Gojo!”

“Alright, alright,” Gojo laughs, palms lifted in surrender. “I get it… though I would love to be a fly on the wall. Watch you figure out how to piss with a cock.”

“Satoru,” Yaga warns, shooting Gojo a reproachful look.

“Stop acting like it’s some revered skill,” you snap, curling your lip up at the crudeness of his statement. “It’s a fuckin’ dick, Gojo, not rocket science.” You run a hand back through your short hair, tugging slightly at the strands in frustration. “God, you are genuinely insufferable. Yaga, please, let me go home! If I spend anymore time with this moron I’m going to lose braincells and it won’t be me who suffers the consequences considering who’s fuckin’ body I’m trapped in!”

“You know I can’t do that,” Yaga counters mildly, fingers flexing around his mug.

“I am going to kill him,” you emphasise, waving a frantic hand through the air in the vague direction of Gojo. “And he’s in my body!”

Yaga opens his mouth to reply but Gojo stands and cuts him off with an infurating whistled tune, as though he's jumped straight from a fourties cartoon. You mime a gag and Gojo's sharp eyes slide to you scornfully.

It's all you can do to not appear too pleased by the reaction.

And as it turns out, Gojo has that covered for you also; next to Yaga, your body looks much shorter than it feels when you’re in it. The height difference only highlighted from your foreign perspective.

Bristling at the wound to your ego, you sniff and turn away from the sight. You never noticed the corner of the staffroom has cobwebs.

“Why don’t I go back with her?” Gojo asks Yaga. When you flash them a brief glance, inevitably unable to keep your gaze from the bane of your existence for long, Gojo is looking up at the principal, yet somehow still managing to carry a general air of superiority that defies your stature. You fight back the urge to jam your fingers into your eyesockets. “I can keep an eye on her until Shoko gets back from Okinawa tomorrow, and then I can bring her in and we’ll reevaluate if long-term adjustments need to be made.” 

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog, you prick,” you mutter, jaw tense. “‘Bring her in,’ who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Language,” Yaga chides, though you know by now it's more habit than formality. He ponders the idea for a moment and you shoot Gojo a nasty look while Yaga is distracted. Gojo sticks his tongue out at you back. Child, you think spitefully. “That could work,” Yaga agrees eventually. “There’s nothing more we can do without Shoko, unfortunately, but we also can’t afford to split the two of you at the moment with the danger of Six Eyes on a slack leash.”

“Perfect! So it’s settled then,” Gojo chirps, an awful grin on his face. Time slows to a stop as he claps his hands and beckons you forward in one sharp motion. “Heel.”

Your jaw drops. 

“But,” Yaga interrupts pointedly, waving a placating hand in your direction and now you really do feel like a dog. Gojo’s glee may as well be written on his face with black permanent marker for how obvious it is. “You must teach her to control it, Satoru, as best she can,” Yaga continues, voice grave. You both stiffen and turn to listen to him carefully. “Worst case scenario, you’re both trapped for an undetermined length of time. We cannot risk anything.”

Nodding absently, you’re already distracted by the concept of being stuck in Gojo’s body indefinitely. It’s nasty talons latch onto your brain and hold tight. Bile rises into your throat. And you're pretty sure your racing heart may be an early sign of cardiac arrest.

Probably nothing to worry about right now.

Yet if you die in this body, what happens to you? Does your consciousness zip back into your own body like rebooting a troublesome computer? Or would it only trap Gojo in your body for the rest of its lifespan and you'd be left to face whatever the afterlife entails for people with morally grey compasses and high curse body counts, leaving Gojo to run wild while most everyone will believe it to be you?

God, what a horrible thought.

“Make sure the blindfold stays on at all times,” Yaga utters, and you can sense the dismissal. 

Rising to your feet, you make sure to stare down the slope of your nose at Gojo disdainfully before snapping your head forward and striding out of the room. Like hell you’re going to let him lead. His quiet footfalls echo behind you, but mercifully he is silent—perhaps plagued by the same fear. 

How long could you be trapped in this body?

—

“I wasn’t joking about havin’ to pee,” you grumble as you step through the threshold to your flat with Gojo in tow. 

“I know you weren’t,” Gojo replies blandly, gaze sweeping the organised chaos you live in. You hear him kick the door closed behind you. “I needed a piss at the start of the mission. Real unfortunate timing, all things considered.”

Against the entrance walls, books are piled up haphazardly thanks to your bad habit of buying more novels than you’ll be able to read in ten lifetimes. You toe Gojo’s shoes off to join the stacks carelessly, not bothering to prompt Gojo to do the same before you round the corner into your kitchen.

Let him figure out the tiny buckles of your shoes by himself, you think sadistically. Serves him right.

But then you have to duck to get through the doorway and it's as though Gojo's miraculously cashed in his karma paycheck early. You kiss your teeth in irritation, feeling oversized in your cramped flat for the first time in all the years you've lived here. 

Your annoyance only worsens when Gojo's Limitless doesn't allow you to grab the fridge handle. You freeze. Try to control your breathing. And ultimately fail when your stomach pangs with hunger.

“How the fuck did your parents manage?” you call out to Gojo, frustration melding into bafflement at the reality of your situation. “Surely they couldn’t touch you?”

A crash instantly followed by a yelp of pain rings out from the hallway, and you get your answer as Gojo pads around the corner in pantyhose-clad feet. 

“My parents told me it used to activate randomly when I was a baby.” He doesn’t spare you a glance, breezing past to tug open the fridge like he hadn't just let out the most pathetic squeal you've ever heard. You can’t find the energy to stop him. “But most often when I was upset, or scared—when I was crying mainly, I guess. Must've been difficult for a baby to comprehend the entire universe and all. You know. You saw it. And they used to have servants check constantly if I’d released the technique so that they could feed me or hold me.”

You stew on the information, watching Gojo select a Yakult, peel off the foil lid, and drop it on your countertop like he owns the place.

On paper, he does anyway. And isn’t that a strange thought. 

“Apparently I learnt to control it by 10 months. And by the time I was almost 2, I was consciously turning it on and off so that my parents couldn’t stop me from climbing on the furniture or put me to bed if I wanted to stay awake.” Gojo laughs, as though recalling memories he can’t possibly remember. 

“So you were a nightmare child,” you surmise, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’d argue I was pretty cute,” Gojo offers, tipping his head back to swallow the last drops. You eye the motion, still finding it jarring to be seeing your own mouth move every time Gojo’s words grate in the air. “And either way, you’re being shown up by that little 2 year old me, so you should probably be feeling more worried about that than what my parents had to deal with.”

Scowling, you swipe a hand through the air to dismiss the half-baked insult. In the safety of your home, you find yourself slightly lost as to what to do, standing uselessly in the middle of the kitchen as a result. You’re unable to touch anything and that means you can’t drink or eat or sit down. Where does that leave you? Cursed to isolation until this is fixed? 

“C’mon,” Gojo murmurs, “a little curse and you lose all your fire? Lame.”

“‘A little curse?’” you repeat incredulously.

A grin splits Gojo's lips as though he was waiting for the precise reaction you just provided. Not for the first time, you wish you had the forethought to not retaliate to his provocations. But it's like he has an instruction manual detailing precisely how to push your buttons. There's no other rational explanation.

Gojo's head tilts. “Yep. And honestly… I don’t even think you could win a fight right now.”

You lean against the countertop behind you and drag your gaze down Gojo’s form. The familiar curves under your uniform, your tits, pressed together where Gojo is crossing his arms, and your face, grinning at you like a Cheshire cat. Gojo mimics you, leaning on the fridge and raking his eyes down your form in kind. You fight not to fidget under his gaze, though you don’t know why. It’s not like you feel self conscious or anything—this isn’t your body. 

You hum, non-committal. “Probably not. Though you’re forgetting that you can’t use my technique either.”

“Ah, but I am quite positive yours will be easy to wrangle,” he replies, turning his hand to inspect your nails. 

Something ugly unfurls in your chest at the jab. Everyone feels inadequate when confronted with the power Gojo holds—it’s a fact of life. But the notion still stings, wedged under your skin deep enough you cannot remove it, deep enough it bleeds into your words. 

“Perhaps,” you concede, loathing coating the back of your teeth. “But what if we didn’t use our techniques?”

Gojo’s eyebrows furrow. 

“I’m saying, what if it was a battle of pure strength?” you explain with a careless shrug.

On your best and your worst days, you despise acknowledging that Gojo can beat you in hand-to-hand combat. Now is no different, and you tuck your hands behind your back casually so you can dig your nails into your palms to ground yourself. You can feel the strong muscles lining your arms shift with the movement. 

“I would win.”

“You’re in my body, though,” Gojo questions, looking at you like you’re stupid.

Anger simmers deep and low in your gut. 

“So now semantics matter to you?” you ask, pushing yourself away from the countertop. “I thought you just claimed you’d beat me using my technique, Gojo.”

“And I would.”

“But you wouldn’t without,” you press, walking closer. Gojo watches you curiously until you stop a pace away from him. You could reach your arm out and touch him if his own Limitless wouldn’t stop you from doing so. “Admit it.”

Gojo frowns, staring up at you. 

“Admit you couldn’t beat me,” you breathe, taking another step closer. You can see the specks dotting your eyes now. Gojo's blindfold and bright hair reflecting back at you like a funhouse mirror. The air thickens between you both, and you shove your hands in your pockets, feigning nonchalance. You feel wrong—out of place in his hulking body as you stare down at your own—but Gojo has no way of knowing this if you don't clue him into it. “Admit that I could have you how I wanted in a heartbeat.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you,” Gojo murmurs, eyes flicking between your own. Recognition sparks in his gaze and he seems to be debating whether to play along.

“Not really.” You itch to reach out. Knowing you physically can’t only makes the urge more irritating. “Haven’t you ever been curious, Gojo? About what it’s like to be a woman?”

“Hasn’t every man?” he retorts. Gojo tips his head back against the fridge and his eyes turn lidded, glued to yours. As though he knows where they are even through your blindfold. Perhaps he does. It’s his own eyes he’s seeking out, after all. 

“Mhm. Not every man gets the opportunity to actually find out, though.” 

The corner of Gojo’s mouth quirks up. “Lucky me.”

The reality of your situation falls back atop your shoulders. Sudden as a strike of lightning. When the thunder claps, you knock your forehead onto the fridge above him, or try to, at least. Instead, your face stops an inch away from the metal, close enough that you wonder if you might be making subconscious progress adapting to Gojo’s powers. 

“I gotta pee.”

Gojo laughs. 

—

This might be the pinnacle of humiliation you’ve experienced to date. Knowing that Gojo is just outside the bathroom and listening only makes it that much more excrutiating.

“Let me come in and help!” Gojo calls through the door.

“No! Just—” you growl, frustrated. “Give me a damn minute I can’t focus knowing you’re right outside.”

“You don’t want me to talk you through it?”

“Hell no!” you shout, pinching your nose bridge. 

You exhale once, taking a moment to bolster your courage, before you tug Gojo’s zipper down in one smooth movement. You can see the light grey boxers he has on, and the vague outline of his soft cock underneath and you pull your hand away like you’ve been burnt. 

“Be nice to him!” Gojo says, followed by a thunk that tells you he just put his forehead on the bathroom door. 

“Freak,” you mutter under your breath, still staring down at your open fly.

“I heard that.”

“Stop listening!” you snap. “What the fuck, man!”

“I’m dying out here, pleaseeee can I come in?” he moans through the wood. 

“No!”

“Pretty please.”

“Gojo…” you sigh.

“I can hold it for you.”

For a moment, you consider it. You could close your eyes, take the quickest piss of your life, and come out of the experience unscathed considering you won’t have touched Gojo’s dick. Then reality strikes. 

“Limitless, dumbass,” you say. 

“Oh shit.” Gojo’s muffled voice sounds surprised. “I forgot about that for a sec, wow! Very unlike me.”

“Close your ears.”

That’s all the warning both of you get before you grit your teeth, pull the waistband from your hips, and lift Gojo’s cock out with a limp, reluctant hand. 

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

And then you realise, how the fuck are you going to piss without looking? 

You worry your lip as your eyes study the ceiling. 

Maybe there’s muscle memory to this kind of thing? You really don’t want Gojo's piss all over your bathroom floor though…

“You’re awfully silent in there for someone who claimed that pissing with a dick wouldn’t be rocket science.”

“Fuck off, I’m gettin’ there!” you bite. “God, this is the worst.”

“You’re telling me. You’ve got a whole different view down here. I feel like I’m in Honey, I Shrunk The Kids.”

“Prick. I’m not that short!" You sigh before admitting, "I do love that movie though."

“It's a classic," Gojo offers. "And no you're not. I'm just stupidly tall."

That, at least, you can agree with. Stupidly arrogant, too.

Gojo continues. “You still haven’t pissed.”

“I don’t think I can,” you mumble pathetically, feeling the heavy weight of his soft dick in your hand and wanting to crawl out of your skin. “I might just wait until I piss myself. Is it too late to get a catheter?”

“You’re disgusting,” Gojo complains. You can practically hear the frown in his lips. “And you’re going to give me a UTI…”

“Wouldn’t be as bad as havin’ to touch your dick, I can tell you that much.”

“You wound me,” Gojo croons, and you can hear his back sliding down the door. Settling on the floor as though he knows you’ll both be here for a while. “Personally, I’m looking forward to going for a piss.”

Your face curls up in disgust and you whip your head to face the door as though Gojo will be able to feel you glaring through the wood. 

“There’s something seriously wrong with you. That is so violating.”

“Sorry,” Gojo says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. 

You huff, scrubbing an eye with the heel of your big hand. 

You can do this.

—

Turns out, pissing with a dick was decidedly not rocket science once you got over the tiny, minor detail of who’s dick you were holding. Once you're finished, you don't stick around to offer moral support as Gojo shoulders past you into the bathroom. You try not to cringe when you think about him seeing the plain cotton panties you threw on this morning when you had to rush out of your flat, or the unruly bush you were due to trim this weekend.

It truly doesn’t matter. Not when you have bigger issues. Namely the whole stuck-possibly-for-the-rest-of-time-in-Gojo's-body situation.

You’re hovering on your couch again when Gojo returns a suspiciously long few minutes later. He has a small, pleased smile on his face and you scowl. Staring down at your knuckles rapping against your thigh, you urge yourself to not picture what he was doing in the bathroom to look so self-satisfied. Pervert.

“Right then,” Gojo sighs loudly, sinking into an armchair across from you. “I should probably teach you how to control Limitless now that you’ve mastered pissing. It’s the next logical step.”

You roll your eyes. “And Yaga’s order,” you tack on. 

Gojo waves a hand through the air as though to dismiss the importance of your reminder. 

“Six Eyes is innately active,” he starts immediately, not waiting for your attention. You wish you could ignore him, but the way you're still hovering in the air closes any well-worn paths to such petty vengeance. “Think of it like the sun. We can’t turn the sun off, can’t kill it, can’t cover it up. The best we can do is cover ourselves.” Gojo nods towards where it’s wrapped around your head. You hum your acknowledgement. “But Limitless is like a light bulb. I can turn it on and off whenever I want.”

Already bored, you kick your legs out in front of you and tap your foot on the air surrounding the corner of your low coffee table for something to do. Gojo ignores the soundless action, but you see the corner of his jaw twitch in annoyance. 

“And Six Eyes is what enables Limitless. I can only manipulate what I can see.” He spreads his palms wide and swings them around the room. You squint at them, eyeing the veins pumping blood beneath your skin and the delicate woven fibres of your uniform cuff visible even through your blindfold. It's jarring, and invasive, and perhaps it's no wonder Gojo acts the way he does afterall. You might too if you could unveil a person's heart through no more than existing. “Do you see where I’m going with this?” Gojo questions expectantly. 

You bite your lip in contemplation and drag time out while you pretend to think. Really, you’re just watching the tiny hairs on Gojo’s face sway in a breeze you can’t feel. 

“Nope,” you reply after too long, popping the p sound carelessly. 

“You have to look,” Gojo stresses, leaning forward in his chair towards you. “See the world around you, see the infinite space Limitless has created, and stitch the divide back together.”

“Well then, if it’s that easy,” you say sarcastically. “I’ll give it a shot.”

Halting the tapping of your foot, you cross your arms and stare down at your legs intently. You’re expecting the gap between your thighs and the sofa cushion to be highlighted or some bullshit, like an object in a video game the developers didn’t want you to miss. But there’s nothing. You can see what you think may be air particles, countless atoms continuously melding together, then you stare at them long enough that you start second guessing yourself. 

“I see it!” you say instead, looking up at him excitedly.

Gojo’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and your mouth twists horribly as you try not to laugh. “Really?” he asks, equally thrilled. 

“Obviously not, dumbass,” you scoff, resuming the tapping of your foot once more. Gojo’s face drops and then he scowls at you a beat later when you tack on, “You’re kind of a shitty teacher, just so you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a shitty student.” 

“Ah,” you tut, shaking your head condescendingly at him. “A bad workman always blames his tools.”

“You’re definitely a tool, alright,” Gojo retorts, voice tight.

Despite yourself, you laugh. “This is a lost cause. Let’s just wait for Shoko’s opinion tomorrow, huh? Cut our losses while we still can.”

“As much as I would love to do that,” Gojo begins, tilting his head. You kiss your teeth at his lie, because Gojo would never abandon a chance to humiliate you. “I seem to recall someone saying ‘Yaga’s orders,’ earlier.”

Gojo’s expression is challenging, and every inch of his posture screams at you to bolt. You stay rooted to the air above your seat in defiance of your own instincts as you stare at the man currently captaining your body. 

When you don’t reply, Gojo blows out a sharp, frustrated breath and crosses his legs. “Work with me here,” he pleads. “Just try. Properly. Don’t half-ass it.”

You open your mouth to retort, but the gentle shake of his foot stops you. It almost looks like a nervous tick, and as quickly as your eyes dart to it, does his foot still. 

“Fine,” you concede. "Be quiet.” 

Gojo merely purses his lips and gestures at you lazily as though to say go on, then. 

Squinting as though it will help funnel Six Eyes, you focus all your attention on your foot still knocking into the air by the leg of your coffee table. It takes a few minutes to filter out Gojo’s disruptive presence. Even silent, he’s impossible to ignore. But, eventually, he begins drifting and you’re left with the shape of your foot, visible through the thousands of tiny cracks in Gojo’s leather shoes. You can see the air particles in your shoe—in between your toes, beneath the arch of Gojo’s foot. 

The air undulates, disturbed in ripples where your foot shakes. Like a stone thrown into a pond. Your lips form a circle and you slowly breathe out, letting everything fall away from you. Only then, can you see it. It being the gap, for lack of a better word you can't currently find. The… space. Like a void, stretching almost imperceptibly between each atom, bonded or unbonded. And then infinity comes into view. Atoms around your foot warped in a way making it impossible for you to ever hit the table leg when you begin to near it. 

The sound of your foot almost connecting with the coffee table is muffled, but you hear it still. Perhaps another feature of Gojo’s enhanced senses, or maybe a trick of the mind. It falls quiet again, and you sooth your heart and your mind and pinch the edges of infinity, drawing them together. 

Then…

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

You glance up at Gojo in amazement, mouth spread into a wide smile. He returns one of his own, oddly sincere. You only consider how strange the feeling is, Gojo being almost… proud of you, for a fleeting moment before you release it and embrace the success. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe quietly. “Holy shit.”

The rhythmic tapping echoes in your flat, sure and steady. You tip your head down and coax the infinity wrapped around you closed, sealing it like the folds of a letter. Your thighs touch the sofa. Then your back. You pat along the cushions disbelievingly and then laugh. 

You did it. You fucking did it. 

“Atta girl,” Gojo murmurs encouragingly. “I knew you had it in you.”

You truly have no idea how to unpack the tightness in your chest at his statement.

So you don't bother trying.

“Fuck yeah I do,” you grin instead. And if the tapping of your foot speeds up, well that’s no one's business bar your own. “Never doubted myself for a moment!”

Gojo scoffs, but it isn’t entirely mean. Not anymore. “History is rewriting itself right before my eyes. Is this how Winston Smith felt?”

You tilt your head back against the sofa, relaxing your body for the first time since you were both swapped. “Your Six Eyes has gotten way too much credit throughout history,” you say into the air. 

“Yours,” Gojo replies lightly. “For the time being, at least.”

Totally not a daunting thought at all.

You swallow uneasily, the corners of your mouth curling at the reminder. 

“Are you focusing on keeping it together?” Gojo asks. 

You shake your head, still talking to the ceiling. “Nah. I don’t know how long it’ll last but I must’ve closed it enough for now.”

Gojo hums thoughtfully. “You might wanna close your legs while you’re at it too.”

“Huh?” You make a questioning noise in the back of your throat and tip your head back down. All at once, you can feel your face light on fire.

You’re hard.

Hard.

You’ve somehow made Gojo’s dick… hard.

Great. Perfect.

This is just what you wanted to immortalise this humiliating experience. And you don’t close your legs—can’t close your legs—as you stare despondently at the sight. Slowly piecing together the feeling of an erection to what you’re seeing.

“Uhhhh—”

“I’m afraid I can’t teach you how to control that,” Gojo states, voice overflowing with mirth. He’s staring too, gaze darting between the stunned look on your face and the tent in your slacks. “There is one way to deal with it though…” he teases. 

Groaning, you bury your face in your hands and slump further down on the sofa. Now that you’re aware of it, you can feel your crotch throbbing. The warm but unfamiliar pressure of arousal tingling in your core. When you shift, the folds of your slacks brush over your erection and you hiss. 

“How long?” 

Gojo understands what you’re indirectly asking.

You can almost hear it in his voice when he shrugs. “Long enough. Quicker if you think about something gross.”

Something gross. Okay. You can do something gross. The smacking sound of people chewing with their mouths wide open. Bug carcasses squished into the pavement. Wet socks. Gojo. His gross personality. The stupid, condescending cadence of his voice. His cock, filling out between your thighs. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You peek out from between your fingers. Gojo shifts in his seat as he stares at your crotch, legs crossed tightly. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he was squirming. 

Wait—

Narrowing your eyes, you can see his thighs tense and relax. Hips ever, ever so gently rocking back and forth. It’s so subtle you wouldn’t have spotted it if not for your Six Eyes. You can see the particles around him moving away in small ripples. You can see the blood thundering through his veins. And even without Six Eyes, you can see his dilated irises. 

“You’re turned on,” you accuse, jailing your hands on your thighs so you won’t be tempted to touch. “Why are you turned on?”

“I—” Gojo flounders, caught. “I don’t. Uh, know… exactly…”

“Wow,” you spit. “You are such a fuckin’ pervert, oh my god.”

“Wow… that’s rich coming from you!” Gojo protests indignantly. “You are literally hard right now.”

“This could be a fluke!” you insist. “I wasn’t even turned on,” you lie. “Maybe it’s just because I released Limitless.”

“That’s not how it works,” Gojo replies, but he doesn’t argue any further. 

“You have no excuse though,” you push, voice pitching higher and higher. “You’re so conceited it’s insane. Who gets turned on by themselves?!” 

“Me, clearly!” Gojo shouts, throwing his arms up in the air helplessly. 

“Yeah, fuckin’ clearly!” 

Silence. 

You’re both glaring at one another, locked in a battle of wills. Refusing to back down. Refusing to give in. Apparently, though, your brain doesn’t get the same memo. 

“What does it feel like?” 

It takes you a few long seconds to realise it was you who’d spoken—you who'd asked such an uncomfortably intimate question. You cringe at the perplexed expression Gojo has plastered on your face. 

“What?” Gojo snaps. 

“Is it different…” you start uneasily, confused as to why you’re so fixated on knowing the answer to what is objectively a pointless question. You know what it feels like. You've felt it first hand. Nothing in your life is going to change if you hear Gojo's answer but still you desire to hear it. “From the feeling. In your own body?”

“Being turned on?” he asks slowly.

You nod, careful, afraid to speak up again. 

“Yeah,” he breathes after a moment. His face is grim, as though accepting his fate. “It’s… everywhere. Not only where’d you’d expect it. I guess. It's in my, uh, my stomach. My toes, too. And it's warm. Kinda tingly. Hot. I feel… overheated.”

You recall the feeling all too well. 

“You?”

And this time it’s your face that pinches. You sigh, knowing you’re now morally obligated to answer. 

“I can feel the, uh, the blood. Pulsing almost. Like a wound.” You swallow nervously. “It’s kind of uncomfortable,” you say, parting with the words reluctantly. “Expectant almost. Like right before a sneeze. When all that tension builds up.”

When you fall silent again, Gojo nods. 

“I can teach you,” he says suddenly. 

“You can… teach me?” you echo dumbly. Then, when he merely hums you repeat his words again in shock, "You can teach me."

Why are you considering it? Why are you considering it?

A small smirk crosses Gojo's face, a blink-and-you-miss it expression you unfortunately didn't miss.

This is wrong. Unethical, surely. It must cross countless lines that HR have carefully laid out for colleagues in Jujutsu Tech. Breach so many contracts it’s laughable. There’s truly no reason you should be giving his offer the time of day.

But then again the Jujutsu Tech contract only stipulates interwork relationships. Ones where, presumably and logically, each party occupies their own body. While it has been a hot minute since you read through it, you don't recall anything discouraging such relations for colleagues who've had their bodies swapped.

Someone has to set the precedent.

“Okay,” you agree.

Gojo’s lips quirk up, as though he’s privy to the internal battle you just lost. “Okay,” he repeats. 

Neither of you move. 

Your foot speeds up. A rapid, thumping, tap tap tap tap tap filling the space between you. 

“You first,” you nod at him. 

Gojo’s expression morphs into confusion. “Me first?”

“I’ll…” Your sentence trails off before it’s even properly begun. You swallow and try again. “I’ll teach you. Too.” 

“Will you now?” he asks coyly. 

You huff, the familiarity of such teasing relaxing you, even though you’re near positive that wasn’t his intention. “I will,” you affirm, calmer now. 

“Well then, Sensei. Take it away.” 

