(you know damn well he would’ve caved even without the pathetic little performance, but it wouldn’t hurt to be polite.)

plus, that smile of his. god, that smile.

there, tugging at his lips, it is not the serpentine smirk he wears alongside his monastic robes in front of the masses. you’ve always found the look quite bone-chilling. now, his beautiful brown eyes crease into crescents because he is smiling for you.

“i see someone’s greedy tonight,”

suguru huffs, tucking a stray strand of inky hair behind his ear. the display of mock exasperation fails to conceal the adoration oozing through. interlocking his fingers, he makes a big show of pushing his palms outward, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the tension. he rolls his hips in a slowly, his muscle-rippled pelvis slick and shining with your combined cum, veins mapping down his lower abdomen and spider-webbing across his shaft as the bulbous, purplish-red tip weeps.

“you really want to milk me dry so badly, huh?”

wrapping a hand around his semi-invigorated cock, he gives it a few warming pumps before positioning himself.

i write for every jjk character except for mahito. also, to be clear, i age up characters who are canonically adults at one point (i.e. yuji/megumi). please feel free to be as detailed as you want!! requests must be reader x jjk character (no ocs for now...). i will not write:

dark content (non con, pedophilia, etc).

super heavy stuff (thoughts of suicide, severe mental illness, self-harm) other than it being a detail and not the focus of an entire scene

no poly stuff (only one character x reader for now, im not confident i'll write it well)

no ocs

You’re jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriend’s massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. He’s facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.

As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose. 

“Valko?” You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.

“Hurts,” he grunts. 

Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. “What happened?” 

“Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,” he says, voice grim and shaky. “This one wasn’t.” 

If you had an extra hand, you’d drag it down your forehead right now. 

Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrels—those had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.

“You just get into all sorts of trouble, don’t you.” Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. “Let me have a look at you.” 

The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupine’s decisive victory. 

“Can you take them out?” he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. “If we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know I’m super late. I’m sorry.”

Twenty of nature’s finest knives in his face, and he’s worried about the movies?

“You obviously had a reason,” you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. “I don’t know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this… If I do it wrong, I’ll just make it worse.” 

His response is simple: “I trust you.” 

Cute. But not what you need right now.

Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. “No, no. I can’t! I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You couldn’t if you tried.” He snorts, then winces at the pain. 

“Tell that to the porcupine.” You narrow your eyes. “I think it missed the memo.” 

His ears swivel in acknowledgment. He’s 0–2 in battles today. 

“All right, change of plans,” you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. “We can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.” 

“It’s not that serious,” he protests. “I’d do it myself if I just had a mirror. Let’s go back to the house, and—”

“I’ll get the car ready.” Your word is final. 

His ears droop atop his head. 

Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passenger’s seat so he didn’t accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so he’d have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinic’s often-packed parking lot. 

In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but he’s without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once he’s called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances. 

The vet’s entrance is prompt as always—part of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he “wins.” 

“Well, I typically ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’,” Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. “But today, I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. “I went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it might’ve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?” He looks to you for support. 

Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. “Right.” Not in most circumstances, no!

Nodding gratefully, he continues. “As soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.” 

“Well.” Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. “You’re not the worst case I’ve seen. Sometimes, it’s the whole face—and neck.” She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” 

You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. “Oh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.” 

──────

Right when you wonder if Valko’s death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. “That’s nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.” 

Valko kicks the air in desolation. “Doesn’t feel like it.” 

“It will when you wake up tomorrow and you don’t have to wonder, ‘How did it even get my nostrils?’,” she retorts, heading to the door. “Now, let me just get your treatment, and you’ll be free to go.” 

The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. “It hurts.” 

Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. “How bad?”

“Really.” 

You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter. 

“All right,” she begins. “I’m going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, and…” She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back. 

Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock. 

Is that…? 

No way. 

“...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.” 

When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. “You want to put me in jail?”

“Of course not. You’ve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, it’s best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.” 

You understand her implication, but Valko’s tail thrashes in unease. “What…what kind of activities?” 

The doctor smiles down at him. “The usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.” 

Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think I’m gonna be sick. 

Day 1

Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you. 

Knowing he’ll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, he’ll forget about being in plastic prison.