Biting your lip, you gesture at his legs—your legs—before speaking. “Pantyhose off.”

Gojo doesn’t hesitate, but his actions are clumsy and unpractised. He tucks his fingers under the waist band of your skirt and tries to awkwardly roll the pantyhose down under the fabric until he can’t wedge his forearm any further. Huffing, he yanks his arm back and shoves it under your skirt, grabbing the bunched up material and pulling it down to his knees. You hear the painful sound of your tights ripping and wince. 

“Those were new, asshole…” you grumble, already mourning your recent purchase and the future one you now have to make. 

“Don’t care,” Gojo replies, clearly distracted as he tries to free one foot from the material, then the other, before throwing them straight at you. They land on your face and drop into your lap. You brush them aside. “They should invent pantyhose that aren’t impossible to get off.”

You hum dismissively, focused on your bare legs and the cotton panties you can see peaking out from beneath your skirt, slightly rucked up from his efforts. It’s beyond bizarre to see yourself from this angle. To see what previous hook-ups have seen.

No wonder you can’t seem to shake them off afterwards.

You look good. 

“You need patience to… get off, as a woman.” Adjusting yourself awkwardly, you try to ignore the throbbing in your crotch. Gojo’s fingers twitch impatiently where they’re resting on the arms of his chair. “Not everything feels good. It’s… experimental, I guess? It can take a long time to learn what your body likes.”

“It’s a good job that I have an experienced teacher, then,” Gojo murmurs. 

You tilt your head once in agreement. “I suppose it is.” 

This is so weird. So fucking weird. But you can’t seem to tame the part of you that is deathly curious to see how far you both will take it.

“You can start by. Uh, touching. Yourself. Over the fabric.”

Gojo’s smaller fingers come to rest over the skirt and press the fabric down, until folds of it are gathered in his crotch. He rubs them experimentally, before shooting you a mild glare. “I can’t feel anything.”

Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to muffle a laugh into your shoulder. “No—” You fail, a chuckle falling into the air. Gojo bristles, though you can tell the action isn’t wholly serious. You try again. “You— over your underwear.”

Your underwear.

Even when the words leave your mouth—as though your panties are truly Gojo’s, and your body is truly his—they don’t feel wrong. Not like they did earlier. When every action Gojo had taken in your body, inconsequential or not, felt like a premeditated, personal attack. 

A look of understanding dawns on Gojo’s face. “Right!”

Yanking the hem of your skirt up until it bunches around his waist, he slumps further down in the chair. You’re only allowed a second to gawk at his lack of embarrassment before he’s lifting a foot up onto the sofa beneath his ass, dropping his other knee further to the side, and cautiously running his middle finger up your panties. 

“Uhh—” you start unthinkingly, before snapping your mouth shut when you realise you can’t remember what you wanted to say.

Gojo only spares you a glance at the sound and then he’s looking back down at his fingers, drawing a strange path down to your perineum and circling there. You watch his nostrils flare and his eyebrows scrunch in concentration. Then, his thumb brushes up and you can almost feel the phantom sensation when it catches on his clit. He exhales sharply, and immediately zeroes in on it, dragging his thumb back and forth in short, quick swipes. 

“This is so weird,” Gojo breathes. 

“Yeah.” You can’t look away. “Yeah, it is.”

As though his strings have been cut, Gojo falls limp against the back of the armchair and slings his propped up foot over the armrest, clearly trying to get a better angle. 

“Little circles feel good,” you offer quietly. 

You watch as he obediently brings his pointer and middle finger up to start rolling them in small circles around his clit, and you definitely watch as he gasps at the feeling, jaw clenching.

“Your turn now,” Gojo says, pleasure twisting your voice into a strange, wobbly thing. Like mist drifting by on an early morning. 

In all honesty, you forgot this was the deal. You really didn't expect Gojo getting off in your own body to be so captivating, but here you are. Drinking in every little minute reaction your body has like you’ve never seen them before.

The way your toes twitch.

The slight tremble in your bottom lip.

The stuttered rise and fall of your chest.

You can’t tell what is thanks to Gojo and what can be attributed to your own body, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Not when you can feel yourself achingly hard at each sight all the same. 

Wordlessly, you unbutton Gojo’s pants and yank the zipper down, unwillingly to let your gaze leave the man in front of you. Your big, warm palm lands on your crotch and you grasp the length of him. Feeling along it curiously. Only then do you look down, confirming what you were too afraid to do in the bathroom earlier. 

He’s big. 

Gojo laughs breathlessly across from you. Your neck snaps up to shoot him a glare and you find him already staring at you. 

“Stroke the tip.”

Spreading your legs further, you dip your fingers down to fondle his balls curiously, feeling the dull sparks of pleasure. You drag your touch up his cock. Mapping out the path before gently bringing down your thumb to brush over the head of his cock as instructed. 

“Oh—” You repeat the motion, breath catching in your chest. 

“What did you tell me?” Gojo asks, and when you look at him dumbly in question, he doesn’t bother waiting before answering himself. “Little circles.”

You press harder at the confirmation your touch feels good, and start rubbing your thumb over the head repetitively. It’s only a matter of seconds before your shoulders tense and your mouth drops open. It feels good. Really good, in fact. And you can see arousal slowly darkening the light grey of his underwear in response. You can feel yourself leaking. So different from the sensation you are used to. You gasp. 

It’s hard to remember why you were so disgusted earlier. Not when you can feel his dick twitching under your touch, nor when you’re reaping the benefits—swimming in hot pleasure.

“This is so much— easier— what the fuck—”

Gojo merely hums, and then you hear a rustle. He lifts both legs up into the air and drags your panties off in one smooth motion. He brings the material up to his nose and breathes in deeply. You wrinkle your own nose. 

“Gross.”

“I'm so wet,” he says in wonder. 

Gojo drops the panties on his chest and splays his legs back out, fingers quickly dipping into your arousal as though to emphasise his words. 

“Surprised?” you ask. “Don’t tell me this is your first time getting a girl wet, Gojo.”

“Shut up,” he snarks, but the hitch in his breath as his fingers come back up to circle your clit, wet with arousal, betrays him. “God.”

You roll your eyes, and tug his boxers down to release his cock uncaringly. It bounces on your stomach and leaves a sticky mark on his uniform. You give yourself a few dry tugs before Gojo is speaking up again.

“Spit in your hand.”

You do, and the slide is so smooth you grunt in surprise. Pleasure zapping up your spine.

Gojo hardly hesitates as he sinks two fingers inside him, and you can tell from the twinge in his jaw it must sting.

“Let yourself adjust first," you offer, "Then try scissoring them." 

Gojo waits a few beats, and the slick sound of your hand jerking Gojo's cock fills the space. It feels too good to muster up any embarassment you should realistically be feeling.

Before long, Gojo bites his lip impatiently and decides he's had enough time to adjust. While you can’t see what he’s doing inside himself, his wrist and forearm flex rhythmically and you gather Gojo must be following your instructions.

You stare, transfixed, at your smaller fingers hidden inside your body. The best you’ve done is get off in front of a mirror, and that experience pales in comparison to the real thing before you. 

“Ow,” Gojo grunts, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure. “What the fuck?”

“Usually I start with one,” you say, unsympathetic. “You gotta relax, Gojo.” 

“I’m trying, but it’s kinda difficult with something shoved inside me. I thought this was supposed to feel good. You guys sure make it look like it does anyway.”

You scoff, slick hand working over your cock. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me! If I’m doing it wrong, it’s your fault.” 

“And I’m telling you, you gotta relax more. Nothing feels good when you’re tensed up like that,” you say, nodding to the taut line of his body. “That's why foreplay exists, dumbass.”

“What are you, a fucking sex guru?” Gojo asks incredulously.

“If you’re that blown away by the necessity of foreplay, I feel very sorry for your previous escapades,” you answer primly. 

Instead of snapping back at you, Gojo falls silent, his face twisted into what looks like self-consciousness. Maybe chagrin. You can’t quite place it. And all of a sudden, your stomach swoops as you start piecing the puzzle of this evening together. 

“Don’t tell me…” you whisper. 

Gojo’s eyes scrunch closed, and the still fingers inside himself get pulled out unceremoniously. “You sure know how to kill the mood,” he attempts to joke, but it falls flat when you don’t drop your suspicions. 

“You’re kidding, right?” you ask quietly, the hand on your dick stilling in shock. “Like you’re actually joking. You cannot be serious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he declares, opening his eyes to meet your baffled gaze. 

“I think you do,” you reply. 

Gojo claimed you killed the mood, but when your eyes flick to his wet fingers, and the arousal still slowly dripping from him like honey, it’s difficult to believe. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re a virgin,” you say carefully, scared to hear the truth. 

“Surprise,” he says lightly, attempting an awkward smile. 

You lean back, gaze trained on him. “Wow.”

“Happy now?”

“Oh, quite.” You glance back down to his wet cunt and think for a moment, but that’s truly all it takes for an idea to take root. You never stood a chance. Not with Gojo like this before you. “If you want, I can show you a good time." 

“You can—” he starts, disbelievingly. “—show me a… good… time? What are you, a fucking uni student still? Who says that kinda shit anymore.”

But you can see his cunt clench in the cool air, and Gojo clearly doesn’t realise as such. You stand abruptly and walk over to where he’s splayed out in the chair. His head tips back as you approach and he watches you cautiously, tracking your movements. 

You dip down into a kneel. “Trust me.”

Forcing yourself between his thighs, you grab one of Gojo's legs with a big, warm hand before slinging it over your shoulder. Gojo makes a startled sound. He tries to dislodge your hold. You stop the motion—tightening your grip and using your free hand to pin his other leg against the chair's armrest.

Like this, Gojo's wide open for you, one knee by his ear, the other knee shucked over your shoulder. 

“What the fuck—” he gasps, scrabbling in an attempt to sit up and close his legs. He stares up at you with wide eyes. 

“Stop,” you murmur, flexing your fingers on the soft flesh of his thighs where you pin them in place. “Relax…” 

Glancing down, you study how his cunt flutters each time you dig your fingers into him. Interesting. As though testing a theory, you turn your head to the leg over your shoulder, breath ghosting over his knee. Then, keeping an eye on his cunt, you lean forward. Coercing his leg back against his body, opening him up to you even more. 

Gojo keens, a strangled sound in the back of his throat telling of the strain, and his cunt clenches, arousal weeping at the motion. You barely fight back a groan.

Covering his face with both hands, Gojo’s breaths are short and sharp, embarrassment lining every muscle in his body. It’s gratifying. And you don’t really care if he wants to hide, especially with what you’re about to do. 

Without warning, you dip your head forward to blow on his cunt. 

“Oh my god— wait—” Gojo gasps, hips jumping. 

You haven’t even touched him yet. 

“Wait, wait, wait—”

You blow again and grin when his cunt clenches once more. 

“Hold on—”

Experimentally, you dip your head to lick a broad stripe up his pussy. Gojo’s thighs tense under your hold. When he tries to speak, you repeat the action, before trailing your tongue down to the source of his arousal. Slurping it into your mouth and moaning as you can taste it on your tongue. The words die in his throat and Gojo whines instead, hips bucking up into your mouth. 

“This is—”

Pleased with the control you have over him, you bully your tongue inside him.

“—so—”

Thrusting it in and out. 

“—wrong.”

Scraping your teeth gently on his perineum. 

“I know,” you reply into his cunt, voice muffled and wet. 

You kiss your way up his pussy and trace his clit with your tongue before sucking on it. You pulse your mouth around it until Gojo starts spasming under you. A small hand comes to tangle in your hair and when he pulls in panic, you moan into him. Gojo keens at the vibration against his clit. 

“Oh my god, please don’t stop,” Gojo chokes, his free hand coming to rest over yours, still pinning his leg against the chair's armrest.

You don’t reply, but you squeeze your hand and dip back down to lick into him, nose bumping his clit with every thrust of your tongue. It’s a challenge, to force your tongue inside so far, but you’re determined to taste yourself as you smush your face deep into his cunt, burying yourself there. 

“Ah, fuck— just there— don’t move!”

You couldn’t even if you wanted to, Gojo’s grip is fast in your hair and it forces your face impossibly deeper into his cunt. Of course, if you really wanted to you could be out of his hold within a split second. It’s kind of nice though, to let him have his fun for once. Let him play house as the big, strong sorcerer he isn’t even the whisper of anymore. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes—”

You flick your tongue back up to his clit, and Gojo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care when you slip a finger inside him, immediately curling it. He does, however, notice the second, moaning aloud as you start pumping them in tandem, curling them on every thrust to try and find his g-spot. 

He writhes on the armchair under your hulking body, undulating like a fish out of water. It’s a strange picture. The sorcerer who’s usually so restrained. Who’s only expressive when it suits him—when it’s a means to an end of manipulating someone into doing something for him.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon— please, just— nghh— right there—”

It hurts when he comes. 

Not him of course, a high, sharp keen reverberating in the air as he trembles through his first orgasm as a woman. Wave after wave wracking through his body. 

But you. 

Gojo’s grip in your hair turns punishing, too much so to be enjoyable anymore. And his other hand scrabbles on your forearm, scraping harsh pink lines into the exposed skin where your jacket sleeve has ridden up, a painful sting emanating where skin breaks under his nails. You can’t help but wonder if this is a trait of Gojo, or a trait of Gojo in your body. 

“Ahh… oh my— god,” the man in question finally gasps, twitching in overstimulation where you’re still lazily dragging your tongue through his cunt, fingers unmoving inside him. “Stop. Enough.”

You comply, mostly just to lessen his assault on the body you’re currently inhabiting. You remove your mouth and fingers. Settle back onto your haunches as Gojo pants like he’s just run a marathon.

Any lingering weirdness of your situation is well and truly lost on you in the face of Gojo's little body trembling through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Your thumbs subconsciously soothe over his skin but you don't release his legs.

Sticky and wet.

That’s how you feel. In more ways than one you suspect, if Gojo's widening eyes are anything to go by as he takes in the full mess he's made of his face.

Your face.

“You look…” Gojo begins, but you never get to find out. Instead, his gaze flicks between your eyes as he contemplates something, and then he’s blurting out one quick string of words, “Canyoufuckme?”

You raise a mocking eyebrow. “Come again?”

Gojo closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. “I said, can you fuck me?”

Fighting to control your expression, you don’t realise until a beat later how your fingers tighten around his legs painfully. 

“Just— When’s the next chance we’ll get to do something like this?” Gojo reasons, trying to pull his legs closer to his body self-consciously. He can’t get far with them still trapped by you. “It’s not like I want you to fuck me, I just want to know what it’s like to get fucked by me.”

“Narcissistic much?” you scoff, peering down at him and feeling less and less enthusiastic about it as each long second ticks by. “And I think you’re lying.”

“No.”

You place one hand on his stomach and press it down slightly. “You don’t just wanna feel what it’s like to be full? To feel like someone’s dick is in your throat? To feel every thought melt out your ears with a good fuck?”

Gojo swallows uneasily before brandishing a shining smile. “Nope. Self-performance review purposes only.”

“Mhm,” you hum, unconvinced. “Well I suppose I can help. I won’t be able to emulate your technique without any prior knowledge though,” you sigh. “So I guess you’ll just have to review the product itself.”

“Gross. What the fuck are you on about?” Gojo asks, lips curling at your crude phrasing. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you slide his leg from your shoulder, tuck it around your body, and heft him up with you by the waist as you stand. Gojo instinctively wraps his legs around you, afraid to fall. 

“Hey! Stop fuckin’ manhandling me...” But he sounds breathless, and hardly annoyed about it in fact. 

You don’t like that he’s so easy to carry—and you’re honestly not sure whether that’s thanks to his strength or your stature. You reach the sofa and sit down, tugging him onto your lap. Gojo doesn’t settle though, awkwardly hovering above your legs and staring down at you, once hand fisted in the sofa's backrest behind you. 

“Take it away,” you murmur. 

“The fuck do you mean, ‘take it away’?” he utters incredulously. “I asked you to fuck me.”

“I’ve already put in a good shift today. Can’t I cash in my payment? You’ve got my strong legs, Gojo." You pat his thigh with a firm palm. "It’ll be a breeze.”

The sorcerer looks at you strangely, as though scrutinising the truth of your statement. “You’ve done this before to know that?”

You scoff. “Obviously.”

“Okay. Well… Alright then. Put it in,” he finishes lamely. 

“I’ll let you do the honours,” you reply, laughter melting your tone into something warmer than you were intending. 

Gojo huffs as though greatly inconvenienced and rolls his eyes. He rises up onto his knees, takes a hold of your cock. You hiss and Gojo’s eyes flicker up to yours curiously. 

“You won’t last long,” he states plainly, mirth dancing across his expression. 

“Probably not,” you agree. “Longer than you will, though.”

“Infamously and statistically untrue.”

You strain upwards to speak into his ear, voice honey-smooth. “You’re in my body, Gojo. You don’t think I know what’s going to make you tick?” 

He makes a dismissive sound, lowers himself slightly, and brushes the head of your cock through the arousal slicking his cunt. You exhale through your nose. 

“Thought you said I gotta do the work?” he reminds you.

“I did." You sigh when the head of your cock slips inside him for a moment. “Maybe I’ll be nice if you behave though.”

Gojo remains suspiciously silent in response, and when you dare a look up at his face, his expression is twisted as though tasting something particularly sour. “Your dirty talk isn’t doing what you think it is,” he finally huffs. 

Wrapping your hands around his waist, you test your grip and startle when your fingers brush each other on the small of his back. You blink and ask, “No?”

“Nope.” Gojo shakes his head, letting your cock catch on his rim once more.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to tug the sorcerer down to the hilt of you.

You pitch your voice down teasingly, “You don’t want to be good for me?”

“Not particularly,” he replies distractedly, dipping down a scarce few centimeters and back up again with a wince. 

You’re alert at once, perking up like a dog having a treat dangled in front of them. With the intent to soothe, you rub your thumbs across his stomach though it doesn’t seem to do anything but throw Gojo off his concentration, who makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. 

“Relax dude,” you insist, using your hold to pull him down an inch. 

“‘Dude’?” he asks disbelievingly, not appearing to notice how you’re sinking into him. “You’re kidding me. Such a fucking uni student I swear, you used to sleeping with younger people or what? Is that who you’re picking up your dirty talk from? A bunch of students who imitate bad porn?”

Fighting back a laugh, you kick up into his cunt and tug him down to meet your pelvis simultaneously. Gojo releases a high, breathy moan. His fingers clutch onto the meat of your shoulder and the short hair on your nape as he's knocked forward by the motion. 

“What was that?” you ask, voice similarly windswept at the tight heat engulfing your cock. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing before. No wonder guys think with their dicks. Perhaps you would too if this is what it feels like. 

“Oh my god—” Gojo breathes unsteadily, head hanging so that all you can see is the crown of his head. “That was… really underhanded.” 

Encouragingly, you coax Gojo's waist towards you and smile when he gasps. “You gonna move, then?”

“Gimme a second,” Gojo snaps, sharp nails pressing into your nape in warning. “So impatient to get your dick wet.”

“Yeah.” You ignore his request though, still moving his waist back and forth, enough so that Gojo’s mouth drops open silently as he tries to adjust to both the intrusion and the new sensation of your dick brushing his walls. “Is it weird that this isn’t weird?” 

“Kind of,” he chokes out, starting to move with your touch cautiously as though doesn't want you to realise that he’s ready yet. “I think we might’ve passed weird when you had your tongue in me, though.” 

“Or earlier,” you add thoughtfully, and slide your palms down to his hips to tilt them forward so his clit catches on the thatch of hair at the base of your dick with each gentle rock. Gojo exhales a pitiful noise and chases the sensation, gliding back and forth with a new fervour. “When you offered to teach me how to jack off.” 

“Maybe then,” he agrees mindlessly, clearly only half listening to you as he slides both hands to collar your trapezius muscles.

You can hardly be annoyed when the touch has you light headed, static creeping from the corners and lowering your inhibitions even further. He’s too warm inside, and while his movements feel good, you know they won’t be enough to get you off anytime soon.

You don’t think you can wait longer than soon, impatience buzzing under your skin. 

“C’mon, Gojo,” you murmur, lifting your hips up to knock your cock into him. He whines. Whines. And you are possessed by the noise to repeat the action, kicking into him in short, aborted thrusts where he’s still heavy on your lap. “Thought you wanted to— ah— test me out?” 

“Just keep doing that,” he demands instead, and you can see the side of his expression scrunching up every time you move. Gojo's face is still tucked between your bodies, reluctant to meet your eyes. 

Wanting what you were promised, you fall still, lean back, remove your hands from his soft body and interlace your fingers behind your head in an action so irritatingly lofty that even you can admit the way Gojo immediately bristles is utterly warranted. 

“Fine,” Gojo scoffs, lifting his head to glare at you. “I’ll get off how I was before then. Doesn’t bother me.” 

As though to punctuate his claim, Gojo starts rolling his hips again. 

“No you won’t.” You don’t move to stop him but he stills all the same as if you had. “Just try it properly.”

Gojo grumbles, seemingly debating something for a moment as the words he wants to speak sit on the tip of his tongue, but then he swallows them back and pivots his strategy. You furrow your eyebrows. “Whatever, if you’re that desperate for it…” 

Gojo rises onto his knees and you can feel the cool air hit your dick, already too accustomed to the warmth of him.

At once, there’s an itch behind your teeth to seat yourself back inside Gojo, so strong you feel it could bowl you straight off your feet if you were stood up. Gojo's expression is wary, but then he slides back down your length and it melts away, replaced with surprise. 

“That’s it,” you murmur. He rushes to lift himself back up, using the grip he has on the junction of your neck to aid himself before sinking back down. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Really good—” he grunts, dropping back to your lap. 

You can feel pleasure licking up your body, warming your mind, but somehow the sight in front of you is even better. Gojo’s face—your face—slack as he finds his rhythm, bobbing on your cock eagerly; Gojo panting, each laboured breath hitting your forehead, your nose, your chin as he moves; Gojo all-but drooling, lips slick with it. 

You glance down and you nearly come there and then at the sight of you two joined. There's a sticky rim of arousal and pre-come foaming around the base of your cock which you ache to drag your fingers through.

Then, you suddenly remember you have free will, and waste no time as you drop your hands from behind your head and finger the connection. Spreading the mess on Gojo's thighs, across his clit as he whines at the touch, through the thatch of pale hair above your dick. It should be gross really, but your head spins with arousal and you dip a thumb into the mixture before swiping it on his clit once again.

Gojo doesn’t disappoint. He keens, a sweet animalistic sound, and his thighs shake with no abandon. 

“Do that– hah— do that again.”

Wordlessly, you repeat the action, clumsily following his clit as he bounces on your cock. You’re positive it's barely enough consistent pressure to get him off, but his moans crawl higher and higher each time you manage to catch his clit. 

“Doing so well,” you pant. “Bouncing on my cock like you were made for it.”

Gojo moans, but when he responds he sounds mildly repulsed, as though his mind and body are at odds over how he's supposed to feel about your words. “I’m in your body!”

You shake your head, disagreeingly. “This is all you.”

“Idiot,” Gojo breathes, pace becoming sloppy, each rise becoming slower, each drop becoming harder. 

“Have you ever felt like this though?” 

“Stop talking, I can’t fucking think!” he snarls, shaking thighs lifting him up your cock once more. 

“I bet you haven't,” you speak for him. “Besides, you don’t need to think. Just chase the feeling Gojo. Start thinking and you’ll be on my cock forever. I told you it’s more difficult for women.”

Gojo groans, half-frustrated half-aroused. “Don’t tell me— shit— not to think when you’re making me— do all the work.”

Suddenly realising his annoyance, a laugh bubbles out of you, drenched in glee. “Mr. Control Freak doesn’t like being in charge, huh? Need me to dick you down? Quiet that big smart brain of yours?”

“I swear to god,” he warns, eyes darting to yours dangerously. “Talk to me like that again…” 

“Fine,” you acquiesce, pouting. But you can’t help but throw a bit of fuel on the fire when you murmur, “Baby.”

“I’m done,” he proclaims abruptly, lifting himself fully off your dick so quick he stumbles back from you when he stands. Your shock lasts for all of a few seconds before you’re distracted by the sight of his puffy cunt, glistening with arousal in the low light of your living room, his skirt in a pool around his ankles. “This isn’t worth it, you’re actually intolerable.” You force your gaze up to his eyes but they get stuck on the sight of his lips first, brain clouded with lust. “I’m just going to jack off, on your bed by the way,” he emphasises, as though that would bother you. As though Gojo’s pre-come isn’t dripping onto your sofa right now. “And we’re never going to speak of this again unless you want to die.”

When you don’t say anything, Gojo exhales an irritated breath and storms past the edge of the sofa in the direction of your bedroom. Before you can think about what you’re doing, you dart a hand out to grab his wrist and pull him awkwardly over the sofa's armrest before he can get any further.

For a brief moment you're surprised by your own strength. You’d only meant to stop him but now he’s bent over the arm of the sofa like he's on display.

“Get off me,” he snaps, an embarrassed flush tinting his features as he tries and fails to pry his wrist from your grip. 

“Thought you wanted me to fuck you?” you ask sincerely. 

Gojo drops his gaze to the sofa a few inches from his face. “A momentary lapse in judgement.” 

“That's it, yeah?” 

“Mhm, now lemme go raid your bedside table. I know you've got some freaky shit in there and I'm gonna take it for a spin.”

“Alright,” you pretend to agree. “Let me check something, first though.” 

Gojo sighs, but doesn’t argue. You place a hand on his shoulder blades and press him down onto the sofa, feigning using him to stand. In two quick steps you circle the sofa and fit another hand to the base of his spine where you stop behind him. Gojo realises that he’s been tricked and quickly tries to shove himself upright. You hold him in place easily.

“No, no no no— this is so degrading, we’re not— we’re not doing this.”

“Degrading? Seriously? Way to be progressive Gojo, jeez. There’s nothing degrading about playing a part in the miracle of life.”

And that really seems to make him panic. Gojo starts to press his hands into the sofa beneath him before giving up and kicking a leg back at you blindly. You bully forward to stop his flailing, until your clothed thighs are touching his, your hard cock sat snug in atop his bare ass. 

“I wanna eat you out again,” you murmur, eyeing the spread of his cunt where his hips are hooked over the armrest, his tiptoes barely touching the floor. “But another time. I wanna fuck you first. Properly fuck you. Make you nice and quiet like you were askin’ for. How ‘bout it, Gojo?”

Gojo covers his face with his hands and buries it into the sofa, soft trembles wracking his body. Whether from nerves or arousal or fear, you truly haven't a clue. 

“C’mon.” Sensing that he’s not going to move, you lift the hand from his lower back to your cock and swipe it through his wet cunt, a silent promise. “I’ll make you feel good.” 

Without waiting for his reply, you slip your cock into Gojo's cunt. Sliding back into his warmth so easily it's as if you've already carved out a home for yourself deep inside him.

Gojo keens into the sofa cushions, a foot lifting to wrap around the back of your calf subconsciously. You test your weight on his shoulder blades, letting him take it until he’s forced to turn his face to the side and heave in a stilted breath. 

You cant your hips back before snapping them forward. Immediately you start up a harsh rhythm, following your instincts as you try to ignore the pleasure fizzling through your own body and instead focus on giving Gojo the best fuck of his stupid life.

Gojo curses, and it tangles in a moan until you can't even tell what he was trying to say.

You angle your hips differently each thrust, aiming for the spot inside your cunt that you know from personal experience causes your brain to leak from your ears. It takes you many clumsy thrusts—not that Gojo seems to think as much by the way his back arches, startled whines slipping out his mouth as though he can’t even try to contain them—until you finally find it. 

Gojo cries like he’s been shot. Body locking up, drool leaking from his wide open mouth, toes curling against the floor and the back of your calf. 

You grin. 

Jack-rabbiting back into that spot over and over, until you can see his hands scrabbling on the sofa as he fights the last remaining dregs of his pride. A particularly hard press on his shoulder blades later and he’s thawing, going limp against the sofa like a puppet with their strings cut. 

“No thinking now, huh?” you pant, leering over his back to get a better look at the fucked out expression he’s plastered on your face. 

You expected to fixate on the sight of what you look like in this position, but you only find yourself wondering how the real Gojo would look.

How his pale skin would flush; how his white hair would be plastered to his sweaty skin; how his own deep voice would rise higher and higher as you fuck into him with the strap you keep tucked away under your bed for your particularly adventurous partners. 

Gojo makes a noise, perhaps trying to oppose your meaningless statement. You laugh, slightly cruel. Still warm. And brace both hands along his spine, leaning the bulk of your weight on him like a blanket. He only melts further beneath you, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight. At the quiet behind his eyes. 

Gojo’s high whines have tapered off into low, chopped keens at each sharp thrust, as though his brain has run out of capacity to react as it should. You can see his fingers weakly holding onto the sofa, his legs all but dangling from the edge of the armrest, his heaving chest.

And without warning, he comes. Body trembling like a leaf in the wind, voice lodged in this throat as his mouth opens on a soundless moan. His eyes squeeze closed and his back arches impossibly further. The sight of the curve so alluring you can’t help but lick along the sweaty skin, mouthing at him like an animal. 

“There you go,” you speak against him, voice rough and jagged. “You're so good, Gojo. Knew you were made for this.”

He doesn’t even complain when you continue thrusting into him, though you are at least kind enough to stop targeting his g-spot, chasing your own ignored high.

So much for you coming first. 

Far away, you can hear your own gravelled moans as you fuck into him like a dog in heat, laving your tongue along the ridges in his spine, listening to his quiet keens of overstimulated pleasure. And all it takes is a blissed out brush of his foot on your ankle for you to come too, the pressure exploding as you shoot thick ropes of come inside his cunt, shallowly rocking into him until the pleasure fizzles out into a mild pain. Not enough to stop you, but you still anyway, thinking about how different that was from your usual orgasms.

A very good different.  

“Shit,” you breathe, slowly coming back to yourself. “That was crazy.”

You tilt your head on Gojo’s back to peer down at him.

He’s gone. 

Floating. 

Drifting somewhere that isn’t this room you’re both in. The realisation that you’ve done this to him has pride simmering in your gut, arousal coating the edges of it. Slowly, you peel yourself from his back and pull out cautiously, conscious of how unpleasant the sensation can be. Gojo barely reacts bar a barely there scrunch of his nose. 

“You okay, Gojo?” you ask quietly, brushing some of your hair away from his sweaty face. 

He hums tiredly, expression content, and his eyes lazily flicker to yours for a second before flickering away again like there’s something more important to look at in the silence of his mind. 

“I really did a number on you, wow…” you murmur, rising to your full height to take in all of him. 

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. 

But he does whine when you drag your fingers through the come dripping out of his cunt, scooping it up and fucking it back into him gently. There’s a hitch in his breath that rings out in the quiet of the living room. You curl your fingers, searching for that spot once more. 

“You can come one more time, right?” 

—

In the afterglow, clean and satiated, you share an order of chinese food on the floor of your living room. A film plays in the background. It’s not one you know—an older film, one Gojo had picked out when flipping through the channels on your TV while you called the restaurant. You’re barely watching it, only flicking your eyes to the flash of a new scene before your gaze inevitably lands on the sorcerer beside you once more. But the noise is kind of nice; comforting, if you were to put a word to it. 

“If you tell anyone about this,” Gojo begins around a mouthful of noodles, oddly relaxed for the threat he goes on to say, “I will air out all of the blackmail I’ve been collecting these past few years.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow, leaning your back against the seat of the sofa. “Like what?”

“Like how you when you use other people’s mugs in the staffroom you only rinse them before putting them back in the cupboard.” 

You shrug, unphased. 

“And, how you gave Ijichi the wrong number two months ago so now Ino keeps getting sent on what are supposed to be your errands.”

At that you laugh, surprised Gojo even knew about that little stunt you’ve managed to pull off. It won’t be long before another sorcerer, probably Nanami knowing your luck, clocks on and actually does something about it. But you’ve been enjoying the reprieve from doing grunt work in the meantime. 

“And, how you are really, really bad at dirty talk.”

You smile, aimlessly stirring your boxed chicken around with your chopsticks. “You goin’ to tell everyone that?”

“I might,” Gojo replies haughtily, giving you a meaningful look. “But only if you tell first.”

“Well then,” you start, voice laced with amusement. “Guess I better keep my mouth shut.”

Gojo nods, before he mimes zipping his mouth closed and flicking the key towards your TV. You mimic the action, lean over to steal a bite of noodles from the container he’s holding, and chuckle when he squawks indignantly. 

—

A week later, you’re back in your own body. 

It’s strange to find yourself disappointed by what should be a cause for great celebration. 

But then Gojo is following you home to pick his belongings up and his mouth is on yours the minute you both pass through your front door and you find it remarkably hard to care at all. Not when he’s bending you over the armrest of your traumatised sofa in revenge. Not when he’s sliding into you like he’s coming home. And definitely not when he’s promising in that stupidly titillating voice of his how there won’t be space for a thought left in your head once he’s finished with you. 

As such, you ought to remove your rose tinted glasses soon. It isn’t healthy to live in the past after all, but your memories in Gojo’s body are too sweet to resist, even with his warm hulking body plastered to your back. 

Sue you. 

Reminiscing never killed anybody. 

‹‹ KINKTOBER 2025 | GENERAL M.LIST | READ ON AO3

 Jean Kirstein had always been a mouthy bastard. 

He had that cocky little smirk, the sharp tongue, the constant teasing that usually left you flushed and biting back a glare. In his mind, he always had the upper hand. He was always ready with some smartass comment about how easily he could have you ruined, how fast he could make you beg. And to his credit, he usually backed it up. Jean had a way of taking control that left you dizzy, wrecked, and clinging to him. 

But tonight was different. 

Because you sat flush on top of him, straddling his hips, the solid heat of him filling you to the hilt. That confidence of his was slipping fast.  And God, he looked gorgeous  like this—sprawled out on the bed, jaw tight as he tried to keep himself together. His broad chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, stomach tensing every time you rolled your hips. Jean’s hands were on your waist at first, guiding, trying to keep some illusion of control. But every time you shifted, grinding down instead of rising up, the words caught in his throat. And eventually his grip faltered. You could feel him surrender in the way his fingers slid helplessly down to your thighs, just holding on. 

“Fuck—” his voice cracked, and his head tipped back against the pillow. His eyes wide like he couldn’t believe you were doing this to him. “You’re—shit, you’re driving me crazy.” 

It made you smile, leaning forward so your chest brushed his, lips ghosting over the column of his throat. “You always run your mouth so much,” you murmured, breath brushing his jaw as you leaned over him. Your pace never faltered; slow, deliberate,  squeezing him in a way that made his legs twitch beneath you. “What’s the matter, Jean? Cat got your tongue?” 

“You’re— shit— you’re not playing fair.” 

You smiled sweetly, leaning back to drag your hips over him again, letting the angle hit just right. His chest arched, a low, broken sound slipping out that he immediately tried to swallow back, cheeks burning red. You felt the shiver run straight through him. That proud, smart-mouthed soldier was reduced to a mess under you. It was addictive. 

“Not fair?” you repeated, tilting your head like you were considering it. “Feels pretty fair to me. You get to sit there, look pretty, and I do all the work.” 

You kept him right there, right at that edge where his hands twitched and his hips bucked, but you never let him take over. The flush spreading down his neck, the way his jaw clenched and unhinged on every shaky exhale, it was everything. 

“God, you feel—” His voice cracked again, dissolving into a broken moan when you pressed down harder, taking him even deeper. His hand came up, shaky and unsure, brushing your cheek before tangling in your hair like he needed to anchor himself to something. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving, sweat trailing down the hollow of his throat where his pulse thundered. 

Every thrust of your hips drew another sound out of him, low and unguarded, the kind of noises Jean would never make if he were the one in control. He tried to chase your rhythm, tried to bite back the whimpers, but you could feel him breaking apart beneath you. 

“You’re so—fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out raw and unpolished, nothing like his usual swagger. His hands tightened on your hips as if he could slow you down, but you just leaned into him, nails digging lightly into his chest. 

“You like this, don’t you?” you whispered, your voice steady even while his was falling apart. “Being underneath me. Letting me use you.” 

Jean’s lips parted, a soundless moan breaking into a desperate, “Y-yeah—fuck, yeah.” choked by the weight of his own pleasure. “Fuck, yes—don’t stop—please, don’t stop.” 

The sound of him begging nearly undid you, but you held steady.  His thighs jerked, his hips stuttered, and you knew he was close—so close he couldn’t hide it. 

You slowed the pace, just enough to make him whine.  The sound tore from his throat, rough and needy, his whole body bucking up as though he could force you faster again. You tightened around him, watching his entire body jolt, and his hands finally left the sheets, flying to your waist in a desperate grab. But you caught his wrists, pushing them back down to the bed with a strength that startled even him. 

“Look at you,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, watching the way the muscles there tensed under your touch. “All talk until someone puts you in your place.” 

His throat bobbed, a broken sound catching there, and you gave him exactly what he wanted. You picked up your rhythm again, hips snapping harder. The bed creaked beneath you, headboard tapping faintly against the wall with the force of his thrusts trying to meet yours. His skin was hot under your hands. Every sound he made was raw, moans and curses bitten off halfway only to crumble into whines. 

“Oh, fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” His warning was barely coherent.  His hips bucked hard, muscles locking as his whole body arched against you. 

You leaned down, capturing his mouth in a kiss that swallowed the rest of his words, and that was all it took. Jean shattered beneath you, hips jerking wildly, a strangled cry tearing out of him. His whole body tensed hard, veins standing out on his neck as his orgasm ripped through him. 

He came hard, spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves, his hands clutching you like he was drowning. His moans were loud and broken, drawn out of him without shame now, his voice rasping raw with each sound. You could feel him twitching inside you, feel the aftershocks ripple through his body as he gasped against your mouth. 

And fuck, if watching him like that —flushed and undone, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, lips swollen from your kiss— wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever seen. It was almost enough to push you over the edge on its own. He looked absolutely perfect. 

You slowed your hips gradually, letting him ride out every last pulse of release. Jean slumped against the headboard, chest rising and falling in rapid, shaky breaths, his hands still gripping your thighs. 

When he finally blinked up at you, eyes glassy and lips parted, you couldn’t help the satisfied little smile that tugged at your mouth.

  The restaurant was lively, humming with laughter and conversation, forks clinking against plates, waiters weaving in between tables, none of them knowing what was happening beneath yours. 

Gojo sat back in the chair next to you, long legs sprawled, one arm casually slung over the back of it as if he wasn’t currently knuckle-deep inside you. His blindfold tilted just slightly, white hair catching the warm light, sharp jaw flexing with every grin he tossed your way. 

You could barely breathe, thighs trembling as his fingers curled inside you, slow, deliberate strokes that had you hovering so close to the edge it was maddening. 

“You’re so jumpy, angel. People might start to think you’ve had too much wine.”  he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear as though he were leaning in to tell you some casual joke. You tried to steady your hand around your glass, but your grip faltered when his thumb pressed against your clit in a slow, devastating circle. The stem wobbled between your fingers, a droplet of red nearly spilling over. 

“Careful,” Gojo murmured, that cocky smirk tugging his lips upward. “You wouldn’t want to make a mess in front of all our friends, would you?” 

Your nails dug into his thigh under the table in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. He chuckled low in his throat, as smug as always, and flexed his fingers inside you, pulling another sharp breath from your lips that you barely managed to mask with a cough. 

“That’s it,” he cooed, his voice like silk. “Pretty little brat, trying so hard to behave. Look at you squirming for me.” 

You tried to focus, you really did! But the conversations around you blurred into static, laughter rising and falling like background noise to the rush of blood in your ears. He had you strung tight, hips trembling against his relentless rhythm. Each time that molten heat coiled low in your belly and the crest of release threatened to break, he shifted. Fingers curling inside you with devastating precision, pressing down against that spot that made your breath stutter, only to ease off at the last possible second, dragging you down from the edge cruelly, smirk deepening as he whispered, “Not yet.” 

Your thighs shook. Sweat prickled at your temple. Your teeth sank into your lip so hard you thought you might draw blood, anything to keep the moans trapped in your throat. 

“You’re soaking me,” Gojo teased, tilting his head like he was discussing something normal, like the wine list. “I can feel it dripping down your thighs. Fuck, angel, you’re so messy and no one has a clue.” 

You turned your face toward him with trembling breath, eyes pleading. He only leaned closer, lips brushing your cheek. 

“Beg for it.” 

“Please,” you whispered, desperate. “Please let me come.” 

For a moment, you actually thought he would.  His fingers sped up, thumb pressing hard against your clit, dragging you right to the brink until your thighs clenched tight around him and your back arched in your chair. But just as you teetered at the edge, release clawing at you, he slowed again. Fingers stilled, pressure lightened, your orgasm ripped away again. 

You bit down on a whine, trembling so hard the chair nearly scraped against the floor. He only laughed under his breath, savoring your frustration. “So close, huh? Bet you thought I was gonna let you. You should see your face right now.” 

Tears of need pricked at the corners of your eyes, your body aching, throbbing, and oversensitive from being denied. You hated him for it. You needed him more than ever. 

And Gojo knew it, too. He smirked, pressing a teasing kiss against your jaw. “Alright, angel. This time.” 

His fingers picked up their pace immediately, thumb circling your clit in tight, merciless patterns. No slowing down this time,  just raw, unrelenting pressure that shattered every last bit of control you had. 

You shook violently, nails clawing into his thigh as heat exploded through you, your orgasm ripping free in shuddering waves that had you clutching onto him desperately, hips bucking under the table. 

It was impossible to keep quiet. A strangled moan tore from your throat, quickly masked by his lips crushing against yours in a fake kiss. His mouth swallowed every cry as he guided you through it. Your body trembled, clenching around his fingers, overwhelmed by how long he’d kept you teetering. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hissed against your mouth. “So pretty when you come for me. Look at you, soaking my hand. All mine.” 

You slumped against him, heart racing, body weak, and thighs sticky. He pulled his hand back slowly, only to let his thumb brush lazily over your clit again. You jolted, a helpless whine caught in your throat as another sharp aftershock wracked your body. 

“Sensitive?” he teased, fingers barely circling. 

You gasped, clutching his wrist, trying to still him, but your body betrayed you with another shudder, your thighs pressing together around his hand. 

Before you could catch your breath, someone from across the table leaned forward. “Hey, you okay? You look a little flushed.” 

Gojo didn’t miss a beat. His fingers never fully left you as he leaned back in his chair with that dazzling grin. 

“She’s fine,” he answered smoothly. “Just a little warm in here, right, angel?” 

You nodded quickly, cheeks burning. Only you knew the truth, but the look on Gojo’s face told you that he was still far from finished with you.

Oct 3 - Gojo Satoru (Jujutsu Kaisen) Kink: Exhibitionism / Semi-Public play Gojo just can't help himself... he loves showing off, teasing you in ways that make your heart race while trying not to get caught.

Oct 5 - Jean Kirstein (Attack on Titan) Kink: Cowgirl Jean's all talk until you're the one calling the shots. Watching him stumble over his words while you stay steady on top? Yeah, it turns out nothing flusters him faster than giving up control.

Oct 7 - Chris Redfield (Resident Evil) Kink: Thigh Riding Chris doesn't need to say much–he just keeps you pressed close, hands on your hips, eyes tracking every shiver and gasp. His amused gaze makes it clear just how much he enjoys watching you squirm.

Oct 10 - Miya Atsumu (Haikyuu!!) Kink: Brat Taming Atsumu loves when you act a little bratty. He can't resist teasing you for it! But when he finally decides to put you in your place, it's exactly the kind of attention that makes your knees go weak.

Oct 14 - Leon S. Kennedy (Resident Evil) Kink: Chokeholding Leon knows exactly what he's doing when he pins you with his arms, keeping you right where he wants you. Strong, steady, and a little dangerous –he leaves you dizzy in the best way possible.

Oct 17 - Levi Ackerman (Attack on Titan) Kink: Hand Fetish Levi's hands don't just touch, they take their time. Every stroke and squeeze makes it impossible not to react, and somehow he always knows the perfect ways to make you shiver.

Oct 19 - Sanemi Shinazugawa ( Demon Slayer) Kink: Blood Play Sanemi has always been a little rough. He bites, scratches, and leaves marks just to see you flinch. He's reckless and messy about it, but the sting mixes with the heat until you can't tell where pain ends and pleasure starts.

Oct 21 - Suguru Geto (Jujutsu Kaisen) Kink: Corruption Geto eases you into it, sweet words that slowly twist darker until you're tangled in his spell. It's intoxicating and impossible to resist, even when you know he's bending you exactly the way he wants.

Oct 24 - Toji Fushiguro (Jujutsu Kaisen) Kink: Size kink / Breeding Toji's raw strength is overwhelming, and he doesn't hold back. Every touch, every movement has an intensity that makes it impossible to ignore who's in control. It's hot, messy, and completely consuming.

Oct 26 - Choso Kamo (Jujutsu Kaisen) Kink: Edging / Dom Reader Choso shivers under your touch, whimpering every time you pull back and leave him on the edge. He's desperate, needy, and completely obedient, hanging on your every word in hopes of just a little release.

Oct 31 - Eren Yeager (Attack on Titan) Kink: Spanking / Rough Dom Play Eren keeps you right where he wants you. His hands are firm and demanding. He doesn't like when your attention wanders, and each smack reminds you (and him), that you're completely his. He loves to leave you flushed, breathless, and craving more.

It starts with the packing. Sitting on your bedroom floor, surrounded by clothes you don't really even like that much, wondering which dress says, 'I'm totally fine with my ex getting engaged before me.'

You hold up the third dress you’ve tried on; soft fabric, muted blue color, pretty neckline, and stare at yourself in the mirror. You shift from side to side, tugging the hem down, then up, then back down again. It looks fine. But not 'wow, look what you lost' fine. 

You sigh through your nose and toss it over your shoulder, where it lands in the ever-growing pile of rejects. “I’m losing my mind.” You groan into the chaos, phone on speaker beside you. Osamu's voice crackles faintly from the other end of the line. 

"Just pick something you feel good in," he says, like it's that easy. 

"I don't feel good in anything," you mutter, flopping backward onto your bed. 

"You want me to send 'Tsumu to help?" 

You groan. "Absolutely not." 

Osamu snorts softly, as if reading your mind. “He’s excited, y’know.” 

You grab a pillow from the bed and scream into it. “I hate you.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“I especially hate him.” 

“That’s fair.” 

You pause. “Do you think he’ll take this seriously?” 

“Probably not!" 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“But,” Osamu adds, “he might surprise you.” 

You scoff. “I don’t want him to surprise me. I want him to shut up and hold my hand and not embarrass me in front of my family.” 

“Hmm.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Nothing.” 

You narrow your eyes at the ceiling. “Don’t ‘hmm’ me. What does that mean.” 

Osamu’s quiet for a beat. Then, a little too casually, “He hasn’t shut up about you.” 

Your breath catches. “What?” 

“He’s being annoying. Keeps asking what color you like to wear. Wanted to know if you’re allergic to anything. Said he needs to study his role.” 

You blink up at your ceiling, heart tripping over itself. 

“He’s probably just trying to win,” you mutter. “He turns everything into a competition.” 

“Maybe,” Osamu says. “Or maybe he actually wants this to go well.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. 

So you just say, “Tell him not to wear cologne that smells like teenage angst.” 

Osamu chuckles. “I’ll pass it on.” 

- 

He texts you when he’s outside, but you’re already at the window. You watch him through the glass for a second, sitting in the driver’s seat of his sleek black car, sunglasses on even though it’s barely past 9 a.m. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like he’s either hyped for a concert or hopped up on sugar. Maybe both. 

With a sigh, you grab your bag and head out, telling yourself to stay calm. It’s just Atsumu. Just a short drive and a few days of pretending. You can survive anything for 72 hours. Probably. 

He honks once as you open the passenger door. You pause. “Seriously?” 

“What? It’s cute!” he says, grinning. “Like in the movies.” 

You give him a flat look and toss your bag into the back seat. “In the movies, we'd be madly in love.” 

Atsumu wiggles his eyebrows. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

You slam the door shut. 

He pulls away from the curb and merges onto the road like he owns it, one hand casually on the wheel, the other draped over the center console. His fingers brush your thigh when he adjusts the radio. 

“You good, babe?” he asks, tone teasing. 

You turn your head slowly. “Do not start with the pet names already.” 

“Gotta practice,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “What if your mom calls while we’re on the road?” 

You pull out your phone. “Then I’m throwing it out the window.” 

He laughs. The real one, unfiltered and loud, the kind that always punches a little bit of a hole in your chest when you’re not expecting it. You hate that it’s nice. 

The ride isn’t long, but it feels stretched out by the warmth of the sun and the stupid, comfortable silence that settles in sometimes between the banter. He hums along to songs. Points out weird billboards. Offers you snacks from a suspiciously well-stocked tote bag. 

“Are those homemade?” you ask, holding up a neatly wrapped rice ball. 

“‘Samu made ‘em for us this morning,” he says proudly. You don’t respond. You’re too busy chewing slowly, aware of the unfamiliar weight in your chest. 

- 

The Airbnb is nicer than you expected. And by nicer, you mean it looks like it was curated by an influencer. Whitewashed walls, soft lighting, a cozy living space with a little record player in the corner and a throw blanket draped over the couch just so. 

You set your bag down and take it all in. “Did you rob a Pinterest board?” 

Atsumu tosses his duffel onto the couch and stretches. “I got taste,” he says smugly. You’re welcome."

Before he can say anything else, you drift into the hallway and open the door to the bedroom. And then stop.  

“Problem?” comes his voice from the doorway behind you. 

You don’t turn around. “It’s… one bed.” 

“Well, yeah. I assumed.” His voice is way too happy. You can hear the grin. 

You turn slowly. “Assumed what, exactly?” 

He shrugs. “That we’d share.” 

Your silence makes his smile widen. “I’ll take the couch,” he relents, brushing past you with his bag. “Don’t look so scandalized.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were.” He glances back, eyes flicking over you, lingering just a little too long on the exposed strip of skin between your hoodie and leggings. “Cute when you are.” 

- 

You mad it halfway through unpacking your things in the bedroom, towel-dried hair clinging damp to your shoulders, when you realize you forgot your charger in the hallway. 

It’s a quick thing, just a few steps back toward the door. You don’t even think about it. But the moment you step into the hallway, you freeze. Because the bathroom door swings open at that exact second, steam billowing out in a warm, lazy cloud, and out walks Atsumu, skin flushed pink from the heat, towel slung dangerously low around his hips, hair dripping wet in messy, tousled waves. 

You stop walking.  He stops walking.  The hallway suddenly feels too small. 

He’s mid-rub with the towel over his hair, abs tensing with the motion, chest rising and falling with each unbothered breath. And then his eyes land on you, blinking once, golden and a little dazed like he hasn’t quite caught up to where he is yet. For a second, neither of you say anything. You try not to stare. It's unsuccessful.

There’s water tracing down the slope of his collarbone, clinging to the sharp edge before slipping lower, over his chest, down the clean cut of muscle along his ribs. His skin is a warm bronze, flushed slightly from the shower, freckled in places you hadn’t seen before. He looks like someone sculpted him out of gym membership fees. 

And then he smiles. 

“Damn. Didn’t know we were doin’ surprise inspections,” he says, towel still caught in his hand, voice low and lazy. 

You blink, once, twice, your brain catching up slower than you want it to. 

“You— Where are your clothes?” 

He shrugs, completely unfazed.

“You live with someone this weekend,” you mutter, folding your arms across your chest instinctively. 

“‘S not a real relationship,” he says, leaning a shoulder into the wall like he’s posing for something. “But you’re still gettin’ all the perks, huh?” 

You roll your eyes and look away, trying to pretend the image of him still dripping, still half-wrapped in a too-small towel, isn’t already seared into your retinas.  “I just needed my charger,” you mumble, stepping around him. 