“So, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?” 

Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things. 

“Okay, what about—”

“I look dumb,” he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you can’t tell him that. 

“You look safe,” you say instead. “That’s what matters, yeah?”

“Not when I look dumb, too.” With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, you’re crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare. 

“You know you aren’t supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.”

“Make me.”

Oh, really? That’s how it is?

Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. “‘Make’ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what you’re up to? I’m sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, you’ll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?” You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone. 

“No, wait!” Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apology—a favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment. 

As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.

“Don’t pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.”

As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.

“No, Koko. It's for your own good.”

Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. He’s never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet. 

Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. “Here. Get on your knees.” 

He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, he’s still half your height. 

“Come here.” Reaching through the cone’s opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure. 

He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. “You’re my big, strong wolf, aren’t you? It’ll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.” 

Day 3

Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems. 

In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.

Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While he’s permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesn’t lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until he’s refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear. 

You won’t let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restless—especially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress. 

He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation. 

Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (You’re quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)

A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning. 

Clearly, he had a lot on his mind. 

Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and he’s sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb. 

Sometimes, he turns his head into your belly—or maybe a little lower—and inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. “Just let me have this.”

As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show you’re watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. It’s the calmest he’s been in the last three days, you think—until the “woodland creatures” portion of the show begins.

His mortal enemy lies in wait within.

“It’s not as big as the one that did this to me,” he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. “He was a monster.”

“I’m sure he was,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this by now. “How else could he have taken you down?”

Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. “Can we do something else now?”

“Okay.” You squint at him warily. “Something like what?”

Slowly, as if you won’t be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.

“No,” you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him. 

Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupine’s snout fills the screen.

“Can you at least change the channel, then?” he mumbles.

Day 5

Since you’ve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook that’s both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.

It’s no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights. 

One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation. 

It’s not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he can’t yet tell that you’ve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.

His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve. 

Before you do something you’ll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump. 

You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.

There’s no point in hoping he didn’t hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.

He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. “Fuck,” he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. “Fuck.”

“Valk—”

“Please help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, it’s been days.”

You bite your lip so hard, you think you’ll draw blood. “You know I can’t.”

“I don’t care what the vet said,” he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. “I care about you.” 

Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.

“Just— Help me finish, please. You don’t have to touch anywhere near my face. That’s the rule, right?”

As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. He’s flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?

When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you can’t.

“I won’t touch you, Valko. But you can use this.” Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.

“Use it?”

“To finish,” you explain, folding your arms across your bra. “It’s the safest way I can help you right now.”

Gazing at you like you’re a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his cone’s exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. “Thank you,” he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts. 

Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room. 

“Thank you, thank you— Fuck, thank you. I’ve done this like ten times already, and it’s taken me longer every go,” he admits shamelessly. “This is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.” 

He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the cone’s wall, as if he’ll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together. 

You don’t have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the cone’s opening—just like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch. 

“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just two more days, yeah?”

His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. “Just two more days.” 

Day 7

At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. “Koko?”

There’s no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? It’s barely been two hours since you went to bed.

Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and he’s not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?

It doesn’t take long to find out.

In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window. 

He’s clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, he’s missing his cone. 

The only indication that he knows you’re there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. “It’s day seven, did you know that?” he rumbles. 

Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. “I did.” 

“So you also know what I’ve been missing the last seven days.” He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. “What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,” he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.

In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you. 

After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.

You get the sense that you’re in trouble. 

“Koko,” you start, stepping forward to placate him, “you know that’s not—”

“Don’t ‘Koko’ me,” he snaps. “That’s reserved for people I’m close with.”

Is he serious? “You know I’m closer to you than anyone.”

“Right now? After this week? I’m not so sure. But you will be.” His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. “Come here,” he growls out. 

“We can talk about this, but I’m not going to—”

“Three.”

“Okay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?”

“Two.” 

“That’s my thing! You know, when you won’t let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, or—”

He doesn’t let you get to “one.”

When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesn’t even give you the chance to run. 

You’re in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. “You’re heavy as fuck!” you bark at him. “Let me go!”

“No.” He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submission—your high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.

While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. You’re wearing only a nightshirt—his, you notice all too late—and completely vulnerable to his impatience.