But he doesn’t move.  And now you’re close, the heat radiating off his skin like a second atmosphere. The hallway wasn’t this narrow before. Or maybe it was, but now you’re both aware of it.  You glance up at him, and he’s watching you. Not cocky. Just watching. His eyes flick down for half a second before meeting yours again. There's no shame in it, and no apology either. Just attention. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, quieter now. “Thought you were still in the room.”  

You should say something witty or annoyed or clever. But instead you ask, much too softly, “Do you always walk around like this?” 

He tilts his head, a slow curve tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Would it bother you if I did?” 

You blink, lips parting to answer, but nothing comes out. 

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs. 

And then, like it never happened, he pushes gently off the wall and walks past you. Steam trails behind him, towel tucked a little tighter around his waist. His bare feet pad quietly over the old wood floors, and you don’t look back until he’s already gone. 

When you do, he’s disappeared into the living room, and you’re left in the hallway, alone, charger in one hand, and your heart thudding in your throat.

- 

The living room’s quiet except for the soft whir of the old ceiling fan and the start screen of some romcom neither of you had strong opinions about. You both just wanted something on.

You're curled up on one end of the couch, warm skin tucked into soft sleep shorts and a cropped old tank, your hair still a little damp from your earlier shower. You’d meant to change into something less clingy, less… revealing. But you were tired. And it’s not like Atsumu cares. Or so you thought. Because when he walks back out, finally dressed in loose joggers and a hoodie, he does a double take. His eyes sweep over you once, twice. Linger. And then his brows lift just slightly. 

“What?” you ask, heart already kicking up a notch. 

“Nothin’,” he says, plopping down beside you. “Just wasn’t expectin’ you to look like that.” 

You frown. “Like what?” 

He smirks, turning toward the TV with way too much interest. “Like you’re tryna kill me, sweetheart.” 

You roll your eyes, but your throat’s suddenly dry. He grabs the remote, flinging his legs up so they’re stretched long across the couch. His thigh brushes yours when he settles in. He doesn’t bother to move it. 

“You cold?” he asks after a moment, voice casual. 

You glance over. “Not really.” 

“Your legs say otherwise.” And then he’s tugging the throw blanket over both of you, like it’s nothing, like he’s done this a thousand times. 

Your knees knock together beneath the blanket. It makes you overly aware of yourself. You try not to breathe too loudly. He hits play and for a while, you both just watch. Sort of. Except you’re not really watching. You’re thinking about the heat of him next to you. The way his arm is just behind your shoulders. The faint scent of his cologne, all warm spice and clean laundry, lingers in the air between you. At one point, you shift slightly, and his hand brushes against your knee under the blanket. He tenses, but doesn't quite pull away.

“You good?” he asks, eyes still on the screen. 

You glance at him. His gaze flicks sideways, lands on your legs under the blanket for half a second too long. Then back up. You swallow hard.

“Fine,” you say. “You?” 

He hums low in his throat. “Peachy.” Then he adds suddenly, voice a little quieter. "You sleep in that?”

You blink. “What?” 

“The tank top,” he says, eyes flicking down before catching yours again. “It’s cute.” 

Heat crawls up your neck. You look down at yourself, soft pink shirt, worn thin with time, neckline a little stretched.You raise a brow. “What, too scandalous for your delicate sensibilities?” 

“No,” he says, and his voice drops again, low and sure. “Just didn’t think I’d be this lucky.” 

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway.  He’s looking at you like you’re something he wants but isn’t sure he should touch, eyes sharp, mouth parted like he’s been holding his breath. The room feels way too quiet. The movie flickers in the background, but neither one of you is paying any attention anymore. You turn your gaze back to the screen, trying not to let the heat crawl too high up your neck.

You swallow. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.” 

He leans back on his elbow, relaxed but coiled underneath. “Is it working?” 

You glance over, and your eyes meet his. The air goes still. It should be easy to laugh him off like you always do. Call him out for being full of himself. Remind yourself that this whole thing is fake. That you’re playing pretend and tomorrow you’ll be eating a fancy meal with your great-aunt while Atsumu flirts with the wedding photographer.  But instead, your voice comes out quieter. “Why do you keep touching me?” 

His lips twitch like he wasn’t expecting you to ask that. “Why do you keep letting me?” 

You feel it then, like something has tipped over the edge. Like the rules you set when this whole thing started are starting to fray at the corners. 

He shifts closer, slow and deliberate, until his knee presses gently against your thigh. “If you want me to stop, just say so.” 

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the weight of his touch feels too good. Because he smells like your shampoo and your soap and something else entirely his own.

“I’m not trying to mess this up,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not making it easy.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. It makes your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers twist in the blanket without meaning to. 

“I should go to sleep ,” he adds, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Put some space back.” 

You're supposed to agree. Supposed thank him for being responsible. For not being the guy everyone accuses him of being. For pretending like this hasn’t already gotten out of hand. 

But something in you wants to see just how far you can. push him. “You don’t have to," You whisper.

His eyes flick to yours, wide and surprised. 

You hold the stare, even as your cesht goes tight with nerves. “We said we’d be convincing, right?” 

He watches you for a long moment. Then he exhales, soft and slow, and his hand, warm and always steady, settles gently on your thigh. 

Not enough to make a move. Just enough to remind you that it’s there. The movie keeps playing, but you don't hear a word. 

- 

When you wake the next morning, it's to the smell of something warm and buttery and slightly burnt? At first, you don’t know where you are. The room’s unfamiliar, soft morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, distant clatter of pans from somewhere past the cracked door. Then you remember: Airbnb. Wedding weekend. Fake boyfriend. Atsumu. Ugh. You rub your eyes and groan softly into the pillow.  Your body aches in that weird way it does when you sleep in a bed that isn’t yours; stiff hips, limbs disoriented, mind still tangled in half-dreams. The scent of toast grows stronger. 

You drag yourself out of bed and pad into the hallway, yawning into your shoulder. You don’t expect to see anyone yet, figure Atsumu is still knocked out on the couch, wrapped in a cocoon of throw pillows. Instead, you turn the corner and see him standing barefoot in the small open kitchen, hair messy and fluffed, wearing a fitted t-shirt and sweats that hang low on his hips.  His back is to you. He’s flipping something in a pan with the overconfidence of a man who has definitely never read a recipe in his life. 

“Is that supposed to be food?” you ask blearily, voice still thick with sleep. 

He turns around, spatula in hand, grinning like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment. “Good morning, sunshine.” 

You squint at him. “You’re… awake.” 

“Observant, aren’t you?” 

“You’re making toast?” 

“And eggs. Sort of.” He gestures to a vaguely tragic frying pan situation. “It’s a little rustic.” 

You raise a brow. “You mean burnt?” 

“I prefer the term ‘caramelized.’ Adds flavor.” 

You shuffle toward the counter and lean against it, watching him prance around the kitchen. He pours you coffee in a mismatched mug without asking and hands it to you with a smirk. 

“I figured you’d need this before you start throwing insults.” 

You sip. It’s perfect. 

“You’re weirdly competent this morning,” you mutter. 

He leans against the opposite counter, coffee mug in hand, head tilted as he studies you. He walks over and slides a plate toward you. One slice of very toast-adjacent bread and slightly overdone eggs. It’s kind of terrible, but you eat it anyway.  He sits next to you at the small table, closer than necessary, even for the small space. He keeps bumping his knee into yours. You glance sideways. He’s looking at you, openly, like he doesn’t care if you notice. His hair’s still messy from sleep. There’s a faint red line pressed into his cheek from a pillow. He looks real.  

You clear your throat. “You snore.” 

“I do not!” 

“You do. It sounds like a lawnmower struggling uphill.” 

He laughs, bright and surprised. “Okay, that’s a new one.” 

You shrug, hiding your smile behind another bite. “Just saying. Wouldn’t want to get too comfortable.” 

He goes quiet for a second. Then: 

“What if I already am?” 

When you glance over at him again, he’s still looking at you. You hold his gaze and feel something crackle in the space between you.

You stand up abruptly, your chair scraping back. “I should get ready.” 

He nods once, slowly. “Yeah. I’ll clean up in here.” 

You pause at the hallway. “Thanks. For breakfast.” 

His voice follows you softly: “Anytime, sweetheart.” 

Your heart is doing that thing again, the fluttery, traitorous thing. And Atsumu, you’re sure, knows exactly what he’s doing. 

- 

You’re standing in front of the mirror in the Airbnb’s bedroom, dress halfway on, arms twisted uncomfortably behind you in a futile attempt to yank the zipper up. You’ve been at this for ten minutes now.  And the dress, a pretty, sleek, dark blue thing, chosen carefully to be just the right amount of formal and flattering, has decided it hates you. Or maybe it hates your spine. Or your shoulders. Or your optimism. Either way, you’re one more failed yank away from burning the whole thing in the kitchen sink. You grit your teeth, wriggling your arm around for a better grip, and pull again. The zipper moves about half an inch before snagging. Again. 

“Come on,” you hiss. 

No good. You drop your arms with a dramatic exhale and glare at your reflection. The dress droops slightly in the back, the zipper hovering just above the halfway point, gaping open like a wound. You press your forehead to the mirror, defeated. 

“I’m going to cry,” you announce to no one, muffled against the glass. “Or die. Or both.” 

Two soft knocks at the bedroom door. “Y’alive in there?” comes Atsumu’s voice, low and faintly amused. 

You groan. “Barely.” 

“Need help?” 

You hesitate, turning slightly toward the door. “Nope.” 

“Sounds like a yes.” 

“I said no.” 

“Baby, I can hear the struggle from here.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoying.” 

The door creaks open before you can stop it, and you whip around, holding the top of the dress to your chest. 

“I didn’t say you could come in.” 

Atsumu leans casually in the doorway, eyes scanning you once,from bare shoulders to flustered expression, and he raises an eyebrow like he’s trying not to laugh. He’s obnoxiously handsome. Not in the red-carpet, airbrushed sense, but in the way that feels divinely engineered to make your heart misfire. He’s dressed for the rehearsal. Dark slacks, black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Tousled blond hair that refuses to lie flat. A gold chain peeking from under his collar. His smile is all teeth and trouble as he gestures to himself like he’s unveiling fine art. 

“I look hot, though. Right?” 

You lift your phone and pretend to snap a photo. “You’ll be the talk of the casserole table.” 

“Damn right I will. But, you look like you’re about to fight the dress.” 

“I am fighting the dress.” 

“Need backup?” 

You sigh, long and dramatic. “I can’t get the zipper up.” 

“I gathered.” 

A beat. Then, gentler: “Let me help.” 

You hesitate. 

Not because you don’t need the help ( you absolutely do !) but because of last night’s too-long glances and his casual touches. Your chest feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. Still. You turn around, spine straight, holding the fabric tight against your chest. “Fine. Just don’t make it weird.” 

His footsteps are quiet behind you. Then he’s there, body heat ghosting against your back.  You hold your breath as his fingers brush the base of your spine, just above the curve of your waist. Light. Careful. Like he’s trying not to spook you. Or maybe trying not to startle himself. 

The zipper groans a little as he tugs it upward. You feel every inch it travels. The slow rise of fabric, the soft friction of his knuckles trailing along your back. His breath, quiet and steady, brushes the bare skin at your neck when he leans in to guide it the last few inches. The zipper catches for a second, somewhere between your shoulder blades.  You stare at your reflection in the mirror, flushed cheeks, parted lips, heart almost visibly pounding beneath your ribs, and you can see him in the background, his head tilted slightly as he focuses on the zipper, lips just barely parted. 

“Almost,” he murmurs. His voice is lower now. Rougher. He tugs gently again, and the zipper finally closes with a soft snick. But he doesn’t move his hand. He doesn’t step back. You feel his fingers rest lightly on the top of the zipper, just under the nape of your neck, warm and unmoving.

“Done,” he says, barely above a whisper.  But he still doesn’t move. Neither do you. 

You stare hard at the mirror, anywhere but at his reflection. “Thanks,” you manage.  You think he might step away now. But instead, you feel the slow, deliberate brush of his thumb against your bare skin. Right where your shoulder meets your neck. Goosebumps race across your arms. 

“You look...” he pauses. Then, quieter, “Stunning.” 

That word doesn’t feel fake. Your whole body goes still.  “I—” you start, voice too thin. 

And that’s when his phone buzzes from the other room. Just once. A dull little sound. But it’s enough.  He pulls back instantly. The warmth disappears and the air floods back in.  He clears his throat, “We should head out. Before your aunt starts calling.” 

You nod without looking at him. “Yeah. Okay.” 

He waits in the hallway while you slip your shoes on with shaking hands. Neither of you mention what just happened. But when you walk side by side out the door, his hand hovers just behind the small of your back like he wants to touch you again.

- 

String lights hang crookedly between trees. A folding table groans under the weight of half a dozen casseroles. Plastic champagne flutes clink together in the evening breeze, and the smell of garlic bread is thick in the air. You haven’t even reached the deck before your cousin’s barreling toward you in a flurry of chiffon. 

“You made it!” she squeals, arms wide. “And this must be—” 

“Atsumu,” he says smoothly, stepping forward to shake her hand like he’s known her for years. “It’s great to finally meet the bride.” 

She laughs, flustered. “Oh! I’m not the bride, just the maid of honor.” 

“Then I feel lucky to be meeting you first.” 

You want to launch him into the hedges. 

Your cousin shoots you a look over her shoulder, clearly impressed. “He’s cute. And taller than I expected.” 

You sigh. “Fantastic. He’s charming and tall. My work here is done.” 

You expect to coast through the evening on autopilot. To keep things short, introduce himself once or twice, then vanish toward the drink table. But Atsumu isn't made to blend into the background. He mingles, shaking hands and hugging aunts, complimenting floral arrangements and asking your uncle about his grill technique. He's like a politician in the best suit he owns and a smile that would definitely win elections.  And he keeps touching you. 

Nothing over-the-top. Nothing even inappropriate. A warm hand at your back when someone calls your name. His fingers brushing yours beneath the table. The steady weight of his thigh against yours during dinner, his body heat quietly staking a claim. You don’t know if it’s part of the performance or just him. Even worse, you’re not sure which version you want it to be. 

You find sanctuary near the drink table, clutching a red plastic cup of sparkling cider and mentally tallying every second you’ve survived so far. You turn to find him grinning lazily, drink in hand. 

“Your family’s nice,” he says. 

You tilt your head. “That’s because they don’t know you yet.” 

He feigns offense, clutching his chest. “I’ve been nothin’ but respectful.” 

“You flirted with my cousin.” 

“She started it,” he says, raising his brows. “I’m defenseless against good manners.” 

You snort. “You’re a menace.” 

“And yet…” he takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his cup. “Your mom thinks I’m sweet.” 

Your brows shoot up. “What?” 

He nods. “Said I’ve got ‘lovely eyes’” 

“She really said that?” 

“Right after she told me I’m the first guy you’ve brought home she actually liked.” 

Your mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. “She-? What?” 

He grins wider. “You should’ve seen her. So sincere. Might’ve teared up.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not.” He leans closer, voice dipping low. “And admit it, you’re impressed.” 

“I’m horrified.” 

He laughs, a soft, warm sound that buzzes in your chest. You glance away, heart doing gymnastics.  You step back instinctively, but he follows, only by a hair. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough that when he speaks again, his voice hums across your skin. 

“You’re good at this too, y’know.” 

You look up. “At what?” 

“Playing the part.” His eyes are steady, unreadable. “You almost had me convinced.” 

You frown slightly. “Don’t say that.” 

Something flickers across his face. “Okay.” 

Simple. No pushback.  But when you leave, you feel him watching you. 

Later that night, you lie in the Airbnb bed staring at the ceiling like it’ll have the answers you want if you just look hard enough. Your dress is draped over the back of a chair. Your makeup is wiped clean. And still, you can’t sleep.  Atsumu’s sprawled on the couch in the other room, having made an absolute spectacle of claiming it as his own. He built a nest of throw pillows and loudly declared it a noble sacrifice. You told him to stop being dramatic, but he just winked at you. And now you can’t get him out of your head. 

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. 

[1:17 AM] Atsumu:  u up?

You hesitate. 

Then: 

[1:18 AM] You:  unfortunately 

[1:18 AM] Atsumu:  me too  wanna watch somethin 

You glance toward the hallway.

[1:18 AM] You:  only if I get to pick

[1:18 AM] Atsumu:  deal 

When he knocks a moment later, you pull open the door to find him freshly showered, barefoot, and grinning. You make it a point to try not to stare at his collarbone. Of course, you fail.

taglist!! <3 @pizzitamia @kjf777 @anotb

“Oh.”

Notorious chatterbox, mean loudmouth, and the student that had oh-so-famously gotten detention for probing into Professor Gakuganji’s sex life - but that was all Gojo had to say right now?

With a slight huff of laughter, you’re staring down the amber bottleneck- aimed directly opposite you, towards where your friend was sprawled across the carpet like he owned it. 

Which was, honestly, how you’d always known Gojo. 

Whether it was on the basketball court or accosting you on the very first day of orientation, there was a reason every student on campus knew his name. Knew his number. Knew the nights of his parties. 

But didn’t know whether they wanted to be him or be with him. 

Which was why it made your heart thud in a singular beat of surprise to glance upwards and find Gojo looking so…lost. Rosy lips parted, chest unmoving like he’d forgotten to breathe. 

And somewhere down the line, you swear you notice him gulp. Biceps straining against his flowery button-up as he pushes back those angelic white bangs of his, Gojo’s azure eyes flit furiously between the bottle, and you, the bottle, and you, the bottle-

“Ehem.” Shoko coughs into her fist, with the pointed subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

You see her flick a finger towards the wide wooden closet that loomed ominously by the far wall. “If you’re going to eye-fuck, I suggest you do it in- hck! there like the game says. Uta’s about to throw up already.”

Said Utahime dry heaves, “I’m not.”

“And who suggested this game?” But you’re standing up to a few jeers anyway- what’s one silly kiss between friends, after all? It was a small group of your friends, and a few stragglers starstruck by their proximity to Gojo. 

Though, turning around, you’re realizing that Gojo was, too. 

Narrowing your eyes in confusion, “Satoru?”

Gojo’s tongue darts out to nervously wet his lips, “Yeah? I- oh.” Geto reaches over to thump his best friend on the back, making the other man startle into a stand.

Stumbling up on agile feet for a few steps, before he’s crossing the circle to grasp your hand in his large ones-

And that just makes the room erupt.

“That’s my boy–!”

“Don’t get pregnant– I can’t be an uncle yet.”

“Yuck.”

Cackles, cat calls, and a few obnoxious moans that ring out even louder than the thumping bass from the party downstairs. You’re crinkling your nose in amusement once Gojo flips them off and speedwalks towards the closet with crimson ears, dragging you straight in tow.

“Sa-Satoru.” You’re giggling, stepping inside the stuffy space. 

The smell of prized vodka and mothballs cling to every surface of the closet like an outdated perfume. And from where you’re pressing yourself up against one mahogany wall, you can feel the soft press of clothes tickle your body. 

It was dark inside - darker than dark, in fact. Your only merciful source of light coming from the dim yellow glow of Haibara’s room from underneath the cracks in the door. 

But even with the cloak of obscurity, you can already make out how snug of a fit it was inside. 

Because Gojo was towering - what else could you have expected from the ace of your university’s basketball team? 

Unruly strands of ivory brushing against the closet ceiling, broad shoulders cushioned by either wall. He has to press two palms upon either side of your body and lean down just to hear you speak, “Do you want to do this? Y’know we don’t have to-”

“Yes.” He’s breathing, labored. Uneven. Before catching the glint in your eyes and sputtering- “I mean- ah, I mean, why not.” Wincing, “…Do you?”

You hum, taking in the heady scent of his cologne. Cherries. “I mean— we should be good sports about the game.” 

“The game- the game, yes.” Gojo nods, a thin line of sweat starting to bead from his temple. And maybe it was the punch, maybe it was the dizziness of being so close- but did Gojo Satoru just stutter? “So you…want to kiss me?”

Your head tilts in question, and he flinches at the teasing look in your eyes. 

Fuck, was he ever-so-glad it was too dark in here for you to see the way his ears burn. 

“I-I mean, of course you want to kiss me.” With a slight puff of his sculptured chest, Gojo fluffs up his hair. Nose turning up in that haughty way it often did whenever someone asked for his number. “Who wouldn’t? I’m Gojo Satoru, after all. So, of course, I should kiss you, too- and I should s-stop talking and do that right now and- wow, is it just me or is it really hot in here-”

Then you’re shutting him up - with your mouth on his. 

Murmuring into his parted maw, “Shut the fuck up.” And the only thing sweeter than the taste of his soft, candied lips was the way that Gojo presses his ripped body further against yours and moans. 

Low, primal. Like it was something being wrenched from the deepest depths of his throat and he couldn’t possibly control it even if he wanted to.

So the only thing his poor, muddled body can think to do is lap at the glossy crevice of your own lips. Wobbly mouth tuggin’ on your greedily, it was almost cute the way that Gojo’s grunting just as soon as you pull away with a lewd wet noise-

Staring at him in awe, even in the darkness you could make out the ruddied shade of his blush. 

“Uh…” You pipe up, after a few seconds of silence, your friend’s gaze still locked on your lips. The skin of his cheeks flare red-hot underneath where you’d grabbed him with your hands. “Hello? Don’t tell me I broke y-”

He’s attacking your mouth once more. 

Ravenous, Gojo’s sultry lips drag allll across yours. Washboard abs pinning you to the wall of the closet, the pointed tip of his nose bumping messily into yours. He lets off a throaty keen as you’re parting your mouth with a gasp, “M’sorry.”

“H-hngh, Satoru-” The temperature inside this lil’ space heightens enough to make your goosebumps sizzle.

“M’sorry.” He’s drunkenly whispering, one of his meaty knees saddling right between your thighs. You’re whimpering at the feeling of his flexed muscles, “M’sorry m’sorry I-” 

One of his trembling hands slides up n’ down your back, as if Gojo didn’t trust himself to hold too still. And his touch was seeping warmth through your thin dress, lungs screaming for air-

“I’m sorry, it’s just- you. I don’t think I can control-” He’s interrupting himself with another chase of your mouth, sloppily sucking on the tip of your tongue. Gojo lets a slick puddle of drool formulate on the corner of his swollen lips, eyes glassy when he’s kneading his hips forwards to rut- “D-did you know that this is my first-”

“Time’s up lovebirds—! Oh.”

The sudden explosion of light strikes you like whiplash, and both of you snap your heads towards the entrance to the closet.

Geto stands frozen, slightly silhouetted by the bedroom glow. But nothing - absolutely nothing - can hide the way his sly eyes widen ever-so-slightly, caught off-guard by the vision before him.

He darts his peripherals to Gojo’s hands dipping dangerously low on your hips, to the manner you’re pinned against one wall, to the way your lips are swollen.

And Gojo’s were worse. 

It’s only then that your head’s clearing up enough for you to try and half-heartedly push at your friend’s heaving chest- to no avail, of course. Because Gojo doesn’t move a single inch, in fact, he’s only tugging you closer to him with a slight growl. 

Looking over his shoulder at the intruder, his eyes narrow—“Fuck off.”

“This- we-” You’re starting, unsure why you were so heated when this was the entire point of the game. 

But Geto beats you to it- “Well, this is certainly better than I thought. I expected our dear Satoru here to piss his pants and faint. Congratulations.” He points at something near Gojo’s khaki shorts, “Fix that.”

Fix…? In unison, you slowly swivel your heads down and find your mouth drop-

“Fuck! Suguru-” It’s only then that Gojo lets go of you like the mere feeling of your body scalded his own. 

Back shoving against the other end of the closet, both hands flailing downwards to hide the massive outlined bulge you’d caught just a glimpse of. And yet, even that wasn’t enough for him to hide the utter raw tightness in his pants.

Your mind sparks once you register that he was rock-fucking-hard. 

Handsome cheekbones all stained with rouge, you catch the smear of your lipgloss glitter all across Gojo’s lips when he hisses at the other man. “It went down just looking at you.”

“Liar.”

“Asshole.”

“Vir-”

“Shut up.” Slightly slurred by your moments prior, there’s a slight daze within Gojo’s stare as he turns to you - still covering his erection. “I-I can explain, I actually-” 

Whatever half-baked excuse it was, you don’t have the privilege of hearing it. 

Because just then, rings out a call of your name—Shoko. And you could recognize her rarely-serious tone anywhere, making you hastily step out of the closet. Leaving behind a sputtering Gojo Satoru and a snickering Geto Suguru to instead head back to your circle. “Everything alright?”

A few cackles escape your friends at the sight of you - all dishevelled and kissed stupid. 

Hell, even Shoko manages to break through the worried furrow in her brow to let off a slight giggle. “Mhm, my greatest apologies for interrupting Satoru’s little wet dream-” Ignoring the aforementioned man’s cranky ‘hey!’ as he closely follows you. “-but Uta isn’t feeling well, so we might just head back.”

You nod, “I’ll come-”

“No no, stay with-”

“We should get her to bed.” You’re waving off her protests, a no-brainer to go with the friend who was visiting all the way from Kyoto. Picking up Utahime’s bag as she starts to fight back her gags once more. “It was probably that cheap beer, I told her not to trust anything Usami bought.”

It’s with a few rapid goodbyes and promises to send photographs that your little trio staggers out of Haibara’s room, Utahime clinging onto both of you. Babbling weakly, “M’sorry for ruining your love story.”

The pit of your stomach twists with something you don’t know how to name, “You didn’t ruin anything.” Brows furrowing, “And what love story?”

“B-but-” She wails, making a few heads turn. “-but it’s been years- mmpf!”

Shoko sighs, one hand firmly slapped on Utahime’s mouth now. She throws a meaningful glance at her friend, “We’re never drinking again.”

Meandering through the throngs of people and alcohol, at an equal ratio - you’ve just got a foot out of the penthouse doorway; the one that Gojo rents for him and his friends, the hotspot for your university’s student body to be on a weekend night-

-when Gojo himself breaks through the overstuffed crowd. 

“W-wait–!”

“Satoru?” You’re swerving back in confusion, eyelids squinted at the flashing strobe lights. 

The party atmosphere paints his pale hair in red n’ pink, bringing out the prettiest specks of grey in his blue irises. 

And Gojo gasps, he heaves - seemingly more at the sight of you than the entire trek it had been to weave through a party that yearned for but a simple glimpse of him. Even now, he was deaf to the calls of his name from all sides, the hands patting him on the back- only letting out—“Do you…want to do something?”

You almost have half the mind to look behind you, “Do something?”

“An outing.”

“An outing?”

“A science experiment.”

“A science experiment?” You gawk, slightly appalled at the fact that Gojo Satoru of all people wanted to take up extra credit on a weekend. “Did you drink that bad beer too? Because-”

“Dammit-” Without warning, he’s smacking his forehead. “Just- just meet me, to talk about something. I’ll text you.”

You have to fight to keep your voice even- from amusement if not for genuine concern. “And you couldn’t text me that? You had to run all this way.”

He almost pouts with a huff, “Had to say it before I lost my nerve.”

“But-”

“She’ll be there.” Shoko’s vocalizing from your right, still holding up a dangling Utahime. And there’s something knowing - something meaningful - in her smirk, “I’ll make sure of it. If you beg on your knees, that is.”

Gojo flips her off in two seconds.

Then he’s on his knees in one.

“G-get up–!” You damn-near shriek, feeling the party buzz and gape at the encounter - you think you even see one attendant pull out her phone and start recording, sure to make a splash in the campus bulletin by tomorrow. “I’ll be there- just- go-”

Still unsteady from whatever the fuck that was, you’re shuffling into the elevator for Shoko’s Uber. still feeling Gojo’s stare burning into you afterwards. 

Blissfully dazed as the doors close behind his slight, anxious wave, Utahime cups your cheek and slurs. “You’re going to make such beautiful hck! babies. All from you, of course.”

.

.

.

“So…what did you need to talk to me about?”

“T-talking? Did I say talking? Well, I was really gone that night, y’know that-”

“Satoru.”

“-and we’re talking right now, aren’t we-”

“Satoru.”

If it was physically possible for a basketball player - numerous inches over six feet, unfairly chiselled, with a shock of white hair above all - to hide behind a humble convenience store shelf then Gojo certainly didn’t know how. 

But that didn’t stop him from trying.

And his tufts of pale bangs flinch at the stern tone of your voice, despite being separated by an entire aisle. 

Blatantly avoiding being in your proximity, Gojo’s simply pushin’ aside a few bags of chips to peek at you from the other side of the shelf. Shoulders hunched, eyes crinkling once he’s noticing your no-nonsense stance. “You see…remember how, last night, had that little erm- problem-”

“Your erection?” You’re questioning, purposefully not lowering your voice to make him squirm.

And he shushes you frantically, looking around the store - there was only a sweet elderly lady a few shelves down, and he was hoping to the heavens above that her hearing aid was turned down. “Yes- yes, that. And I said I could explain…well…”

“Well?”

Inhaling a deep, deep breath, “I’mactuallykindofatotalvirginandIwantedyoutohelpmewithsomepointersmaybe.” He’s forced to inhale an even deeper breath after that. 

“Y-you’re a…” It felt like you’d just short-circuited. Only one word from that entire jumbled mess standing out to you - virgin.

Not that there was a problem with that. It’s just- there was no way that Gojo was a virgin - not after all the stories that girls and guys alike would whisper about him in bed. Not after the harem of fans that would follow him ‘round each party like a second skin unless your friends dragged him away. Not after the way he had a new number being begged to be put into his phone every day. 

And yet, Gojo’s nodding at your unspoken question.

Somehow, it suddenly made sense that in all the years you’d known him, you’d never seen him go on a single date. But no one had to actually date to hook up. Sputtering, “And was that your-”

“First…kiss…” He grimaces, fingers twitching like they were about to topple the entire aisle of chips just to escape this conversation. Before smoothing his features back with a gasp- “B-but that was the best first kiss I could’ve ever dreamed of- I kinda did dream about it later but…”

As you start to slowly back away, he waves his hands fervently. Panic seeping into his voice, “Don’t run!” Withering at the way the old lady nearby turns, “I-I mean, that’s exactly why I need you. I need you to teach me–!”

You feel your heart race, voice lilting high. “Teach you?”

“Teach me how to—” Your friend waves his hands wildly, and you’ve never seen him so stressed - not even before his biggest games. “-not embarrass myself if I do something like that.”

Crossing your arms, the thought churns over and over in your brain. He wants to…kiss you again? “So…let me get this straight- you want me to give you lessons on how to kiss someone?”

“And maybe…other…stuff.”

“Satoru, you us want to hook up-” 

“Teach me.” He pleads, baritone crackling just a bit. A sharp smack resounds as he clasps his hands together in prayer position, “I just need you to give me a few tips- a few pointers, I swear. Just a few lessons so I won’t embarrass myself like that ever again. I could get on my knees again if you want-”

“No! Shut the fuck up.” You bark out, hands coming up to massage your temples. “I need to…think.”

And all it takes is one look at the other lady beside you two, discreetly turning her hearing aids up, for you to stride your way to Gojo’s side of the aisle. Right where he was holding up a packet of chips like a shield, waiting for you to burst. 

He wants to be intimate with you.

He wants a repeat of the party.

He liked it?

Something about that, you liked. 

You sigh, a sound that felt years older than you were. “Fine.”

“Yes-”

“But we’re doing this platonically. And I’m only doing this because I don’t wanna hear you begging. Or hear any girls laughing at you, because that’s embarrassing for me.”

Your head swivels behind you - ah, perfect. The two of you were loitering right between the chips and contraception shelves. “Lesson number one, wrap it before you tap it.”

Gojo starts into motion, eager to please. Though, it wasn’t very pleasant for you once his hand shoots out immediately to pluck at the gold n’ black box of Trojan Magnum…XL. 

“Hah! That’s funny.” Your grin twitches at his blank expression, “That’s a joke, right?” Then completely dissolving at his silence. “…Right?”

You’re still ogling in utter disbelief even as you walk to the weary young cashier, in line behind that old lady. “Satoru- are you sure you need that one? Lesson number two is you don’t have to compensate.”

“I’m actually worried it won’t fit.” He frowns, closely reading the measurements in the back. And from the corner of your eye, your imposing fellow customer gawks, discreetly hurrying up the payment. “Maybe lesson number three could be the pull out game.”

And right before you can answer - maybe make fun of his confidence, maybe even call off the entire deal altogether - the grim elderly lady taps your arm before leaving. “Good luck, dearie.”

.

.

.

“Sh-shit.” Gojo’s mouth closes and gapes stupidly, and no matter how much his firm chest heaves, he can’t steady his pitch. He can’t catch his breath. 

He can’t even think about anything other than the feeling of your soft, pretty hands wrapped ‘round his rock-hard dick.

A quick trip to your apartment later, with him backed into the corner of your couch, and you’re not making fun of him anymore. 

You knew what they say about men with big feet - but Gojo’s throbbing erection was even bigger than you could’ve imagined. 

Just about nine- maybe even ten hot, pinkish inches that glistened with a steady stream of precum. So hard that it looked painful, so thick that you’re having trouble closing your wrist over his circumference. 

Gojo’s slender hands grabbing onto each side of the couch to push n’ push his restless body upwards. “Shit shit shit- what the fuck-”

Grappling, fighting, in a split-second he feels the crown edge of your thumb graze his slit and damn near loses his mind. 

“Shiiiiit—” Almost whiny, if this was any other time then he’d be fucking embarrassed about the way his bass cracks at the very end of his sentence. 

“Shush, Satoru.” Your voice purrs, and just the sultry sound of it is enough to make his swollen cock twitch. Glistening out a treacly line of pre from the strawberry-pink orifice at the top of his shaft, “Lesson number three is to learn to be quiet. My landlord’s gonna complain.”

“Well, lil’ landlord Higuruma doesn’t have your cute hands on his cock, does he, beautiful?” 

“Well you’re failing the lesson then.”

“Fine.”

In retaliation, you’re giving him a looong, languid stroke along his vein-covered length. Mouth watering at the delicious way it makes him throw a hand up to cover his flushed face, other hand resting on your wrist.

Gojo’s hands were big- bigger than yours, and much more suited to help pump his prolonged cock with ease. 

Possessively, he’s curling your pretty fingers tighter ‘round his girth and bounces up n’ down, up n’ down, up n’ down. Whispering, “Faster- faster now, my girl- I mean- beautiful.”

“It’s just-” You’re nearly biting down on your own tongue, reluctant to state anything that would feed your popular friend’s ego. 

But you just couldn’t help it when he looked so pretty - eyes glazed with unshed tears and need, high cheekbones permanently pink, his fat cock pulsing between your fingertips with each passing second. And you swear the blushin’, bulged tip of his shaft swells even bigger with your intense stare, “Lesson number four is that you’re big. It makes it almost…difficult.”

“O-oh.”

Without a second of warning, Gojo’s slouching his muscular body over. Rosy lips pursed to depart with a glob of spit— straight down to the tip-top of his erection.

Letting the sticky mess trickle down the side of his shaft, he’s moving your hands to glue over his tender underside. Fap-fap-fapping rapidly, the sides of your pinkies spank against his bulky base and make him keen. 

“Difficult? Difficult?” Tonality just seeping with grunts, your touch smears the glossy webs of saliva down each vein. “M’passin’ this lesson with flying colors- oh, you’re gonna take it. How could anyone even- ngh- compete?”

“And here I thought y-you were the competitive one.” You’re garbling out your words, feeling your palms massage with the zig-zagged ridges of his length. 

“H-heh- hell yeah, I am.” With a pant, Gojo’s twisting his hand - one of his encapsulating both of yours, and something primal in you twitches at the stark size difference - to jerk down his slicked cock. “Faster.” Voice ruined. “Faster.” Breathy. “Fast- ngh-”

He can’t even think to finish his sentence before his body ruts- ethereal head thrown back, lips gnawed raw like bubblegum. “Oh, ohhhh, never felt like this.”

And Gojo Satoru - famed for his steadiness, his agility - had never sounded so uneven. With his sweaty scalp lolling back and forth like he didn’t know whether to push backwards or keep looking down at your work. 

Drag after lewd drag. 

He was so lengthy n’ big that your arms were almost aching at this point, repeatedly pumping from the ruby-red globe of his cockhead, and down, down, down. 

“Pretty hands hck! tired, huh?” But Gojo’s only maneuvering faster- capped knees spreading on the cushions of your couch to buck into you faster. “Come on- come on come on- don’t stop.”

“S’this any different from your- hah- usual routine, Satoru?” Even you were out of breath at this point.

You’re flicking your doughy fingerpad in a lazy line underneath the flared line of his slit and watch as Gojo only babbles. “Yeah- never felt something so…f-fuck, why are you so soft.” Large palms pressing down on yours, exactly where you could feel the outline of his shaft pulsing the most. His shoulders shake with each singular thwack! of your hand hitting his hilt, white curls bouncing. “So tight-”

Your friend’s fingers were dexterous, curling inwards so that your manicured nails would graze his swollen balls. 

They were slightly tanner than the rest of him, glittered with speckles of buttery precum that you take it upon yourself to gyrate your palm against. Purposefully pressing down lecherously–

And when Gojo looks up with a slight, dopey grin you knew that whatever fell next from that devastating mouth would not bode well for you. “Wonder if your pretty pussy would be just as ngh- tight.”

You feel your poor heart stutter—“Sh-shut the fuck up.”

“Ohhh- that almost made me cum.” He’s admitting through a raspy gasp, cadence giving way to something needier. Something harder. Something that was nearly scraping the flesh of your hands raw with his white happy trail. “S-say it again-”

“Shut up-”

Sapphire eyes squeeze shut, and the front of your poor skirt starts dripping with a few creamy wads of his pre. He was close. “Ngh-” 

Thighs pressing together, suddenly you’re realizing just how drenched your panties were. “Aren’t you supposed to be- fuck, learning a lesson?” And oh, were you shocked you managed to keep your voice even.

“Mmm, I’m learning alrigh’---” Gojo drawls, looking at you with such heated half-closed eyes that you can only more thoroughly drag your thumb down the line of his sensitive slit. “Shit- stop that- wait, don’t stop-”

Brain sparking, he’s singing out in protesting groans at the same time as your furniture. The cushions dipping as Gojo’s lurching his lanky body off of the couch, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to fuck your first for more, more, more or run away–

“Learning, huh?” You’re cracking a grin in amusement, hands letting off the sappiest squelches as you decide to slow down for his own sake. “Lesson number five…”

“No!” He’s pulling you back, he’s wrestling your hands to jerk faster, he’s grabbing you by the throat- left hand clinging onto the sides of your neck and squeezing. 

Scorching hot breath wafts your face as Gojo’s staring dead-on into your own pupils, “Stay. K-keep going. Keep going.” Something at the back of his throat makes him choke. “M’so close- don’t you fucking stop.”

“Fuck, Toru-”

“So fucking—” Your skin heats up with clammy warmth following the feeling of his sleazy eyes sweeping all down your body. Your hands working over time. Your hips slightly bucking back. Your tits-

Which he’s tugging down to see with an index hooked to the front of your top.

And you catch the exact moment that he does - the exact moment that his long, ivory lashes flutter further open, mouth parting with slick drool, face flushing.

Because that very day, you’d just-so-happened to have worn a special set of blue underwear. The exact same color as his eyes.

And it’s enough to make Gojo cum. Instantly.

He couldn’t even have the rationality to be mortified at the pathetic suddenness of it, because all he could do was lock his heady gaze onto your bra-clad tits n’ cream all down your wrist. 

Hot and aching.

Throbbing.

“Mmm, Satoru.” Splurging out from the swollen end of his shaft - the same shade as a strawberry, and twice as plump. Now with buttery sap to match. Something about that makes your mouth water. “Cum f’me- cum more.”

He was fucking up through each peak of his high like he was dying to pump each n’ every drop into your pussy. 

“Fuh-fuck.” And it’s hot, almost like he was melting out into you. A slow line of sweat dripping down his temple at the utter bursts of pleasure behind his hazy peripherals. “Cumming—m’cumming so much for you, beautiful.” Hauling your body closer to his, he’s spraying such thick, ribbony volumes of cum that you almost couldn’t believe it.

Jaw unfastened at the rapidly-growing puddle of ivory sap on your skirt. He’s so sensitive that he’s flinching just from the sound of your voice, like his favorite song. “Do you always cum so much, Satoru?”

“N-no—” Gojo huffs, slightly squeaky with his unstable pitch. “Only for you. When it’s you, I…”

Trailing off, both of you look down in synchronization at the glaze of white cum that’d started to trail down your forearm. And before you can let out a single word, he has one hand tuggin’ on your wrist.

Guiding your trembling fingers to unglue from Gojo’s pulsing, reddened cock with a sluuurp! He’s promptly sucking on your glossy fingertips with a moan. 

“Mm, so good.” Heavy erection still bobbing with the zaps of his euphoria, he looks up at you through long lashes - in a way that makes you gulp. Something he’s surely feeling, if the way that those fingers tighten on your neck says anything. “S’sweeter when it’s by you.”

Oh.

You’re fucked. 

.

.

.

“Oiiiii—Satoru—!” Whenever Geto spoke in that tone, it couldn’t mean anything but trouble. He looks past the (multiple) groups of the usual onlookers, “Your cute lil’ girlfriend’s here~”

“Geto Suguru, you know my name.” You’re snarling from your close seat on the first row of court bleachers, realizing only too-late that you made a fatal mistake. “A-and I’d never be this one’s girlfri-”

“Ohhh, did you hear that?” Of course, the inky-haired man is ignoring every word that falls from your traitorous mouth. Nudging a disinterested Nanami, who pretends to read something on the ball. “Didn’t deny the girlfriend part. I think you owe me ten yen.”

You squawk, “You bet on us?”

“You bet only ten yen?” Gojo Satoru, equally as indignant, but for a completely different reason, waltzes off of the court as Coach Yaga approves his dribbling check and calls for the next. “Way to show your faith in me, bro.”

Geto grins, walking onto court, “Can you blame me?”

And you didn’t know what made you sigh more - the furious cheers and cat calls emanating from Gojo’s fans, who never failed to show up to a single practice, or the way he saunters right up to you.

Expensive sneakers squeaking on wood, carrying with him the scent of adrenaline and cherry bodywash. With such a devastating grin, he winks towards the audience - and you swear you see at least one in a replica of Gojo’s 06 jersey faint. 

“Y’know, I think our lessons are working, beautiful.” Snickering at your surprised gasp, “The aura of…experience, it’s working. Yaga told me I was on fire today, Sugu said I was glowing and asked me for my skincare routine. Hell, even Nanamin - Nanamin - didn’t recoil in disgust when he first saw me today, which, considering Nanamin, is the equivalent of getting a big kiss on the lips as hello.”

“I thought these were lessons just for your future reference?” You raise a brow in suspicion, one that makes him sweat. 

“S-semantics. Hey, something’s working, isn’t it?” He waves a lengthy hand - and you can’t help but get struck by flashbacks to just a few days ago. 

It’d only been about two weeks since your little deal - and you’d been taking it slow. Well, as slow as you could get when your first day was spent fisting his furiously needy cock. 

A few kissing lessons here, maybe another handjob there. And Gojo was lapping it all up the exact same way he would when he was in the middle of a game, focus laser-sharp - and constantly locked on you. Only you. 

“…Right.”

Your partner-in-stupidity opens his mouth- but just then Yaga barks—“Gojo Satoru. If you have enough time to flirt, throw some hoops before the Kyoto match.”

“Ay ay, captain.” With a slight roll of his eyes, he’s giving you one last glance over his shoulder. Mouthing—‘After. Practice.’ And your heart races as you manage to make out, ‘Locker.’

Throwing a wink just for you - and the basketball in his hands, right along with it. That dimple at the edge of his grin was dazzling, “This one’s for you, beautiful—!”

He shoots. 

And he misses. 

Geto misses too, too busy rolling on the floor cackling. 

.

.

.

“M-mmm.” Gojo’s hiccuping, tone coming out ragged. And then he’s gasping- like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or sob at the tight feeling of your mouth. “Take it-”

You whimper, strugglin’ with the thick, reddened end of his cock bulging all the way near the back of your throat. Oh-so-swollen that it was swabbing into every nook and cranny inside of your maw without even trying. 

Gojo was ruthless - he was mean. 

Fucking into your mouth like this was the first taste of the pearly gates he’d ever gotten, and he’s writhing with each of your hollowed-out sucks. 

Acting like he wasn’t damn-near spearing your mouth permanently open into a cute ‘oh!’ with his size. One hand clawing onto the crown of your sweaty scalp, the other letting go of his useless wet towel now.

You’d just barely seen all the members of your university’s basketball team filter out, before Gojo - freshly showered, already half-hard - had dragged you into their spacious locker room.

And it almost reminded him of that first night in the closet, back scraping against the metal of the locker. Pushing you in so close that he can almost feel the way your tastebuds flood with saliva, “Take it take it- t-take it-” 

Rutting. Grinding. 

Your nails claw red, red lines down the pale expanse of his thighs, each muscle getting newly-decorated by you. “M-mmpf, Satoru.” Nostrils flaring, you feel his plump mushroom tip slip deeper past your throat the moment you relax. 

“Fuck- fuck yeah, say my name.” He’s spitting through grit canines, “Say my name like that- s’better than any fanchant I’ve heard.”

Gojo always became so honest any time he was bending to your every whim like this.

And right now he couldn’t stop prattling away between each heavy groan, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the feeling of his weighty girth sagging on your tongue. “Bet they didn’t know you’d be on your knees like- ngh, this f’me, huh, beautiful?” He titters, giving you a thorough rut of his inches until you feel the globe of your friend’s tip scrape down your throat. “Fuh-fuuuuck.”

It was almost too much.

The scratch of your ridged taste buds, salivating down every sensitive ridge on his erection. The prettiness of your teary eyes peering up at him. 

“Bet they didn’t know that- ngh, that sharp mouth would be shut up like this, huh?” Bucking. Thrusting- the heat of your mouth was just so heavenly that he can’t stop chasing it.

Not stopping for a single second to let the clingy back end of your throat part from his cock. He sticks his pelvis up and probes deeply into a sinful lil’ spot at the back of your maw that you didn’t even think was possible. 

Something hitches in his breath, snowy brows furrowing once he feels the dripping slope of your pussy gyrate up his calf. “That you’d like it so much.”

Again and again. Gojo’s repeatedly pushin’ in until he could feel the soft back of your mouth form a bruise in the exact circumference of his girthy tip. “Think ya like it even more than me, beautiful.”

“E-easy there, tiger. Lesson number number five is to pace yourself.” You’re trying to smoothen your tone - unsuccessful, of course, when he’d just been hitting your voicebox hoarse. 

Sensually - slowly - he’s managing to regain a mere ounce of control in that sloppy cadence of his. Loooong, massaging drags that plunge the ruby-red crown of his girth, Gojo’s still making sure that your velvety tongue licks up every solid inch of him.

You plop your swollen lips specifically down on the flared line of his slit and suck. “And lesson number six is to just- hah- shut up and take it.”

“N-ngh, love when you’re mean to me.” He’s grinning, one hand snaking down to his meaty base. Soon enough, your pursed maw is being positively showered with a spray of his dewy precum. 

A glittery gloss gluing all down your chin, you make sure to stick your lips along the prominent lines of his veins and smear-smear-smeeeear. All down the extra-tender spots of his shaft that makes Gojo shoot his free hand out to grab your throat with a labored whine. 

“R-real fucking dangerous.” He’s spitting - literally, a wad of spit that aims straight onto your sizzling tongue and makes an even bigger mess. 

Squeezing your neck, feeling the large cylindrical bulge that was reaching for your lungs. 

He could feel himself move with each back n’ forth of his toned hips, tightening until that particularly bumpy outline was making him lose his mind. “You’re real fucking dangerous with this pretty throat n’ these- hngh- preeeetty lips.”

You’re mewling, tears welling up behind your eyes when Gojo’s using the restraint on your throat to pull you off of his cock ever-so-slightly. For a few sultry seconds, just to spew out a translucent polish of precum. “And this pretty- pretty gloss.” Milky beads decorate your lips, they’re dripping down the front of your chin and makes him flinch carnally. “H-heh, say it again, beautiful. Say it when you’re hck! like this?”

“Shut the fuck up, Satoru.” Muffled, through the press of his painfully hard cockhead sliding between your lips. Once. twice. 

Thrice. “Nghhh- just like that.” The star player’s head falls back against the lockers with an echoing thud! when you start bobbing your head even faster. Syrupy precum welling up inside your mouth as if someone had just opened up a fountain. “Makes me s-so fucking hard.”

“Tight-” You manage out, gasping for air. Past all the animalistic ruts, past the squeeze of his lengthy fingers on your throat. And you can’t help but motion your pussy down and up the muscles of his leg, leaving a glittering trail of slick everywhere you go. “So- ngh-”

“So- so fucking—” Shit, Gojo cracks open one of his dazed blue eyes and can’t even finish his sentence at the pure sight of you.

Your eyes dazed, jaw stupidly unhinged. the entire lower half of your face glistening with all his bittersweet sap. Taking and taking each of his visceral ruts - you were absolutely ruined.

And he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.

So much so that Gojo’s body moves before his mind, barely even stopping to think before unplugging his cock from the back of your throat with a filthy squelch–! Manhandling you into a standing position with only one arm, he has your back shoved against the lockers with the other.

“S-Satoru, what are you-”

Flipping up your skirt- plump, pinkish cocktip kissin’ the wet slope of your pussy. It’s the only thing Gojo needs to be creaming himself near-dry.

To plaster your jittery thighs together with the silky, white syrup of his cum, soaking your flimsy panties. Gojo’s sweaty bangs tickle the inside of your throat when he plops his face down on your shoulder and groans, “Fuck. F-fuck fuck fuck-”

And he isn’t just reaching his high- he’s trying to fuck you through it.

Trying to drill his aching hot cock between your legs, the fatness of his length keeps on pushing against your clothed cunt needily. “Y-y’know, I’m reeeally good with my hands, beautiful?”

“Y-you are–?” Your breath hitches, limbs starting to quiver weakly. Your entire spine zaps with eager pleasure as he’s lazily sliiiding aside your panties. “S’that lesson number seven?”

“Seven- eight- sixty-nine, heh, whatever.” Chuckling into your skin, you swear he’s tugging astray your panties and cumming once more just at the sight of your pretty, sopping panties. 

Hips surgin’ forwards automatically to smear a line of seed between your plump folds, Gojo’s mouth drops. “Oh.” His forearm comes banging down on the locker beside your head to cage you in, “My first time c-cummin’ on a girl.”

His entire body’s wracking with shivers once he’s guiding up stripes of his meaty mushroom tip along your pussy. Uuuuup and down, stray hand pryin’ your sloppy folds apart to paint your cunt a syrupy white from the inside itself-

Slimy fingerpads pushing you all open to dollop out generous helpings of his cum - fuck, honestly he doesn’t know what feels better. Those electric bursts of his orgasm, or the feeling of your fluttering wet cunt as you take it. “And she’s so preeeetty.” 

“Pretty–?”

It’s a fucking battle for Gojo to rip his half-lidded eyes away from your naked pussy, but when he does it’s to kiss your temple sweetly. “You’re pretty too, my girl- beautiful.”

Something in that gentle tremble of his voice makes your hands grip for purchase on the holed surface of the locker. 

And you can only whisper, “Sh-shut up, Satoru.”

“Shit-” Nearly forgetting that the rotund, throbbing end of his shaft was still aligned with your cunt. Just one move and he’d be throwing away just about all his first times. You’d be all out of lessons. 

Somewhere along the slight pang of disappointment at the thought, you feel his overstimulated length twitch—

Catching Gojo staring wildly at that one particular hand of his - the one that was stuffed between your messy legs and spreading your pussy so that he could splurge out his splotchy cum to the maximum.