He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While you’re too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat. 

“Usually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,” he says, inhaling you deeply. “You’ve lost it after not taking me for so long. But we’ll fix it, won’t we?”

When you don’t respond, his eyes flash up at you. “Won’t we?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, signing away your fate.

“Yeah, we will.” Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal. 

“I’m gonna let you go, all right?” He nips your inner thigh. “Don’t try to run from me. I’ll catch you.” 

He watches closely as he eases off of you, but there’s no need—you obey. 

“Good girl,” he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff. 

Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. “Sit on me.”

“…What?”

“My face. Sit on it.”

“…What?” 

“Oh, I get it. Is this a ‘make me’ kind of thing? Well, if you insis—”

“No!” You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. “You know we’ve never…done that before.”

He shrugs. “First time for everything. Hop on.”

You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. “What if you can’t breathe?”

“Don’t need to.”

“I think you do, but okay.” Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. “What if I’m too heavy?”

Valko’s smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. “Now you’re just insulting me.” 

In retrospect, you should’ve known that one wouldn’t get you very far.

“Fine,” you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way. 

“Last chance to back out,” you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?

“In your dreams.” In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation. 

For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. “Missed this,” he murmurs, words slightly muffled. “Missed you. Fuck, you’re so good. You smell so good.”

You’re afraid to look down, but you don’t have to. You can hear his smile.

Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears. 

A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so he’s sure to catch all your desire.

When he squeezes your hip, you know he’s asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when you’re involved, knows you’re withholding your full weight. 

And he won’t have it. 

Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue. 

“I’m trying!” you cry. “Whenever we do this, I’m always the one on my back! I feel weird.”

Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. “Tough.”

Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.

Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides he’s had enough. 

His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, you’re more than ready to throw in the towel. 

“Valko!” you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?

A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesn’t provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like he’s nothing but an extension of you. “Valko!” you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.

All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when there’s so much to lap up?

A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. You’re so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his forehead—but he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop. 

Captive to his relentless touch, it isn’t long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth. 

Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when he’s finished. “Smells like me again. That’s better.”

Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. You’re more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath. 

“We should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.”

Valko has other plans.

Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that you’re ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease. 

Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so you’re forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin. 

All the while, he’s moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until you’re being speared on something you’re not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you don’t think that matters anymore.

In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. It’s at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you can’t move too far—not without bringing Valko with you. 

As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily. 

All you can do is whine.

You don’t know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that he’s got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time. 

──────

“Are you satisfied?” you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed. 

“For now.” You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though.

It’s dawn. 

“But you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.”

“In an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,” you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. “I’m gonna miss that cone, you know.”

Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. “What?” 

“You looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.” Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. “So cute.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. “Whatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”

“You really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?”

“‘Course I do. It wasn’t that hard for me.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Not even you believe that.” 

“Yeah. This was fun, though,” he says through a yawn. “We should do it again sometime. Goodnight.”

As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought won’t leave your head.

Should you switch vets? 

after at least six shared orgasms and not a lot of brainstorming, you’ve reached somewhat of a conclusion. the musky, cloying sweetness of sex mingles with the crisp cologne he always wears, and it smells right. feels like home.

you trace the hard, slick ridges of his abdomen with a fingertip, counting every shallow rise and fall as his breath catches up to him. the man lying next to you is a wreck, yet somehow, he still manages to appear angelic. his snowy fringe is plastered to his damp forehead, forming a blinding halo against the white pillows. undoubtedly he’s staring up at the ceiling, the sex-crazed mania ebbing away, tranquillity in its wake.

he stretches, making the muscles beneath your touch ripple. when he finally turns his head, god. those eyes—all the blue skies in the history of the world coalesced into two irises—seem to hold space for nothing but you. satoru offers a boyish grin, then gently grabs your wrist, rubbing his cheek against your palm like an affectionate cat before pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“an us problem, apparently,” he then wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer so your chests are flush. the cum-slick sensation of your thighs sliding together in the cooling air.

Gojo's mouth instantly pulls into that sideways, fond smile, reserved specifically for you.

“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who almost failed the last lab quiz,” he remarks, one brow raised over the rim of his lenses.