“Oh.” Realization hits you like a truck. “N-no, Satoru, don’t-”

Before he sucks on his stained, white-topped fingertips like candy— moaning, the blur of his irises roll all the way back to the depths of his skull. “Yeah–” He’s noisily lapping up each ounce of your slick n’ his cum, like the utmost delicacy. “Yeah, m’learning a loooot from these lessons of yours, beautiful.”

“You’re filthy.” You sputter.

“You made me this way~” He leans in close for a kiss, and you can’t admit to yourself that you’d gotten slightly addicted to the taste of his mouth. The plush, cherry-tinged flavor of his lips, glossed with your filthy concoction from before. “Ya like the taste?”

You scoff instead of an answer, “Go shower.”

Pulling back with a mwah–! of lips-on-lips, he reaches for the puddle of his towel on the floor. “Wanna join?”

“In your dreams.”

“You have noooo idea.”

“Shush- before I end your lessons.”

Gojo laughs, loud and beaming. And you can’t help but smile to yourself, something bittersweet, making a hasty escape from the locker room before you stretched your luck too far. 

If only you’d taken your time.

Because then you might have seen a lone, towering figure standing by the wall leading to the doorway. Hidden by the sharp corner, and his lengthy raven hair. 

He watches as you waddle guilty away - as if leaving a crime scene - and Geto Suguru frowns. 

.

.

.

“Alright- it’s time to lock it in.” Yaga’s gruff voice bellows through every corner of the locker room, “Play your game, play fair, prove you belong. This is D1 basketball and I expect each one of you to play like it. Show those Kyoto fuckers who we really are.”

As deep cheers rattle the atmosphere, Gojo finds his hands almost too shaky to knot his laces - too full of adrenaline, full of pride.

Full of the thought that maybe you might be here in the stands, watching. Maybe.

Beside him on the bench, Geto silently tightens his own sneakers. And Gojo can’t help but crack a smirk, “Why so quiet today, Suguru? Don’t tell me you’re nervous about fucking Kyoto.”

“No, not at all.” He responds simply. 

And ‘simply’ would never be quite good enough for Gojo Satoru. Which is why he’s furrowing his twinkling eyes at the other man, “‘Nooo, not at all?’ Appropriate spaces for commas and all? Who are you- Nanamin?”

“Right.”

Gojo frowns, “You’re off today.”

“Are you sure that you’re not the one off?” Geto states, tense. Until he was registering what’d just slipped out of his mouth, immediately shooting into an upright stand. 

“What do you-”

“Forget about it-”

“No.” But he can barely take a single step before the taller man’s honed reflexes make a swipe at Geto’s elbow. Stopping his teammate in his tracks, Gojo’s voice dips low in that serious, tight way it usually never did. “What do you mean.”

A statement, not a question.

And his best friend can barely stand to look at him, head tilted slightly to the side, as if giving into the concerned looks thrown their way. “I told you not to play with her heart.”

Seething, “What?”

“Satoru, when I said I’d support your feelings for her, it wasn’t to make a fucking fool out of yourself.” Shrugging off the hand, which gives way easily. “So many years, and this is how you make a move? She’s my friend first- and you’re treating her like some fucking game.”

“She-” He gasps, face burning. “She’s just teaching me lessons in-”

But Geto always was the quicker of the two - and the more stern. “How long did you expect this to go on, huh? When you’re all done with your ‘lessons’, then what?” 

“I…I didn’t think-”

“Didn’t think that she might actually enjoy that nice restaurant downtown you’ve kept the pamphlet to since meeting her? Didn’t think that she might want to know that you’ve always kept extras of your jersey for her, her favorite flowers, her favorite movie, just in case?” Geto’s fists clench, “Didn’t think that it’s fucking stupid that you two aren’t together, yet? You deserve to be happy- but she does, too.”

Silence. Deafening, deafening silence. 

“What are you doing, man?”

“It’s sex-”

“Stop fooling yourself.”

As he watches Geto’s disappearing back, Gojo wasn’t sure whether he wanted you watching him anymore. 

But it still stung, just a little, when you weren’t.

Kyoto won that day. And Gojo Satoru has never faced a more devastating loss. 

.

.

.

“-my hometown friend, don’t you dare flirt with her, Satoru–”

What was Geto saying again? 

Ah, does it even matter? Gojo Satoru, freshly-titled ‘campus boyfriend’ after only a few hours on said campus, hadn’t heard a single word out of his high school best friend’s mouth after your name.

After you’d batted your lashes cutely and smiled his way–

Oh– blah, blah blah— He’s letting out an audible sigh as you begin speaking something or the other about your major, the usual for orientation day. Proper name, proper place, backstory stuff-

“-toru- Satoru–!” It’s only with a hearty smack on his shoulder that Geto manages to snap Gojo out of his daze, still staring at you from afar where you’d decided to talk to Shoko. And the black-haired man shifts his weary eyes between you n’ his other friend. “Oh no-”

“Suguru, I think I just found my wife-”

“Hell no.” Dramatically, he shakes the other’s shoulders as if desperately trying to jolt some sense into that basketball-addled mind of his. “Satoru, you’ve gotten about fifteen different phone numbers-”

Geto pauses as another fresh-faced student flounces up to the duo and gives them both two slips of paper with a number scrawled on, one that Geto’s immediately tearing up.

“-sixteen just today itself.” His dark brows furrow, as much as he loved his best friend, he knew the mind-numbing popularity that came with him, too. The reputation. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin who’s never held hands-” Ignoring Gojo’s protesting ‘hey!’ “-if you think I’m about to let you play any games with her heart then-”

“I wouldn’t even imagine it, Suguru. Really.” Leaning back in his chair, Gojo’s azure eyes stray to you - as they’ve always seemed to do since then. Second nature. And only a second before tearing them away, undeserving to have you notice. “There’s just…something.”

There’s a tone there that Geto couldn’t place.

Something tender. Something that makes his eyes light up like they did when he was about to nail a slam dunk.

“Something about her that makes me feel like I can win all the championships in the world.”

.

.

.

“O-oh my god, mm—” Your mouth hangs lewdly open, thighs trembling where they were thrown over the far end of your bed. 

Gojo had himself nose-deep in your syrupy wet pussy and it still wasn’t enough for him- he was still clawing both hands onto your thighs and forcefully dragging you halfway down the silken sheets. “What has- hah! what has gotten into you, Satoru-”

For perhaps the first time in his life, he doesn’t have an answer.

Can’t even think of one.

Not when the long, slimy edge of Gojo’s tongue was dipping past your drenched panties and pushing them juuuust barely to the side. Darkening that pale blue shade with the wetness of his maw, he’s plastering his taste buds to the slope of your pussy and watching you squirm.

And it’d started right after you’d arrived home, wondering whether it was too late to text him about the match - only to find the man of your thoughts himself sat outside your front door.

Waiting for you.

Towering, he’d thumped his head down on your shoulder in silence. 

That is, until you two had made your way inside-

“I-is this about not coming to your- ngh! game?” You’re wailing out a broken whimper, twitchy hands weaving between his ivory locks to try and steal a glimpse of his face. “Because Gakuganji held me back for a club thing and I’m sorry- fuck!”

Without a single warning, without even a speck of hesitation, your friend’s shovelling the inches of his tongue past your elastic entrance until that tight rim resists.

Until he’s keening into your puffy core at the tightness, until he’s usin’ a thumb to spread-spread-spreeeead your glittery pussylips apart even further. “Taught me- taught me lessons, didn’tcha, beautiful?”

Murmuring into your cunt, each syllable is ended off with a heavy lashing of his silver tongue. 

Spat straight into your quivering hole, Gojo’s licking away primally. Each raw scratch of his wet muscle trying to push past your hole, trying to fuck you the way he’s been aching to for years. “Taught me ta kiss those pretty lips- now you’re teaching me a whole hah- other type of kissing.”

“N-ngh, oh my god- Satoru.” He was just filthy. Both his babbling, pussydrunk words and his motions.

It’s like he didn’t know where to stick his tongue to like adhesive - wanting anything and everything, all at once.

From the throbbing nub of your clit, to the weepy orifice of your cunt. Though, he was making sure to lap up every ounce of slick glistening out of you, like the sweetest honey.

You’re whimpering, begging for fucking mercy from the wide, glissading edge of his tongue. You grip the soft tufts of his hair and try to lift him slightly off for dear life. “Fuck- Lesson number eight is to s-slow down–!”

“Then m’gonna hafta fail.” He’s rasping out, starved. 

Barely even breathing, whatever words escaping Gojo depart only reluctantly. Between each pant he’s forced to take by his screaming lungs, he’s unfastening his slobbery maw even wider to suck on your clit. 

Thighs closing sensitively ‘round his clammy head- “You’re being sooo—” You think that might just deter him, but he’s only climbing further up from his position at the foot of the bed, on the ground. 

Chasing your pussy no matter how much you were bucking. Feral. 

“Mmm, think I like it better when you hngh- shut me up like this.” He’s blubbering through a greedy mouthful of your cunt, slick-glossed mouth pinching your clit. 

You’re damn-near yelping as his plush, puckered lips start rollin’ side to side just to tease that nub like bubblegum. Your own thighs ache with the flesh-ridden press of his big, beefy biceps curling ‘round your thighs to push them even closer. “Can you even ngh- breathe?”

“Suffocate me.”

And he sounded dead-serious.

Throwing your trembling legs over two muscular shoulders, Gojo’s leering his handsome face impossibly closer.

Right up until the straight button of his nose bridge presses against your clit, and the front of his face smeeeears with a pathway of your pussy’s sweet, sweet juices. 

“Don’t care.” Spitting, a great glittery glob that sticks just to the side of your outer pussy and makes it so much wetter for him to start dipping his wide tongue inside. “Don’t care don’t care don’t care- I don’t need air, I just need- hah! You.”

Lavishing your snug hole with so much attention, you can’t help but clench ‘round his grazing taste buds. Letting your entrance be tugged n’ snagged according to Gojo’s every whim.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Letting him spit on your pussy once more-

“And her.” Slimy, wet muscle flopped right now, he was running through each line he’d read online about this like a gameplay. Zig-zagging from your clit n’ back to jackhammer into your hole, “We’d made such a loooovely couple, wouldn’t we, beautiful?”

And you don’t even know who he’s talking to you - you or your poor, battered pussy.

But before you can ask, Gojo’s patience snaps with a rut-

“Fuck, your walls-” Just as soon as you’re clamping your thighs surrounding his head. He’s whining, he’s shoving his face in deeper like the prolonged length of his tongue could scour your channel even more. 

Like that particular muscle could maze in a slithering up n’ down- Gojo’s sharp jawline strikes the base of your cunt and he groans in disappointment. Unable to dive in even deeper.

Feral. Thirsting, He’s nose-deep and still filling up your every orifice with his textured tongue for more, letting each ravenous taste bud stir about your sweet innards. “Your walls want me so ngh- badly. Wants ta suck me up so badly- look.”

“What do you- oh!” You flinch at the sudden warmth of another puddle of saliva striking your pussy dead-on, smearing about.

Gojo’s eyes were widened, mouth unfastened as far as it would go. “How the fuck doesn’t anyone get addicted?” Genuinely serious. Genuinely asking. 

“Y-you’re too much-”

“Oh, you want more?” Wait…what? You’re momentarily speechless at how his melty mind had just understood your sentence. Mouth thrashing about on overdrive, grin sleazy. “Heh, I’ve always wanted to do this.”

And then you’re snapping your head down in a split-second, just in time to see two of Gojo’s lengthy, roughened fingers tease the crevice of your slit.

All lightly calloused by basketball, he’s sloooowly circling your puckered hole. “Cute, s’like she wants ta- ngh- kiss me.” He’s giggling, prying apart your folds to ease his way in with a raw, noisy sluuuurp–! “Hope she doesn’t mind how looong they are- or do. My lesson number one is that you’re going to take it all.”

Bucking into his touch, and that makes him copy you - crushing the thick, bulging outline of his erection against the bottom of your bedframe. 

So hard that the mahogany panels creak– jostling you, right alongside the bed. “Fuck-” He hisses, looking down. “Look how you’ve got me - like a fucking animal.”

“You’re so filthy…” 

“S’all your fault.”

You’re sobbing now, legs twitching cutely on top of Gojo’s deltoid after every time his knobbled fingerpads scraped a spot that was particularly sensitive.

His size- oh, you should’ve expected a size to match a basketballer’s hands - because they’re plugging every nook n’ cranny without even trying. Scissoring your gooey walls far apart to claim each hidden area of yours, “All- all your fault.” 

Almost whimpering because it’s just that tight. He’s swervin’ rapidly and surely. “You made me like this-” But he wasn’t done- he was leaning over to spit a web of spit once more, dampening your soft cunt just enough to bully in a third finger. “Made me so stupid.”

Barreling straight into your g-spot. 

“Foooound it…”

“Oh- oh my god–” You’re losing your mind at this point, hips thrashing about. The blankets stick to you like they’re made of adhesive as you’re arching into the perfect curvature-

“Stay down.” Gojo barks - a stern edge to his voice. And before you can make a single move, he has one bicep pinning down your hips, maw opened to suck on your clit so you stay down.

Left too weak to do anything but cry out at the feeling of his tastebuds rolling over n’ over on your nub. Sensitive. Overstimulated. 

You’re gasping at the heated sparks of white that burst behind your lids, “Toru- I th-think m’close- don’t think m’gonna last- hck!”

“Told you I was good with my hands—” He slurs out, ruined on your pussy. "That's lesson number hck! three- maybe two? Ah, I dunno…”

Pump after pump, Gojo curls his digits so they bruise right into the spot locating your bundle of nerves. Feelin’ your soft walls clamp down sappily, “Only thing I do know is that I want you- hah-” Pulling back, he teeths your clit with a sinful squelch. “-oh, I wan’ you cumming on my mouth.” Fingering you so hard that the mountains of his knuckles were reddening with impact. “And I want you screamin’ my name every second of it.”

“Oh please-” The roughness of his fingertips are starting to plunge even deeper, as if Gojo was ready to probe into your womb right then and there. “Satoru-”

“Call me ‘Toru’, beautiful-”

“Toru-”

“Louder.”

Harder. 

It was so hard to speak with tiny sobs catching in your throat, with your body being run ragged by him. Lips wobbling with each long push of his digits- “Toru.”

“How about- ‘my Toru’?”

“My- my Toru—!” You’re squealing; the exact same moment that your pitched voice cracks, your sanity does, too. 

And in mere sultry nanoseconds, you’re shattering into white-hot explosions of bliss. Your orgasm sweeping your entire body with goosebumps, you can only scratch carnally at Gojo’s crowned scalp. 

Your fingers maneuvering his head up and down in sloppy gyrations, it’s as if you were riding his pretty features through each peak of euphoria. “M’cumming- oh-” Your high hitting you so hard that tears pinprick at your pupils, and Gojo was only happy to make them overspill. To dangle his hefty tongue out so that he can lap up your cunt with every drag. “Can’t believe you- oh. Are you sure this is your first time, Toru?”

He finches at the nickname, “Fuck yeah, sweet thing.”

Brushing his tastebuds up and down- probing against your clit. 

He was still ravenous.

Even when you’re blinking back your vision, though, you still couldn’t see with the way that Gojo’s velvety mouth made your pupils criss-cross constantly. 

Toes curling, limbs shaking with sensitivity. 

It was getting to the point that your mind was slowly going blank, spittle falling from your mouth. “I-I’m hngh- m’high’s over-” Still sparking somewhere at the back of your throat, even though you push and push at Gojo’s forehead, he’s only digging deeper. “Oh my god, Satoru-”

He blubbers, “M’fucking starved, beautiful. Been wanting this for sooo long.”

“Then shut up and fuck me.”

Oh.

Oh, that did it.

Because Gojo lurches his head up as if he’d just been zapped with electricity; eyes snapped open, strings of slick still connecting his lips to your swollen ones. 

“F-fuck you…?” He grunts- buying more time, those buried fingers of his pull out from your walls with a slurp. Finding their usual pathway between his greedy lips, he catches your look. “What? Haven’t I ever told you that you make me so–”

Thoroughly cleansed by now, Gojo smacks his lips with satisfaction. 

“-greedy?”

The dark glint in Gojo’s eyes makes you squirm your body slightly backwards- all the way up until you hit the headboard with a gasp. And he only looms closer. Only prowls up to you like he was closing in on the most appetizing prey.

And now that he’d gotten one taste of you, of course he’d be craving more. 

Like you were the sweetest of desserts, he’s gliding his tongue allll down those slick-glossed lips of his. Your juices worn halfway down his face - smearing up to his cheekbones - with utter pride. “And I think m’ready for another lesson now.”

You take one look at him - pupils glassy, face glistening, ears flushed - and immediately dart your hands down to Gojo’s belt buckle. 

Meanwhile he’s shedding himself free of his t-shirt, whatever’s left of your bra, hooking over your panties—

RIIIIIP—!

“Th-those were expensive.”

“I’ll buy you fucking ten more.” Pointedly, Gojo stuffs the ruined fabric into the back pocket of his trousers before disposing of them somewhere by the side of your bed. “Then tear those off, too, next time.”

Next time.

“Excited ‘bout a ‘next time’?” Oh- fuck, you’d just babbled that out loud.

He couldn’t have looked more smug if he tried, pointed canines flashing in a smirk. His thick thumb dips into the hemline of his boxers, pulling them down in a flash.

And Gojo was hard - so fucking rock-hard that his upright erection smacks the front of his abs with a thwack! 

Long. Perfectly thick. Always just so pretty. Bedazzled by a few veins down his pinkish shaft, Gojo’s sensitive cock twitches as he’s panting. Ruby-red tip painting a horizontal line of precum, you’re mentally calculating the measurement and wondering just how deep he’d be inside of you. 

Swatting away your sheeny thighs, that’d just started to close. “Ah ah- where’d you think you’re taking her?” Before his glossy, sleek jaw unhinges ever-so-slightly in wait. 

“You want me to-”

“I’ve spit on her so many times.” Gojo muses, quirking one snowy brow. Holding you by the throat, he pushes his face into your personal proximity, “Think s’time for you to return the favor.”

Whimpering, restless, it was just so cute to him how you’re pressing your lips together shyly. 

Whacking a bead of slobber precisely onto the target of his tongue- and Gojo barely even gives you the time to register your little ministration before surging his entire body and kissing you. Open-mouthed, heated.

At the exact same time that his globed, weeping cock pushes straight past your swollen folds. 

But it wasn’t so easy- “F-fuck.” Gojo shutters his eyes, expression looking like he was just in prayer. Hiccuping, rutting- back and forth in rapid half-thrusts as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull out of your pussy any further. “What the fuck…what-”

“S-Satoru, are you okay?”

“No.” SMACK! He’s trying to strike his pelvis against your own so hard that your thighs are jostled. Fat cock stuck by the resistance of your cute, cute cunt. “No no no- s’just…I lost my virginity to you.” 

You’re speechless as he looks up at you with a giggle. 

Repeating, “I just lost my virginity to you and it’s too- good.”

“And you’re t-too big—” You claw all down his pale back, feeling every muscle flex underneath your touch. 

“Remember my first lesson?” Head tilted, the smile on Gojo’s face was oh-so-tender - even though his mushroom tip was furiously pumping in and out of you like anything but. “You’re going to- take it- all.”

Fuck, but he didn’t know who he was torturing more. 

Because your cunt gives way to swallow up one more of his solid, rovering inches - just past the slick line of his slit - and Gojo hunches over. He heaves. His vision blurs with tears- “Ohhh my god, I c-can’t.” Voice octaves higher, breaking. He’d just started to put it in and he was crying.

Shit, he’d learned nothing. 

With a hand pushing your left thigh open, Gojo’s trying to pull his ravaged cock out. Just too good for him to handle. Maybe he’ll keep some part of his sanity intact if he fucks you with just the tip-

But in that instant, your clingy insides are squeezing around him so tight and he’s thrusting.

Out-of-control. 

Fighting against the stretch, you’re clawing for the headboard above your scalp- “Oh my god- I don’t know if I can- fuck! It’s just so big.” Nine - nearly ten - inches throbbing at the mere sound of your voice. 

“Lesson number one lesson number one- oh, lesson number one-” Echoing like a broken record-player, he’s ruthlessly haaaauling you back with a hand latched onto your hip.

Soft grunts wafting your features like a furnace, “Breathe” Gojo begs into your ajar mouth, pinning you with the prominent muscles of his v-line. “Breathe- one- two-” With each stroke. “Breathe with me-”

Those exact same exercises that he’s taught himself over and over again during the toughest of training regiments. “Feel it in your s-stomach.” You’re nearly screaming as one of his over-large palms come pressing down on your stomach, making you feel like he’s spearing his plump tip all the way into your lungs. “Then let it allll out through your lungs- breathe w’me, one, two.”

One-two. In and out. One-two. In and out. 

Mewling, “One- t-two.” Mindless hips swervin’ back and forth to meet his desperate drilling and it makes him gasp.

“Breathe- breathe. Lesson one, you hafta take this-” Scrambling for your hips, for your throat. “Even just the tip. Just an inch.” Using the leverage to pull you down, “I’m begging here.”

“T-Toruuu–”

And it’s with a final, resounding spank of skin-on-skin that he’s managing to bottom out.

The hot, pulsating feeling of his sheathed cunt barely even registering in your mind before Gojo’s letting off a wet sob. It just felt too good. “You passed with f-flying colors, my beautiful.”

And now that he’d gotten started, he couldn’t stop.

Gojo was pounding you into your cheap bedsprings like a madman, like it was painful for his swollen, vein-covered cock to go even a second without dragging down your walls. Designing your slick insides with the patterns of his veins, “How are you reachin’ a-alll those spots, Toru?”

“Alllll those spots, huh?” Mockingly, he ends up pushing down on your tummy just like before. 

Except this time, Gojo takes the lecherous time to feel the dull thud! of his split-ended tip poking into your cervix. This time, he can follow each single inch you’re clenching ‘round—“Wh-what is…”

Pushing down harder. “Is that my-” Thrusting even harder. 

Gojo’s size is just so staggering that he’s feeling the exact bumpy outline of his mazing shaft. The way he was spreadin’ apart your walls with his circumference - it just renders his mouth watering.

Gracing you with a dopey grin, one that had drool spilling from one side of his rosy lips. Moaning, “Oh, just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect.”

Sweet-talker. You whine, just so you won’t pay too much attention to the way your heart races, “Shut up, Toru.”

“Yeahhh- say that again.” Bulky base just drenching with your sweet slick the harder he’s thrusting in, you can feel his rock-hard tip twitch after your words. “S’like you’re made f’me.”

“Shut up, Toru-”

Palm massaging down on the tummy bulge he was fucking into you, he could feel each flinch of his oversensitive cock. “See? See? The way this pretty pussy takes ngh- all of me. The way you make me react-” Pumpin’ a thorough push against your slick-filled sweet spots. “The way you make me s-sooo fucking hard. Ohhh, we fucking fit like a- a…”

Poor chatterbox Gojo Satoru is just so pussydrunk by now that he can’t even go on.

He can’t even speak. Can’t even breathe— entire fuzzy brain honed in on spearheading your walls with his flared cockhead like a flashlight. 

Hips gyrating into the exact angle that it takes for him to strike your needy, waiting g-spot. Hard. 

“There-” Your heart-shaped peripherals sprint to the back of your head, back jerking off of the mattress. “Right- ngh- there–!”

And, usually, Gojo would’ve taken this as the perfect opportunity to brag about how it was ‘so easy’ for him to find the almost-mythical g-spot. Usually, he’d have been snickering outright at the cutely awed expression on your face.

Usually.

But the only thing he was fucking capable of doing right now was marvel at both you and your pussy. Gaze darting up and down so fast it was almost like a blur. 

“Cat- hah, pussy got your tongue, Toru?”

“Sh-shut up…”

“You shut up.”

Shit, that makes him nearly cum. Right then and there.

And to cover up this little weakness, Gojo spanks your overstuffed pussy instead. Open-palmed, with the doughy tips of his digits striking accurately on your clit. 

“Y-you little- ngh.”

“What was that–?” Oh, it was like he’d just stumbled across an epiphany. And before you know it, he plants down three more rude smacks on the slope of your cunt; exactly in sensual unison with the thrashes of his cock. “Why don’tcha write my name on your clit, beautiful? Unless…” 

SMACK–!

You get the message fast enough, even despite your thoughtless mind. 

Your twitchy dominant hand slithers between your thighs, thumbing down your perky clit just in that way you liked. “T-Toru–” Trying for all your might to spell a ‘T’, “Oh- wait, Satoru.”

Then an ‘S.’

But you couldn’t do it just how his big fingers had managed to do, and the only thing you’re getting out is a sultry figure-eight. One that renders your throat dry, “Satoru- oh.” An ‘A’ that looks more like a silly lil’ ‘V’, “I can’t ngh- don’t think I can- fuck.”

And Gojo notices your little struggle - of course, he’s noticing. 

It’s the sweetest little entertainment for him, of course, watchin’ you get fucked too dumb to spell out his own name on your clit. Your lips wobbling when he finally smacks your hands away-

“Honestly- aren’t you supposed to t-teach me?” Groaning at the squelching noise of your growing even more aroused. “Watch and learn, my girl- fuck. My beautiful.”

But it’s not like he was any better, thank fuck you were too gone at this point to realize. Just as much as he was. 

It takes Gojo a few slips n’ slides to latch his plush thumb down on the nub of your clit, “F-first there’s a ‘T’- I mean, an ‘S.’” The dual stimulation of his shaft stretchin’ out your tiniest ridges inside, of his fingerpads writing on your clit, was simply incredible. “Then an ‘A’...‘T’...”

Even through the lust-fogged haze in your mind, you could distinctly make out the messy scribbles of Gojo’s fingerpads. 

S-A-T-O-R-U

Repeated. Over and over until it was like that pattern was burned onto your clit, joints working manually faster. Faster. 

S-A-T-O-R-U

S-A-T-O-R-U

S-A-T-O-R-U

And it’s so much that you don’t even realize you’re shrilling out his name with each movement- “Satoru-” Thighs kicking in pleasure, he’s quickly throwing them over his shoulder and folding you in half. Bending you into a mating press. “Satoru- Satoru Satoru—”

You feel a slimy, wet tendril gleam down your cheek, “Why’re you crying?” Gojo’s licking up salty tears you didn’t even realize you were setting free. “S’not because of my hck! biiiig fuckin’ cock, is it?”

In this mating press, your friend(?) had the freedom to plaster his washboard abs down your front. To scratch your pelvis with his pale white happy trail.

“S’not because I’ve wanted to do this for- for aaages, is it?” Nuzzling the crook of your neck, Gojo gives you a slam so hard that you’re being driven further up the bed.

Only for him to pull you back down. To do it over again.

And over and over and over again until the spongy layer of your cervix had memorized the size of his cervix. Stretching open your cozy lil’ walls, he pricks his strawberry divot firmly against the base of your womb like he was meant to be there. “Not because I’ve always wanted to- to break myself on this pretty pussy-”

Roughly, the wooden frame of your headboard rattles-

“O-oh-” Gojo slams his hand down on the banging headboard, remembering something from the earlier lessons about a landlord. 

Only for the mahogany panel to shatter, for your creaky bed to sag on one side– your eyes widen. Gojo Satoru had just broken the bed but he was still going.

He was still claiming your cunt with each sultry jackhammer, still babbling pussydrunkenly. “S’not because you’re haaaah- close, is it?”

“I am–” You don’t have half the mind to be shocked that he could feel your oncoming high before you. Walls clamping down with each vibration of electric euphoria, “M’gonna cum, Satoru. Lesson number nine is to make- me- cum-”

“You’re gonna cum.” More statement than question. “Really, really gonna cum? Because of ngh- me?” 

You can only nod.

And Gojo’s voice is small, cracking. “She’s gonna- fuck! gonna on my cock?” Furiously nodding, “My cock? Because of- oh- me? Fuck–!”

You’re barely even getting out an affirmation for those last few rapidfire questions of this before Gojo’s tense, driving cock explodes. All into thick, gushing ropes of cum that slather your walls.

And if you thought he’d cum in massive volumes before, then you weren’t ready to be faced with how eager he was to fill up your pussy.

Your geysering slick was nothing in comparison to the way Gojo was buttering up your slitted entrance, cobwebbing your tight hole shut with his sticky cum. Again. And again and again he was pumping each drop into you. 

“L-lesson number two-” But it was not like he would let you get off the hook that easy. And the flesh of your inner thighs sting when Gojo only speeds up, accelerating his shaft to target your g-spot in a way that makes you keen. “-n-never cum after me. Only before-” 

Two roughened crowns of his fingers tweak your clit– a final, ‘Y’ And you’re wondering what the hell that stands for.

Y-O-U-R-S

Gojo flushes as he finishes off the singular word, like he almost couldn’t believe it himself. Before pinching on your clit—“Sh-shit- shit shit shit, m’cumming, Toru.” 

Right now, watching your cunt quiver n’ cum around his cock was better than anything he could’ve ever dreamed of. 

Because your mouth was possessive, crashing into his and whining his name with each twinge of your high. Your pretty eyes were practically mosaics of tears at this point, ones he could stare into for eons. 

And he does - straight into your irises when Gojo’s filling you up from the inside out. “I know-” Feeling his own seed slosh out of him and drip straight down to your womb. “Take it- take it, all inside like it- hah- should be. Like it was always meant to be.”

“Inside-” Gasping at the press of his tensed core, pushing down on your stomach. Right where he was spearing straight through you, “A-all inside, Toru.”

It was one of the best orgasms of your life, and, strangely enough, all of them seemed to have been pulled out by Gojo.

Who was filling you up until you were overspilling, like some fountain. 

Now purposefully slapping the veiny length of his shaft against the roof of your cunt, pounding you through each volt of pleasure until you’re seeing stars.

Until your thighs are left shaking stupidly, your mouth gaped, brain so filled with the static of your stomach being in knots that you don’t even register the damp splat-splat-spat–! splashing onto your shoulder.

Something…wet. 

At least, not for a few seconds until your eyesight can adjust. You’re blinking back your vision to look up and see that Gojo Satoru was crying.

Pretty cheeks ruddied, eyes glistening with even more unshed tears. And you wonder just how long he’d been holding them back.

His perspired head drops down to your shoulder like it had hours prior in front of your door, and you can make out the unsteady gasps of his words. “You- you took my virginity but…” Something raw. Something honest. “I-I just…”

He bites back his words until you’re forced to pull him away from the crook of your neck. Pushing back sweaty, ivory bangs until Gojo can look at you properly. 

Look you right in the eye when he utters—“I’ve always wanted to be yours, too.”

Your heart leaps to your throat, and so do those words that have always, always been on the tip of your tongue. “You already are, Toru.”

Something escapes from his lips - maybe a sob, maybe a laugh. But it’s a sound that makes you beam back, though, you think you’d never be able to match the sunlight in Gojo’s smile. Instead, you take the time to memorize the crinkle of his eyes, the wink of that lil’ dimple of his. 

“My lesson number three is I love you, my girl.” ‘My girl’, he can finally say it now. 

He can finally watch your slightly surprised reaction as you hear it, kiss-bitten lips twitching upwards into a grin. “My lesson number ten is I love you, too.” 

Heart shaking, body fully shivering at the music of those words dropping from your lips. “You- you don’t know how fucking long I’ve waited to hear those words.” He nuzzles his nose against yours, still smelling of that same cherry bodywash and utter fuckin’ love. “How fucking long I’d wait just to hear it again.”

“I have a feeling you won’t have to wait long at all, Toru.” You’re combing your fingers through his angelic hair, head turning to the side with a giggle once he starts pecking your face. Your jaw. Your neck. Over and over and over– 

Only for the moment to be broken when you gasp, “Satoru.” Gojo follows your beeline of sight, straight to the top of your bedside dresser. Right where it was proudly displaying a familiar black and gold box, one with a glaring ‘XL’. “We forgot about lesson number one.”

.

.

.

You think you’d never get used to wearing Gojo’s famous 06 jersey. 

An original, of course - one that’d been safely tucked away in the back of his closet, that he absolutely refused to tell you how long he’d kept ‘just in case’ for you. 

It drew stares, though, you think part of that came from being at the very front row to the final NCAA championship game. Your eyes follow each slide of pristine sneakers, each cut-throat pass, each swat of the basketball hitting the polished court. 

Tokyo vs. Curses; it was a tie. 

And right now, you didn’t care about the gaggles of numerous fans gossiping behind your back, or the way Coach Yaga kept yelling at Gojo about showing off for you - and the fact that he was telling your boyfriend to do more of it.

To leave no mercy once Geto’s passing to him, to sprint faster with only two seconds left on the clock, to slam dunk the basketball straight through the hoop—

And that’s exactly what he does. 

A buzzer rings, and suddenly you can’t even see Gojo’s figure through the heaps of confetti bursting from the arena. In blue and white for Tokyo Jujutsu University.

Tentatively, as you’re spotting family and coaches rush onto the court, you’re taking a step. Just a single one - but Gojo always did say he could find you amongst a thousand crowds. 

Heart leading him to you. 

As the confetti and streamers phase just a little, you spot him rip out of his team hug with a call of your name. Being dragged back as MVP, Geto pauses to dap his best friend up - before thumping him on the back and letting him tear through the throng of people to get to you. 

“Excuse me- excuse-” Maneuvering nimbly with his towering figure, “Beautiful–!” He’s calling out, loud enough to turn heads. But Gojo doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a fuck. Not when he’s crashing into your arms, and murmuring into your lips. Such a loving kiss. “Beautiful.”

His grin was contagious, and somewhere in the distance you can hear his team jeer. Hell, even Yaga seems to chuckle from somewhere. “Congratulations on the slam dunk, Toru.”

“It was always for you, my girl.”

A/N. FAWK- the things I would do to have him. Can you tell I’m ovulating because I made him whimper?

You hadn’t meant to cry over a wedding invitation. 

But there it sits: glossy cardstock, thick with your aunt’s perfume, all gold leaf and cursive. Your name printed neatly next to “plus one.” You turn it over in your hands, slowly. The RSVP deadline is tomorrow. You were supposed to fill it out last week. But every time you tried, your brain short-circuited and your heart sank like a stone. And now the countdown is real. And you still have no one. No plan. No way to face your family, or him, alone. So, like clockwork, you pull out your phone and text Osamu:  you at the shop today?  You’re already out the door before he answers you back.

You don’t expect it to be a big deal. Just a favor. A simple ask. One of those casual things that shouldn't be this hard to get over with. A favor between friends, like borrowing a hoodie or asking for help moving furniture. Not something you’d lose sleep over. And yet, your nerves are already prickling by the time you push open the glass door of Onigiri Miya. 

The shop is in its usual afternoon lull, post-lunch rush and pre-evening pick-up. Soft clinks of utensils and distant kitchen sounds hum beneath a soft playlist that Osamu probably picked. The place smells familiar, like rice vinegar and toasted seaweed. Osamu stands behind the counter, wiping down a cutting board, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. A few pieces of hair have slipped free from where he tucked them back earlier. He looks relaxed, settled.

“Would you go with me to a wedding?” you ask, casual, like you’re asking if he wants the rest of your drink. He pauses mid-wipe. Looks up, eyebrows drawing together. “Come again?”  

You hop onto one of the stools at the counter. “My cousin’s wedding. This weekend. I need a date. Like, not a real one.”

He blinks. "You need a fake date?" 

You nod, undeterred. “My ex is gonna be there. With his new fiancée. My aunt keeps talking about how tragic it is that I’m not engaged by now. I just need someone to sit next to me for a little bit, maybe hold my hand, smile politely, and not let me die of humiliation.” 

The words are meant to be casual, but your voice falters just slightly on the last word. You know he notices. You’re not really sure when it started bothering you this much, but it has. All the subtle looks of pity. The well-meaning comments about how there's 'plenty of fish in the sea' and 'just keep your head up'. Osamu gives a low whistle.

“Yikes. That sounds... intense.” 

There's a solemn nod as you speak. “It’s the Olympics of emotional damage. And I’d like not to compete alone.” He laughs at that, quiet and warm, that signature Osamu chuckle that smooths over awkward moments. Like whatever you just said wasn't embarrassing or over-the-top. He leans against the counter, arms folded, mouth quirking up at the corners. 

“You’re calm,” you say. “You’re normal. You wouldn’t make it weird. You’re not gonna flirt with my grandma or try to actually kiss me."

He smirks. “Tempting. I’d help you out, you know I would,” he says, “but I’ve got a catering gig Friday through Sunday. Booked solid. One of those fancy downtown venues, full staff. I can’t back out.”

You deflate visibly, "Perfect. Guess I’ll show up solo and pray for divine intervention.”  He wipes his hands on a towel, hesitates, and...you should know better. You should have seen it coming. 

“You could ask ‘Tsumu.” 

That makes you freeze. Then lift your head and squint at him. “Are you trying to ruin my life?” He shrugs, all innocence. “He’s got the weekend off. He’d probably be thrilled. You know he loves attention.” You narrow your eyes, incredulous. “He’s a walking spotlight with no off switch. I would rather go alone.” 

“Okay, dramatic.” 

You open your mouth to argue that he is, in fact, worse than bad, when the universe, ever cruel and opportunistic, decides to make it real. 

“Wow,” comes a voice from behind you, smooth, deep, and full of amusement. “Way to make a guy feel wanted, sweetheart.” 

You don’t even need to turn around. You already feel him there, like a shift in gravity, the kind that makes you forget how to breathe for a second. Atsumu Miya. 

Of course. You twist in your seat and there he is, leaning lazily against the staff door, he carries himself with the kind of confidence that borders on theatrical. One hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other lifting a protein shake to his lips. Naturally, he’s grinning from ear to ear. A smug, golden-haired, camera-ready disaster. You drop your forehead to the counter. “No."

“Aw, come on,” he says, pushing off the door and strolling over, casual as ever. “You need someone hot, charming, and photogenic. Lucky for you, I’m available.” 

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “You’re not charming.”

He leans against the counter beside you, eyes gleaming. “You’re smiling.” 

“I’m not.”

“You want to.” 

“Definitely not.” 

Osamu, the traitor, doesn’t even try to hide his smile. “He cleans up nice.” 

“I have standards.” 

“And I exceed them,” Atsumu declares proudly. 

You snort. “You’d turn the whole thing into a joke.” He taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but like... a convincing one. Isn’t that the point?” 

Your jaw clenches. You look at Osamu. He gives you a helpless shrug, like sorry, this is your life now. When you glance back at Atsumu, he's already watching you expectantly, the edges of his grin threatening to split wider. Too smug. Too pretty. Too eager. But, it’s either this... or showing up alone and letting your ex think he won. 

"Fine," You mutter. "But there are rules."

Atsumu perks up like a dog hearing the word 'treat.' “Ooh, rules. This is getting serious.” 

You hold up a finger. “No real kissing. No wandering hands. No gross pet names. Nothing weird.” 

“Got it,” he says. Then, without missing a beat: “So when do I meet your parents, babe?"

You groan and bury your face in your hands. 

-

It’s not a real date. It's just practice. It’s not like you want him to think you look good. But the image of his smug little grin replays in your mind and... God. Why are you making this harder than it should be? Your phone buzzes. 

atsumu [8:37 PM]  u allergic to roses?  you [8:38 PM]  what???  atsumu [8:38 PM]  asking for chemistry reasons  atsumu [8:38 PM]  gotta know what kind of flowers to bring my beloved gf  you [8:38 PM]  …  you [8:39 PM]  no allergies  atsumu [8:39 PM]  k cool. see u tomorrow, sweetheart. you [8:40 PM]  you’re ridiculous.

-

'Practice date' was code for chaos. 

There’s no other explanation for why, after a full day of internally preparing yourself for something super low-key and forgettable, you now find yourself standing outside a trendy downtown café with mismatches chairs and bright neon signs.

You arrive five minutes early, because you’re a normal person. A punctual person. A person who has dignity and takes fake dating arrangements seriously. 

He shows up ten minutes late. 

And slips his hand in yours before you even sit down. 

“Relax,” Atsumu says, flashing that bright, press-ready smile that’s definitely been featured in some national volleyball ad campaign. He squeezes your hand just a little. “You said this had to be convincing.” 

You blink at him, stunned, still half-reaching for the door. “You’re late.” 

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Had to look good for my girl.” 

“I’m not-” You hiss the words under your breath, looking around. “We are not doing this in public.” 

“Doing what?” He swings the door open, still holding your hand. “Being affectionate? Playing our parts? Pretending I’m madly in love with you?” 

“You’re enjoying this too much.” 

“I’m enjoying us,” he says, and before you can decide whether to roll your eyes or scream, he’s already guiding you to a table. 

The café is the kind of place that smells like lavender syrup and very overpriced espresso. Fairy lights are strung along exposed brick walls, and the playlist is some kind of French indie-pop that makes you feel underdressed and out of your depth. There’s a couple in the corner taking aesthetic photos of their drinks. A guy with wire-rimmed glasses is typing furiously on his laptop near the window. 

Atsumu picks the booth in the back without asking, slides in with the ease of someone who owns every room he walks into, and pats the seat beside him like you’re on a date. A real one.

“Sit.” 

You hesitate. “Why do I feel like I’m being lured into a trap?” 

“Because you overthink everything.” He pats the seat again. “C’mon, sweetheart. I don’t bite.” 

You sit. Reluctantly. Stiffly. “We’re supposed to be close,” he says, nudging your hip with his. “You know, believable.” 

“I hate that you’re good at this,” you mutter. 

He leans closer. “I know.” 

Before you can argue, the waiter shows up, and Atsumu orders for both of you. Correctly. You stare at him. “How-?” 

He shrugs, not even looking at you. “You always get it when you go out with ‘Samu.” 

You blink. You weren’t aware he ever paid that much attention. It’s... disconcerting. You glance at him again, searching for a punchline, but he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Just focused on adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. The drinks come out first. Atsumu makes a show of thanking the waiter with a wink, and you almost die on the spot. The waiter walks away flustered. You slap him on his shoulder. 

“Don’t flirt with the staff.” 

“I wasn’t flirting,” he throws his hands up innocently. “That was just charisma.” 

“It’s exhausting.” 

“You say that now,” he hums, picking up his coffee, “but watch how fast you start falling for it.” 

You groan, head thudding lightly against the table. “I can’t believe this is my life.” 

“Oh, come on,” he says, laughing. “Admit it. You’re having a little fun.” 

“You’re delusional.” 

“You’re smiling.” 

You are.  And that might be the most concerning part.

The conversation starts light. Easy. He asks you about your day. You mention work. He makes a joke about you being boring and then pretends to be offended when you agree with him. It’s the kind of banter you hate to admit feels natural with him. Almost like you've done this before. It's actually kind of nice.But then he starts performing. 

“Say that again, babe,” he purrs, way too loud, leaning in close. 

“Stop.” You pinch his arm under the table. 

“God,” he groans, turning to the couple seated a table over, who are absolutely eavesdropping. “I love when she gets shy.” 

Maybe the floor will open up and swallow you whole, if you're lucky. He just smirks. You try to focus on your drink, on anything else, when your fingers brush against his reaching for a packet of sugar. The first time, you both pull back instinctively. The second time, he doesn’t move his hand. You glance up. He’s already looking at you. His eyes are soft and lazy, a little amused. The corner of his mouth pulls into the faintest smile, like he knows something you don’t. And he doesn’t say anything. You look away first. It’s annoying. It’s obnoxious. It’s-Your heart skips. You sit back too fast, knocking your coffee with your elbow. It sloshes but doesn’t spill. He leans in slightly, stretching a long arm along the back of the booth. “You okay there?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He hums. “You sure?”

Before you can snap something obscene at him, he reaches forward and brushes a crumb off your chin with his thumb. Gentle. Almost too gentle. It makes your breath catch. You swat his hand away, heat flaring in your cheeks. “You’re enjoying this.” 

He leans back like he’s on a throne,.“Baby,” he says with quite possibly the widest smile you've ever seen on his face, “I’m thriving.” 

-

The walk back is strangely quiet. No teasing or dramatic comments. Just the steady beat of your footsteps on the sidewalk. The occasional hum of traffic. The breeze that slips between buildings, and brushes against your skin. He walks beside you, not too close, not too far. His hands are in his pockets. Yours swing at your sides. It feels normal. When you glance over at him, he isn’t looking at you. For once, he’s just walking, head tilted slightly back, watching the sky change color as the sun sets.  Without the stupid smirk, and the attitude, his face softens. His jaw relaxes. The sharp gleam in his eyes is subdued into something gentler. 

He looks good like this. 

You hate that you think that. 

“Same time tomorrow?” he says finally, still not looking at you.  

You should say no. You should call it off before it gets any weirder! Instead, you nod. 

He doesn’t make a joke, or glance your way. But a small smile spreads across his face. And somehow, it makes your heart race even worse. 

He doesn’t take tutoring seriously. Not at first. He spends the whole session watching you. He keeps flirting, keeps teasing, keeps getting closer. His excuse? “I'd focus better if you were sitting on my lap.” You shut that down real fast. But he starts testing your limits: Touching your knee under the table, sitting too close, whispering answers against your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he drawls one night, low and warm. “I’ll behave if you let me kiss you.” You drop your pen. He catches it before it hits the floor, eyes still on you. 

Geto’s reputation is no secret. He’s the guy who hooks up with girls and never calls them after. The guy who makes it look easy. Geto’s never had a real reason to behave. Never had to try for anything. Until you. You make him earn it. Every second of your time, every shy smile you give. You’re the first one who tells him no. No, he can’t copy your answers. No, he can’t sweet-talk his way out of learning the material. And no, you’re not going to sit in his lap while explaining conditional statements. The last one? “Worth a shot,” he says, biting down on his grin.

You start to notice little things. Like how he gets real quiet when you laugh. Or how he is even less focused when you wear a skirt to tutoring. Or how his jaw clenches when another guy stops by your study table just to say hi. “You think he’s smarter than me?” he asks later, tongue in his cheek. “Because I’ll start studying twice as hard if it means I get to fuck you first.”

One week, you get sick. He shows up outside your apartment with soup, a bottle of Motrin , and zero explanation. “Don’t read into it,” he says. “I just need you alive to pass psych.” You’re in pajamas. No makeup. Unbrushed hair. And he’s looking at you with an expression that you can't quite understand. He stays. Doesn’t touch you. Just leans against your desk chair while you nap, scrolling his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When you wake up, there’s a hoodie draped over your blanket. It smells like him. 

One night, it all finally snaps. You’re both tired, overworked, frustrated. He’s been actually trying lately, which shocks you, and clearly shocks him too. You’re leaning over the table, pointing out an error he made, when he grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you pause. “You know I want you, right?” he asks, eyes dark and steady. “I’ve been good. I’ve been trying. So if I kiss you right now-” You don’t stop him. He kisses you like he’s starving.One hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he's been dying for it. Your glasses are fogged. Your head is spinning. And when he finally pulls back, breathing heavy, lips swollen. “You taste better than I dreamed,” he says. “And I’ve dreamed about it. Like a lot.”

After that, he’s worse. He’s texting you at 2 a.m. with stupid math memes just to make you laugh. Leaning too close when you’re helping him with formulas, eyes on your mouth instead of the notebook. “If I ace this quiz,” he whispers, “do I get a reward?” You laughs lustered and breathless, but don’t say no. He gets an 87. You never make it past the couch.

He can’t take it anymore. You’re both studying. He’s actually trying. Focused. Until you bend over to reach something and your skirt rides up just enough to show the lace under it. You don’t even notice. But he does. “Fuck this,” he mutters, slamming the textbook shut. “Wha-” “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” You blink. Then his hand is on your chin, tilting your face up to meet his dark eyes. “Gonna let me show you how long I’ve wanted you?”

He’s filthy when he finally has you. Pinned under him in his apartment, your cardigan long discarded, his hands dragging your skirt up so slowly you swear he’s doing it just to watch you squirm. He groans, kissing down your stomach.,“Bet you’ve been aching for this since day one.” You moan when he bites your inner thigh. He grins. That night, he ruins you. And the next morning, he shows up early to your tutoring, coffee in hand, kiss bitten lips, and an essay fully completed. “See?” he says, flashing that devilish smile. “You are a good influence.”

You’ve developed a sixth sense for his presence. You can feel him behind you before he says a word; tall, warm, always standing way too close. In the mornings, when you shuffle into the kitchen in nothing but his oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, you can feel his eyes trailing over you like it’s the first time. Every time. “G’morning, sunshine,” he purrs, coffee mug in hand, white hair sticking up in every direction. “You always wake up this pretty, or is that hoodie just magic?” You never give him the satisfaction of an answer. Just sip your coffee with a flat stare and ignore how your pulse jumps.

Except it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way Gojo really looks at you when you’re walking around in your big T-shirt and tiny shorts. The way he suddenly gets quiet when you’re laughing at something on your phone, biting your nail. The way he leans a little too close when you’re cooking. 

His room is a mess. Protein shake powder dusted on the floor like it’s seasoning. Two different girls' earrings left on the nightstand (he swears he’s going to return them). Your room is off-limits. You made that rule clear on day one. “No parties in here. No girls in here. No you in here.” He’d raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Unless you invite me, of course.”And weirdly… he’s honored it. Even when he's drunk. Even when he's sleepwalking. “Sacred space,” he shrugs. But his eyes linger when your door is cracked. The one time you fell asleep with it open and he caught a glimpse of you curled up, wearing one of his old shirts you 'borrowed', he stood there for a full ten seconds, silent, before backing away like he just witnessed a crime.

Parties are weekly. sometimes his, sometimes Geto's down the street. You never intend to go. But he always pulls you in. “Just wear that little black top,” he says, leaning on your doorframe like it’s his full-time job. “You know, the one that makes all the other girls at the party mad.” “Because they think I’m trying to steal their man?” “Nah,” he grins. “Because you’re already have me.” (You don’t answer. But you wear the top.)

The teasing is constant. You argue about laundry, over his collection of identical, stupid sunglasses, about why he keeps using your expensive shampoo. “It smells like you,” he shrugs. “I like it.” One day, the arguing gets heated. Voices raised, faces inches apart. You’re glaring up at him, and he’s leaning in, chest heaving just a little. The air between you shifts. “You done?” he asks, voice lower now, eyes flicking to your lips. “Are you?” you fire back. He doesn’t kiss you. But he almost does. You feel it in the curl of his fingers at your hip. The way his jaw clenches like he’s physically holding himself back.

Sometimes you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. But it’s not casual, it’s hungry. Like he’s imagining exactly what you’d sound like moaning into his pillow, or what you’d do if he slipped his hand between your thighs instead of the blanket you share during movie nights. He’ll tilt his head, tongue poking his cheek, blue eyes sliding over your lips like he’s already kissed them a hundred times in his mind. “What?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. He smiles, slow and shameless. “Nothing. Just... trying to remember if you always look this good when you’re ignoring me.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, still smiling. Later, you hear him groan through the paper-thin wall. You tell yourself you imagined it. But you know you didn’t.

One night, you almost say it. You're buzzed after a party, warm from the inside out, barefoot in the kitchen, eating cold pizza from the box. Gojo strolls in, shirtless again, hair wet from a shower, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He watches you for a moment. You're wearing one of his t-shirts with no bra underneath, and he knows it. You swear his gaze burns through the cotton. He corners you in the against the counter, hands braced on either side of hour hips. The scent of his cologne, rich and citrus-y, envelops you.“You keep looking at me like that, angel,” he whispers, voice rougher than you've ever heard it, “and I’m gonna stop pretending this is friendly." You swallow, hard. “Who says we’re pretending?” That’s when he touches your waist. Large, warm hands with enough pressure to make your breath catch. "You gonna let me kiss you yet?" He murmurs, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. And you want him to. But you stop him. Barely. Fingertips curled into his shirt like a warning. “Not like this.”