“Well,” you say, sliding into the seat he’s saved for you. “I’m expecting you to score a date today.”

Gojo sighs. “Do you really think that'll work?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, already digging for your notebook. “Someone’s finally going to break their celibacy streak.”

“Could you not call it that?”

“Could you not stall?” you fire back, holding out your hand. “Phone, please. Don’t fight me on this.”

He hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of his pocket as though the phone might bite him. But before he can hand it over, the professor sweeps into the room, and everyone groans in unison.

You flop dramatically forward on your desk. “Rude.”

Gojo just smirks faintly, tucking the phone back into his hoodie pocket. When he sits back, though, you notice that he angles himself a little closer to you. His elbow brushes yours, just barely. And you don’t move away.

The lecture begins.

You hear almost none of it. Every mention of valence electrons turns to static while you absently doodle stars and crooked hearts in the margins of your notes.

But your eyes keep darting sideways. To the way he taps his pen against his thigh. To the way he mouths the professor’s words just a beat behind, syncing with a rhythm only he seems to hear.

You think you’re being subtle, catching little glimpses of him without being caught.

Until Gojo's eyes flick up and find yours.

His gaze snags yours and holds it just long enough for the back of your neck to warm before he looks back down at his notes, the faintest tinge of pink dusting the tops of his ears.

And just a few moments later, his hand moves. Slowly, lazily, like they have nowhere better to be, his fingers drift from their place on his own notebook and hover near yours, before resting lightly over your hand on the desk.

The warmth of it sinks into your skin, his thumb brushing idly against your knuckles. Neither of you move. His fingers curl just slightly, pressing yours gently into the wood in the quietest squeeze.

“Would you sit still?” he murmurs, voice soft enough that the scratch of pens almost drowns it out. “You’re distracting.”

Your head tilts into the contact for half a second too long before he pulls away, his hand retreating like nothing happened.

When the bell rings, you shoot up like a spark, practically snatching Gojo's phone right out of his hand.

“You have a match,” you announce, triumphant as the screen lights up.

Gojo blinks, surprised. “A match?”

“She’s pretty." You spin the phone toward him with a grin. "Like, drinks oat milk and does pilates pretty.”

He leans closer to see, brows drawing together slightly. “Seriously?”

“Has a liking for Astronomy, long walks, Iced Americanos,” you recite as you scroll.

“Huh,” he mutters.

“That’s it? Just Huh?” you tease, giving him a look.

“She seems.... fine,” he says flatly.

“Well, you can thank me later,” you say, already thumbing through the app to compose a message.

He doesn’t stop you. Just sits there quietly while the classroom empties around you.

The hum of chatter outside the classroom drifts in as the door bangs shut behind the last student. The room is quiet now but for the faint the slow tick of the wall clock.

By the time you’re halfway through typing some charming opener on his behalf, you notice he hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t even looked at the screen.

You glance at him, frowning slightly—and catch the way his fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric like he’s trying to wring the nerves out of it.

That’s when you realize something’s wrong. You lower the phone to the desk, watching him carefully.

“She’s super cute,” you say, voice light, testing the waters. “Right?”

He nods once, almost mechanically. “Yeah. Cute.”

It’s flat and empty. Like he’s reading it off the back of a cereal box.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s the least convincing cute I’ve ever heard.”

Gojo exhales through his nose. His knee bounces once, then stops.

“Satoru,” you say, a little softer. “It’s just a date. You’ll be fine.”

But he doesn’t even glance at you. His thumb picks anxiously at the corner of his notebook.

“That’s not the point,” he mutters.

You frown, sitting back. “Then what is?”

He finally tips his head back, as if the ceiling might have the answer, jaw tight.

“Come on,” you say again, pressing further. “Spit it out.”

“Forget it." He says, leaning back in his chair. "I just... you wouldn't understand.”

That one lands sharper than he probably intended.

You huff, the faint sting in your chest catching you off guard. “Oh. So now I’m too dumb to understand?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shoot back, sitting up straighter. “Right after I practically handed you a date on a silver platter, you tell me to mind my own business?”

He shifts in his seat, leaning forward like he’s about to say something, but then stops. His hands clench in his lap.

“Yeah, well…” he finally mumbles, eyes hard on the desk. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You ever think maybe I don’t want you running my life all the time?”

For a second you just stare, because the words feel so damn foreign out of his mouth.

You laugh, the sound bitter and clipped. “That’s actually impressive. You managed to make me feel like an idiot and regret helping you all at once.”

Gojo freezes, like he only just registered the words that came out of his mouth. His head snaps toward you, face flushing pale. “Wait — no. That’s not what I—”

But you’re already standing, grabbing your bag.

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, slinging it over your shoulder. “I won’t get in your way anymore.”

“Wait—” he tries again, standing halfway, guilt twisting across his face.

You approach the door and maybe it’s petty, or maybe it’s just necessary, but you don’t call him Satoru.

“Good luck on your date, Gojo.”

The way you say his name—Gojo, not Satoru—feels like a door closing in his face.

You leave without looking back.

The canteen feels colder without you sitting across from him, your laughter still faint in the back of his mind. He sits there long after you’ve left, staring at his phone like maybe if he stares at it hard enough, it'll light up with a text from you.

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath, voice cracking faintly. “That’s… not what I meant.”

His hand hovers over your name in his contacts more than once. But he doesn’t click on it.

The truth is, he doesn’t care about some oat milk drinking, pilates going stranger.

He never did.

When you smiled at him in that classroom, when your elbow brushed his, when your hand stayed under his and you didn't move it away—he thought, maybe. Maybe you knew.

But you don’t.

And he’s too much of a coward to tell you.

—⋆ ☁︎ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ☁︎ ⋆ —

Gojo paces in his room for what feels like hours. The message is typed, then deleted, then typed again.

I'm sorry.

You weren’t a bother.

I didn’t mean it.

Come back. Please.

Each one dies before it can get delivered to you, his thumb hovering, yet wavering just as quickly.

So he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

He shows up at your door. No warning, and certainly no text.

Just him standing under the jaundiced glow of your porch light, hair sticking up at odd angles like he’d run nervous fingers through it. His sneakers scuff nervously at the welcome mat, eyes wide and glassy like a deer in headlights.

You freeze for half a beat, hand clutching the edge of the door frame.

And he just stares—soft, awkward and hopelessly him.

You sigh and step aside without a word, and he slips inside with the ease of someone who's been here a thousand times before.

Gojo doesn’t beat around the bush or offer a forced excuse. He just sinks onto the edge of your couch, shoulders hunched, hands buried in the sleeves of his hoodie. Looking every bit like a stray cat that finally realized it might’ve bitten the only hand that fed it.

You sit at the far end, curled in the corner of the sofa, legs tucked up, face turned away from him.

He draws in a breath. “Please don’t do this to me.”

You still don’t look at him. “Do what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing helplessly between the two of you. “This thing where you won’t even look at me—”

He breaks off. Your fingers tighten where they curl against the armrest.

“I can’t—” he tries again, throat bobbing. “I can’t stand it when you won’t look at me.”

You finally look up at that. Because how could you not when he sounds like that?

His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped slightly at the ends like he rubbed at them too hard, like maybe he was afraid he’d cry on the walk over.

“Fine,” you say, arms crossing defensively. “I’m looking.”

Gojo exhales a breath of relief, before speaking up again. “I messed up,”

You scoff. “No kidding.”

“I really messed up,” he amends, like that’ll earn him points.

You don’t reply.

He shifts slightly, digging into the front pocket of his hoodie, fishing for something, and out comes a brown paper bag folded neatly at the top.

You blink, dumbfounded. “…Is that—”

Gojo nods sheepishly. “Yeah. That pastry you like. The, uh…” He trails off, wrinkling his nose. “The bougie one with the French name that sounds like a sneeze.”

“…Financier?”

“That. I walked thirty minutes for it. The barista said they were out but then I did the face.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What face?”

He scrunches his face dramatically—pursed lips, eyes huge and wet like a cartoon. “Please ma’am. My best friend’s mad at me and this is the only thing that might make her like me again.”

Despite yourself, a little laugh bubbles out. His head snaps up instantly, as though he’s been starved for that sound and can’t bear to miss a second.