He makes pancakes the next morning. No shirt. Just low-slung sweats and sleepy eyes. “Didn’t even touch you, and I’m still wrecked,” he mutters, flipping a pancake like he’s trying not to look at you. You’re standing there in your tiny shorts and one of his old hoodies, arms crossed, pretending to ignore the way his gaze keeps dropping to your legs. “You always cook for the girls you don’t fuck?” He grins, devilish. “Just because I didn’t hit doesn’t mean I’m not a gentleman." You tell him he’s insufferable. He tells you that you look really good in his hoodie. 

You leave the hoodie folded on his bed later, along with a note that says: if you’re gonna touch me, do it right next time. And that night, you swear you hear him groan again, louder.

When you finally say yes, it's not with words. You just let your thighs part a little wider. A glance down at Gojo, where he kneels between your legs like he was made to be there, has you tangling your hand in that snowy hair and tugging, just enough to tell him yes. His breath stutters. His arrogant smile falters, just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting you to actually give in. But then it's back. That hungry, smug look. “You have no idea,” he says, voice low and rough. He sounds wrecked, “how many times I’ve thought about this.” His breath catches as he pushes the hoodie up, slowly, like he’s unwrapping a present. Groans deep in his throat when he sees you, already warm and wet for him. “Angel, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Gojo is cocky with his mouth, of course he is, but he's also unfairly good with it. He doesn’t go straight for it, either. He teases. Slow, like he's testing how long he can keep you whining and squirming before you beg. Licks lazy circles on your inner thigh. Kisses just beside where you want him most. Smiles when you writhe. You try to glare at him. You really do. But he licks a stripe up your inner thigh and all that comes out is a broken whimper. "Patience, baby,” he whispers, mouth so close it burns. “You want me to take my time, right?” You nod. He raises an eyebrow. “Use your words.” “Please,” you whisper. “Gojo—” “Satoru,” he corrects, eyes half-lidded. “You call me Satoru when I’m between your legs.”

He doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking. Until you’re gasping for air, tugging his hair, babbling his name. “That’s it,” he coos against your skin. “So fuckin’ sweet. Knew you’d taste this good.” You think he’ll stop when you come, but he doesn’t. Not right away. He laps at you lazily, savoring it. Holding your thighs open like he owns them. When he finally pulls back, he wipes his shiny lips with the back of his hand and rests his head on your stomach.

Afterwards, you're limp on the couch, chest still heaving, legs sprawled over his lap. Gojo looks positively ruined. Hair a disaster, cheeks flushed, and eyes blown wide like he’s drunk on you. “Roomie benefits go crazy,” he grins, hand smoothing up and down your bare thigh. You go to smack at his chest. He just catches your wrist and presses a soft kiss to your palm. “Don’t get an ego-boost,” you murmur. “Too late,” he giggles. “You let me put my face in your pussy, there’s no going back.” You groan. "I hate you."

And after that? He’s insatiable. He’s on you all the time now. In the hallway. On the couch. In the kitchen when you’re just trying to make toast. “C’mon, angel." he murmurs, cornering you against the fridge “Just a little taste. Just one kiss.” His hand slips under your shirt. Finds your waist. Your heart hammers in your chest. "We just did this last night!" You hiss. “What can I say?" he smirks. “I’m a hungry guy.”

He’s definitely still a frat boy. Still loud, still annoying, still leaves empty Gatorade bottles everywhere. But he doesn't bring girls home anymore.He doesn’t even look at other girls anymore. Not at parties, not even when they slide into his DMs with mirror selfies and fake homework questions. Gojo Satoru, the same man who used to flirt with the barista just to get an extra shot of espresso, is now very visibly obsessed with you. People notice. They whisper. “Isn’t that Gojo’s hoodie she’s wearing?” “I thought he never hooked up with the same girl twice—” He just grins. Big, obnoxious, displaying all his perfect teeth. But this time, it’s different. There’s a certain pride behind it. Almost like possessiveness. He looks over at you, leans in close enough to kiss your jaw, and says it without blinking. "She's my girl." And later that night, when he’s got his hand wrapped around your throat in the dark, hips grinding slow against yours, whispering, “Say it. Tell me who you belong to." “You.” His breath stutters. His grip tightens. “Damn right.”

Still, your legs are tangled with Kuroo’s and his face is tucked against your neck, quiet snores vibrating against your skin like the purrs of a cat. Sweat is beading along your hairline, the crook of your elbows, the backs of your knees. It feels, though, like the whole world has slowed down to extend this moment, time warmed up just enough to stretch thick and syrupy. Blissful quiet settles over your mind and you drift back off to sleep. 

[11:05 a.m.] 

When you next wake up, it is thanks to the slice of sunlight beaming directly into your eyes. Squinting, you lift a hand to shield yourself and swallow against the dryness in your throat. 

Kuroo has migrated further down the bed somehow, his face now buried into your stomach. Imprinted on his sleep-addled face are deep pillow marks and you snort gently under your breath in amusement. His hair is everywhere—half sticking up and half fanned across the sheets—until you card your fingers through the black strands, coaxing out the static as you study him. 

Slow mornings with Kuroo cradle this… tenderness, that soothes you like nothing else. Time and thought and worry is mysteriously suspended, and you feel like you could take on whatever life throws at you if he’s by your side. You inhale a deep breath. The building warmth in the air coats your lungs. 

Kuroo shifts, eyes blinking open blearily and instinctively searching for your own. When he finds your gaze already on him, he smiles. 

“Mornin’,” he breathes, sleep bending the word into more of a barely-intelligible sound.

Nudging his nose with your own, you reply. “Morning.” 

He scrunches his face. “It’s so warm.”

“I know,” you huff a laugh, blindly palming the bedside table for your phone. Kuroo props himself up clumsily, hovering on tired forearms over you. A few quiet beats of your heart pass as he watches you check the time and open the weather app. “I wanna bake today.”

Kuroo dips down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, and your phone drops forgotten between you, morning breath be damned. 

“Then we’ll bake,” he murmurs against your lips. 

[11:57 a.m.]

“I should’ve decided on a recipe before we arrived,” you lament, staring listlessly at the giant wall of baking ingredients you’re facing. 

The aisles in your local shop are packed—people piling in and meandering slowly around the space to revel in the blessing that is industrial air conditioning. You can’t blame them. Half the reason you’d braved the rising heat outside was to experience the cool reprieve you knew the shop would provide. 

Kuroo’s hand settles on your lower back as he stares at the shelves, similarly lost. 

“How about that cake you made last week?” he suggests. 

It was nice, sure. A nutty, coffee-infused cake you whipped up on a dreary day when the overcast skies outside made you crave something warm and comforting. Today, however, calls for something fresher. A treat that can be enjoyed even in this blistering heat—that is worth turning on the oven for and warming the cramped, poorly ventilated flat you share. 

Humming, you shake your head. 

“Cookies?” he probes, brushing a hand through his sweaty bangs and pushing them away from his forehead.

The shop’s air conditioning is working wonders, and already you can feel your own sweat drying. Clothing previously stuck to your skin is now peeling away uncomfortably. It kind of feels reptilian—like you’re shedding a layer of skin or something equally unpleasant. Mentally, you sift through the catalogue of recipes tucked in your head as you scan the ingredients. 

“Lemon cookies?” you ask, voice tilting up in question. 

A bag of flour and sugar are deposited in the basket Kuroo is holding before he even replies, and baking soda closely follows. You seem to remember using the last of it when you made that coffee cake last week. 

Kuroo ruffles your hair and laughs, crow’s feet spidering from the corners of his eyes. Realistically, you should be used to it by now—how laughter contorts his face. Yet each time, the marks of joy he wears and the familiar cadence of his laugh causes your stomach to swoop. Helpless, laughter is drawn from you like a Pavlovian response. 

Fresh lemons are your next port of call, and you take their selection very seriously. Individual lemons are lifted up, sniffed, squeezed, thrown in the air and caught, before finally either: discarded back onto the display, or dropped into the basket. 

Kuroo’s head comes to rest on your shoulder as he watches your ministrations, the basket wordlessly held out for you. 

“If I were a lemon would you bring me home to make lemon cookies or leave me in this lovely air conditioned shop?” he asks, his warm breath tickling your jaw. You can hear his smile. 

“That depends.” Putting another lemon back on the display, you cast a glance at the side of his face thoughtfully. “What kind of lemon would you be?”

An elderly woman, clad in colourful hiking gear, ambles up to the fruit stand and studies it contemplatively. Shuffling sideways out her way, she reaches past you to grab a handful of oranges in her wrinkled hand. Kuroo moves with you, his chin glued to your shoulder. 

“A super sour one,” he says. Kuroo’s fingers fiddle with the belt loops on your denim shorts and he briefly greets the woman with a good morning when she shoots you both a smile before plodding off down the aisle. “Filled with juice that would make even the bravest person’s mouth twist in surprise.” 

Your response is more laughter, though it is swallowed by scattered conversation between some of the customers and Japan’s latest pop hits that filter through tinny speakers dotted around the shop. Kuroo hears it clear as day. 

“I think I would then,” you answer, traces of laughter lightening your tone. “A bit of sugar and you’d make the best cookies around. People would be breaking down our door just for a bite. I would be hailed as a modern miracle-baker.”

Kuroo presses his cheek against yours. “It would be an honour to be used for your cookies.”

[12:32 p.m.]

An explosion has occurred, with your cramped little kitchen as collateral damage. Baking ingredients cover every surface, your apron is dusted with flour handprints, and you’re pretty sure that’s lemon juice in your eye. It looks, for all intents and purposes, like a god of baking has been slain on your kitchen tiles.

Kuroo is what he calls “helping” and what you lovingly refer to as “being a massive pain in my ass.” And while he is scarily adept at cooking—which, thank god because you’d learnt at the ripe age of sixteen in a high school cooking class, and again in your first university flat all those years ago, that you are suspiciously liable to start kitchen fires—Kuroo’s baking skills leave something to be desired. Thus, his “help” chiefly involves distracting you. 

“C’mere,” Kuroo murmurs, plastering himself on your back. 

The extra body heat is uncomfortable, the flat stiflingly hot, yet you can’t bring yourself to tell him to move. For a few moments, he lets you stir the meticulously measured ingredients together in a large metal bowl. But then he grows bored, peppering kisses on your cheek, your jaw, your neck. His teeth teasingly graze your skin. 

Squirming, you try to focus on folding the pale mixture just right, but when he licks a stripe up the side of your neck you make a startled noise. You abandon the mixture to spin around in his grasp and stare at him disapprovingly. 

“What?” he intones, faux-innocent face pretty as a picture. Matted with sweat, baby hairs are stuck to his forehead, but you’re not sure if the red bleeding into his cheeks is also a result of the suffocating heat in your flat, or you. 

“I’m trying to concentrate,” you say, unimpressed. Leaning your weight back onto the counter, you knock your knee against his playfully. 

“I’m just simulating a real kitchen environment,” he argues, sidling closer to you. “You’ve watched The Great British Bake Off, you know the contestants have to juggle their baking, the time-limit, and those mid-round interviews with the hosts.”

Scoffing, you rest a hand on one of his broad shoulders, though you’re torn as to whether you want to push him away or pull him closer. 

“Is that so,” you ask, amused. “I don’t remember any of the contestants having to deal with a lumbering 6’2” man who can’t keep his hands or mouth to himself, strangely enough.”

“Ah… you must’ve missed that episode,” Kuroo nods his head understandingly, as though forgiving you for such a misdeed. 

Now stuck between kissing him and shoving his head into your mixing bowl, you almost laugh at yourself. How can someone so handsome be so incredibly annoying? It’s a challenge to not be distracted by his delighted expression and the cheeky curve of his mouth. 

“I’m sure I could easily eat these cookies by myself,” you threaten. 

Kuroo opens his mouth to protest and you raise an accusing eyebrow. 

“I’ll behave my love,” he says, a contradicting grin on his face as he fingers a cross over his heart. “Hope to die.” 

You turn back to the counter to hide your smile. Kuroo leans his weight back onto you, though this time there is a distinct lack of his mouth on your neck. A win is a win. 

In your hand, you roll the mixture into ping pong-sized balls and spread them out on a baking sheet methodically. It’s a soothing motion—repetitive enough to let your mind drift as you space out each ball of cookie dough just right. 

“I’ve always loved your hands,” Kuroo says gently, and you drop back into the moment. 

Suddenly, your attention is drawn to the tendons shifting as you work. The peaks and valleys of your knuckles and the winding veins across the backs of your hands. The mysterious, small bruise darkening the side of your wrist. The smattering of fine hair. 

What a joy it is, to view yourself anew—washed in another’s love. 

[12:46 p.m.]

When you open the oven to put your cookies in, a wall of heat smacks you in the face.

“Fuck,” you exclaim, carelessly shoving the tray in and slamming the oven door closed again. “That’s hot.”

“Yeah no shit,” Kuroo says, setting the garish timer your grandma had gifted you, neon yellow and crudely resembling a rooster, to 12 minutes. Thanking her for it without laughing was an accomplishment you’re still proud of to this day. Kuroo hadn’t been so successful, and he still pouts that your grandma gives him the cold shoulder over it.

“Who’s idea was it to bake again today?” you ask dryly, flapping the front of your vest in an effort to cool yourself down. 

Kuroo tugs up a stool and slumps down onto it like the weight of this heat is physical, leaning an elbow on the counter. “I remember it being yours.”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” you say, earnestly. 

A thought of cleaning up the chaos you’ve caused in the kitchen briefly flits through your head, but the idea lasts for all of one breath before it’s replaced with something better. Walking over to Kuroo, you place a finger under his chin and guide his face up. 

“You behaved,” is all you say approvingly, before dipping down to kiss him. 

Sugar and lemon linger in his mouth, but you don’t recall catching him swiping any ingredients. You nip at his lip to say as much. Kuroo tugs at your waist, ushering you forward to stand between his legs. Big, warm hands run up and down your sides. 

Escaping from the oven, wafts of sweet, cookie-filled air slowly permeate the room. Soon, you’re sure it will drift out the window you wedged wide open earlier, desperate for a breeze in your stuffy flat. You wouldn’t be surprised if you shortly pattering footsteps within the hour, accompanied by a small knock from Kenzo next door—your neighbour’s toddler who has a suspiciously acute sense of smell when it comes to your baking. He’s quite possibly the cutest kid you’ve ever seen, though. So it’s impossible to be mad about it when you open the door to chubby red cheeks and a mess of hair indistinguishable from Kuroo’s bedhead. 

[12:58 p.m.]

Beep. Beep. Beep. Bee—

You push the head of your timer–rooster hybrid down, silencing it. As though haunted by the smell for the past 12 minutes, Kuroo rushes to fetch the cookies—haphazardly grabbing a tea towel and braving the oven heat to retrieve the tray. He places it on your hob. 

“Fuck, my mouth is watering,” Kuroo moans, leaning down to smell them. 

“Ditto,” you sigh, “but we gotta let ‘em cool.”

Echoing Kuroo’s disappointed noise, your stomach rumbles comically and it’s only now that you realise neither of you have eaten lunch. 

Lemon cookies, it is.

[13:05 p.m.]

“I can’t wait any longer!” Kuroo says, before shovelling a whole cookie into his mouth. 

Unable to resist either, you grab one and take a bite. 

“Ah, shit, it’s hot,” Kuroo mumbles through a mouthful of cookie, panting and fanning his mouth to cool the food. 

Savouring the flavour you nod in satisfaction, ignoring the interpretative hot-food-dance Kuroo is currently doing across the kitchen tiles. Just the right amount of tang to sweetness ratio, with a soft crumble to boot. Pretty good, if you do say so yourself. Maybe next time you can try the viral lemon curd icing, courtesy of a trendy recipe blog you follow online. 

“Idiot,” you say through a laugh. “How the hell do you have any tastebuds left when—”

You’re interrupted by a series of gentle knocks. 

Kuroo almost trips over in his haste to get to your front door. “That must be Kenzo!”

[14:23 p.m.]

“Lemon popsicles are underrated,” you say, smacking your lips obnoxiously. 

The kitchen is tidy, popsicles have been unearthed from your freezer, and now, you and Kuroo sit on the floor of your living room, perched in front of an oscillating fan as you enjoy your treat. 

“Mhm,” Kuroo hums in agreement, head tipped back as he basks in the momentary breeze. You feel like you’re watching an expensive shampoo commercial with the way his hair blows back from his face. “We really should get another fan.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, though any irritation is soothed by the popsicle in your hand and the fan now blowing in your direction. “We probably should.” 

In the staggeringly warm air, your popsicle is already melting, steadily dripping down your west and you’re racing against time to finish it before it becomes a puddle on your floor. Panicking, you follow the sticky trail with your tongue. In your periphery, Kuroo watches your mouth intently and you grin. Ignoring your current popsicle-crisis, you pout your lips and rest the icy tip against them. Gently swiping it back and forth until your lips are wet and numb. 

When Kuroo flicks his gaze up, you’re already looking at him. You raise an eyebrow cheekily and he rolls his eyes in response, a faint blush staining his face. 

“You’re a menace, you know that?” he asks, mirth lacing his voice. 

“You like it.”

“I wish I didn’t,” he says dryly. 

“Hey!” you say, playfully nudging your shoulder into his. “Bastard.”

“Ow!” Kuroo clutches his shoulder and swoons sideways, splaying his limbs out on the floor like a body outline at a crime scene. “Man down! Man down! Can we get a medic over here?”

Unmoving, you glance down at him over your popsicle. 

“Oh no, where does it hurt?” you mock. 

“Everywhere,” he bemoans, resting the back of his hand across his forehead, the spitting image of a damsel in distress. 

You resist the urge to smack him, again. 

“I’ve heard there’s only one cure,” you say, face morbid and serious. “True love’s kiss.”

“Shit,” Kuroo clutches your hand desperately, “I’m going to die!”

Feigning offense, you use his hand as leverage and tug him up, twisting him into a headlock. When he struggles, you tighten your arm. “You’re awful.”

“Let— Me— Go—” he pants. “You’re too hot!”

And you are too hot. Any more of this and it feels like the fan won’t be enough to keep your skin from melting off your bones. Perhaps it would be a relief to shed the extra layer. 

Reluctantly, you release him. 

Kuroo sits up and shoves his face in front of the fan, following it as it rotates while he desperately gulps in breaths like you’d just waterboarded him. Drama queen. 

It reminds you, weirdly, of this big, shaggy dog you’ve seen in your town before—head hanging out of the car window and tongue lolling in bliss at the strong wind stirring up his fur coat. You snort an ugly laugh. Kuroo narrows his eyes at you, and you just hold your arms up in surrender. 

“This weather is evil,” he complains a few minutes later, and you simply nod, exhausted from your scuffle. The unnecessary movement has heated you up and now, you’re regretting your earlier decision to manhandle Kuroo. Even if it was in the name of justice. “We should’ve chased up Hiroshi before this heatwave hit.”

Hiroshi being your lovely—and honestly, he is lovely—landlord, who is forgetful to the degree of claiming that your dinky little air conditioning unit, part of the flat furnishing when you moved in, will be “promptly fixed” for the past six months. 

It was your fault, really. You’d both let it slide because occasionally Hiroshi would pop round with trinkets for you he bought when visiting his grandchildren, or a voucher for a new restaurant opening in the area, courtesy of him knowing the owners. And when he knocks on your door—smile glued to his face like he can bear no other expression, and an ancient tool box in tow (older than even your parents, you’re sure)—ready to finally fix the faulty boiler you had for weeks last winter, or that leaky pipe you under your kitchen sink earlier this spring (one of Kenzo’s sandcastle buckets gratefully loaned to catch the water), it’s like your frustration vanishes in the blink of an eye. (“Perhaps he’s a wizard” Kuroo had said once, eying the new gas valve Hiroshi eventually fitted suspiciously. And frankly, you wouldn’t put it past the old man).

Only you and Kenzo’s parents rent units from Hiroshi. He’s sweet, and you’ve all fallen for his otherworldly, old-fashioned charm. 

This time, however, you do regret not giving him a call. 

“Maybe I should pop round? He might remember to fix it sooner if he knows it’s urgent?” you propose, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand and biting a chunk from the end of your popsicle. Your hands are beyond sticky, now, the treat neglected in your eagerness to mess with Kuroo. 

“Nah, don’t bother him. We’ll survive.” 

But his face is still following the rhythmic path of the fan and you can’t help but wonder how long you’ll both last. Already, you can feel the heat digging away at your brain, energy filtering out through your sweat. 

“I might not,” you joke, leaning on the sofa behind you and dropping your head back onto the cushion in despair. 

The air still smells faintly of lemon cookies and you smile. It’s not all bad.

[15:06 p.m.]

A cheesy, nineties romcom is flashing on your television screen. The lead is currently reading a poem she wrote, listing 10 things she hates about the person she wishes she hadn’t fallen for. You could recite this scene by heart; the movie is a permanent resident on your romcom-roster. Like clockwork, though, Kuroo’s lip begins to wobble. Big, shiny tears clumping at his lashline and threatening to spill as the lead wavers through her heartbroken poem. 

Smothering a fond smile, you lean your head on Kuroo’s shoulder and reach for his hand, stroking your thumb across the back of his knuckles comfortingly. 

“I never get why he doesn't come clean at the prom,” Kuroo sniffles, his head coming to rest on top of yours. “About how much he loves her.”

“I don’t know, baby,” you say quietly, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Maybe some things are too hard to say without searching for courage first.”

[18:36 p.m.]

“Behind!” Kuroo calls, as he flanks you with an armful of vegetables from the fridge. 

Where you sit on a stool at your kitchen island, your attention is split between the book in your hand and Kuroo, bustling around the space in front of you. 

“I feel like I’m in The Bear,” you joke. “Should I start calling you chef?”

Kuroo contemplates the question while the tap runs in the background, vegetables piled up in the sink to be washed. 

“In what context?” he finally asks in a stupid voice, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“In the context of a kitchen, you filthy shit,” you say through a laugh. 

He raises his hands in defense and you wonder how he’s surviving in his extra uniform—the thick canvas apron tied loosely around his hips. “Hey! I was just wondering.” 

“You want me to call you chef in the bedroom?” you ask, incredulously. 

“To put it this way,” he turns back to the sink, rinsing a head of bok choy under the water. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

When you don’t say anything, he shoots you a cheeky glance over his shoulder. “Do you want my apron to really get you in character?”

“Shut up, oh my god,” you laugh. “Go on then.”

Smirking, Kuroo shakes his hands to dry them briefly and walks over. You stand, abandoning your book on the countertop. He wraps the apron around you, tying it gently around your waist. 

“Too tight?” he asks teasingly, right in your ear. 

You shake him off. “Just perfect, thanks.” 

Lifting the vegetables out of the sink, he dumps them none too gently on a chopping board and hands you a concerningly large knife with a flourish. 

“Your weapon of choice.”

Cautiously, you take the knife. “I don’t know about this, Kuroo. I really like our little kitchen.” 

He guides your hand to the vegetables laid out before you, and somehow you worry you and Kuroo might be in more imminent danger than the vegetables themselves. 

“Nonsense.” He shakes his head and places his hand on top of yours. “Watch and learn, young Padawan.”

[20:01 p.m.]

“Holy shit,” you moan through a mouthful of stir fry. “This is so fucking good.”

Kuroo’s expression is the epitome of smugness. In this instance though, even you can admit it’s fully warranted. 

You point your chopsticks in his direction, accusingly. “You are never allowed to leave me.” 

Cicadas buzz in the trees outside your flat and you can, miraculously, feel a gentle breeze blowing in from the window. 

“Or die,” you tack onto the end. 

“Won’t do and I’ll try my best not to,” he grins before unhinging his jaw for, somehow, not the biggest bite of food you’ve seen him manage. 

Your phone vibrates on the counter between you and a notification from Kenma in the group chat the three of you share flashes on screen. You peer at it curiously. 

“Kenma is asking if we want to hop on Fortnite.”

Kuroo makes an excited noise through his mouthful of food, enthusiastically nodding his head.

“Alright,” you chuckle, snapping a quick photo of Kuroo hunched over his bowl, the remnants of a pleased grin on his face, and you send it into the group chat with your reply. 

You: Eating rn. We’re down tho. Can be online in 10? Kenma: sure :) You: How’s this heat treating you?  Kenma: ac is mankind’s greatest invention Kenma: once you leave the dark ages lmk what it’s like You: 🖕 Kenma: talk to u soon lol You: Yeah, whatever…

“Kenma’s an asshole,” you say, thrusting your phone screen under Kuroo’s nose for him to read. 

“You’re telling me,” Kuroo says, nodding in agreement. “Who else is going to fund our battle pass though?”

You sigh. “True”

After a moment’s contemplation, you pivot. 

“He’s alright, I suppose.” 

[21:49 p.m.]

“I’m tired,” you moan, “yet we have done literally nothing but bake and rest all day.”

“It’s the heat, darlin'.” Kuroo swipes a thumb across your temple, tracing it down to the tender hollow beneath your ear. “You spend most of your energy regulating your temperature in this kind of weather.”

“It sucks.” 

“Yeah,” Kuroo laughs sympathetically. “It does.” 

[00:11 a.m.] 

“I got work in the mornin’ so I’ll see you evenin’ time, darlin’. I’ll cook your favourite.”

Your perk up from where you’ve been strewn out across the bed, fitfully attempting sleep, and look over at him hopefully. “Really?”

“Really,” he smiles, nodding. 

His eyes are filled with such softness, you feel he could melt you where you lay and the proof of your existence would be absorbed by the mattress.

[8:45 a.m.] 

Someone, if tasked to watch you sleep last night, may have come to the conclusion you’d been possessed—for how much you’d been tossing and turning. So it’s a relief to Kuroo in the morning, seeing you still and quiet. He smothers a chuckle at your face, squished into the pillow, face compressed like someone has been pressing on your cheeks. 

Banking down, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

[10:00 a.m.]

When you wake up, an egregious pink sticky note is blocking your view, and you peel it off your forehead curiously.