And you swear, in that moment, he actually glows. His expression softens into a grin so dumb, so earnest, it almost makes your chest hurt.

“So,” he says, voice hopeful. “We’re okay now?”

You take the bag slowly. Your fingers brush his when you do, and he stills, barely breathing.

You eye him for a long beat, and then say, “You’re lucky I’m food-motivated.”

You make quick work of the bag, the sweet, rich fragrance of the pastry escaping in soft, delicious curls of warmth.

You nibble at the corner, a soft sound of approval slipping out as the dessert nearly melts against your tongue. It’s still warm, soft in the center, with that faint hint of almond that makes your eyes flutter close for a second.

When you open them back though, Gojo’s staring straight at you.

Not subtly.

You blink, pastry halfway to your mouth. “You’re gonna burn a hole through my face at this rate.”

His eyes widen slightly as he clears his throat. “Wasn’t staring.”

“You literally haven’t blinked in forty-five seconds.”

“I’m contemplating,” he says, voice mock-serious.

“Contemplating what? The angle of my jaw while I eat?”

“No,” Gojo huffs, ears going pink. “Yes. I mean—no. Shut up.”

You laugh and take another slow bite just to mess with him. “You better go on that date tomorrow, Satoru. If you bail, I’m never reactivating your account.”

He sighs, dragging his hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Good. And you better be ready.”

“For what?”

“Everything,” you reply cryptically.

He frowns. “Everything?”

You shrug, brushing the crumbs from your fingers. “You don't know when things could escalate. What if she gives you a goodnight kiss?”

Gojo goes stock-still. The color drains from his cheeks before rushing right back in twice as dark. “A wh-what?”

You pause, eyeing him. “You have kissed someone before… right?”

His shoulders stiffen, gaze darting anywhere but at you—the table, the ceiling, his own lap. “Uh. Define kissed.”

You drop the remnants of your sweet bread with a thunk. “Oh my god.”

He winces, sinking into the couch like he wants to become one with the cushions.

“Satoru.”

"I know."

"You're twenty-freaking-one."

“I’ve been busy!”

You arch a brow, leaning forward. “Doing what, exactly? Taking a vow of chastity?”

“With school and avoiding failure!” He throws his hands up, knocking over a napkin. “And maybe also… fear of being bad at it.”

You stifle a laugh, watching him squirm. “So you’re actually nervous about kissing? That’s kind of cute.”

He huffs, crossing his arms but avoiding your eyes. His knees bounce under the table. “Excuse me for not wanting to humiliate myself the first time.”

“Well, lucky for you…” you drawl, eyes glinting as you bat your lashes with exaggerated sweetness.

Gojo freezes, suspicion written all over his face. “…Lucky for me?”

“You’ve got me,” you hum, inching closer and closer until he’s practically backed into the couch cushions. “And I am an excellent teacher.”

“...No.”

“Yes.”

“No way in hell.”

“Do you wanna embarrass yourself on the first date?” you counter, calm as ever.

“I’ll figure it out!”

“By all means,” you say, rolling your eyes and leaning back. “Fumble your own bag. Who needs a love life anyway?”

“I’m not kissing you.” he declares, but the way he’s fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie and pointedly not meeting your line of sight says otherwise.

“It’s purely academic.” You reach over, brushing a crumb off his hoodie. “And you have nice lips, Satoru.”

He jerks back like you slapped him. “That’s—that’s irrelevant—”

“It’s entirely relevant,” you say, leaning back on your hands. “You’ve got the tools, just no training.”

He purses his lips, going quiet for a stretched moment before speaking up.

“…You’re serious?” he says, voice so small it almost disappears.

You smile. “Why wouldn’t I be? Friends help each other out.”

Gojo hesitates.

Because he knows. Knows that you’re teasing. Knows you’ve always flirted in that particular way only you can manage—close enough to confuse him, yet never close enough to catch.

But this feels different. His gaze drops to your mouth, and then back up.

“…Okay,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

You blink. “Really?”

“…For uh— research,” he adds weakly, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

You snort. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

But your hands find his cheeks anyway, tilting his face toward you, closing the gap.

You press your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss—barely more than a brush—and his breath stutters against your cheek. His hands are fisted against his knees, knuckles white, and you can’t help but be amused at how hard he’s working not to reach for more.

“Relax,” you whisper against his lips, smiling when his shoulders loosen just a little.

He’s so rigid it’s adorable, like someone rewound his spine into a spring.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, nudging your nose against his. “Do I intimidate you, Satoru?”

“I’m fine,” he breathes, but you know it's a lie.

You kiss him again, this time with more intent. Gojo responds slower, like he’s still trying to figure out which part of him is supposed to move first.

You take the lead, hand curling into his hoodie, coaxing him closer until his palm lands on your hip. He makes a sound then—a desperate little groan muffled into your mouth—and it sends a shiver down your spine.

You shift closer, swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him without warning. The couch dips and groans beneath you both as your knees bracket his thighs. He gasps faintly when your fingers slide into his hair and pull, his hands clenching instinctively at your hips.

The kiss quickly turns messier—his lips already a little swollen, breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. His hands slide up your thighs, unsure but desperate, fingers flexing like he’s afraid he’s imagining it all. You bite at his lower lip, and his hips jolt up before he can stop himself.

By the time you finally pull back, hauling yourself off of him, both of you are flushed and breathing hard. Gojo looks absolutely wrecked—glasses crooked, lips red and kiss-bitten, eyes dazed.

He swallows hard, then clears his throat, like that might somehow clear the heat from his face.

“…So,” he says finally, voice hoarse but trying for casual, “that was… educational.”

You snort, leaning back just enough to look at him. “You’re not the worst student I’ve ever had.”

That earns you a weak little laugh.

But his fingers are fidgeting in his lap now, tugging at the edge of his hoodie like it might save him, or at least give his hands something to do besides reaching back for the warmth of your body against his.

His eyes dart down to your mouth again, linger just a second too long, then flick back up to yours.

“…We’re still friends, right?”

You tilt your head lazily, wiping the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb. “Obviously.”

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Now he's the boy who always saves you a seat in lecture, even if you’re late. Who lets you steal fries off his plate.

What starts as a one-time study session becomes a rhythm. A quiet understanding. You find yourself at his desk more often than not, legs curled into the chair or sprawled out haphazardly, papers everywhere, caffeine staining the inside of your throat.

Gojo always sits across from you. Always.

He’s there through the good days and the ones where the formulas blur into white noise. When your pen stalls mid-sentence and your head falls into your hands in frustration, he’s already nudging a fresh sheet of paper your way patiently, a quiet anchor.

Sometimes, when you’re too deep in concentration to notice, his gaze lingers. He watches the way your foot bounces under the table, how your brow furrows just before you get the answer right. He notices the ink smudge on your wrist, the way your knees brush against his under the table and stay there just a little too long yet he doesn't dare move away.

And sometimes, when you look up too suddenly, you catch him watching.

Gojo's eyes go as wide as saucers. He turns back to his notebook swiftly, chin sinking into his palm as if that can hide the flush crawling up his neck.

On the nights it gets too late, when the page turns start slowing and your head begins to droop, you fall asleep right there—arms folded over your notes, cheek pressed to the desk.

You never wake up there.

Instead, it’s always the same: the warmth of a mattress under your back, the softness of his blanket tucked up to your chin. The scent of his laundry detergent clinging to the fabric. Dim light bleeding through closed curtains.

And just across the room is Gojo. Curled into himself on the small couch, half-covered by a jacket he clearly pulled over in a rush, snoring softly.

You never mention it. He doesn't either.

But the space between you keeps closing, inch by inch.

He’s the smartest person you know, and somehow still the one who burns popcorn in the microwave and forgets to charge his phone for days. He’s awkward, anxious, and talks too fast when he’s excited, like his brain’s ten steps ahead of his mouth.

But he’s always there.

Which is why, tonight, when you show up at his door with a crate of cheap beer and the exhausted gleam of midterms in your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions.

He just lets you in.

You drop down onto the mattress with a dramatic groan, like gravity itself has declared war on your soul. Limbs sprawled, phone already in hand, your head sinking into the pillow with the kind of defeated energy only student debt can conjure.

“Midterms nearly had me on life support. I feel so liberated right now.”

Gojo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, frowning down at the crate like it might bite him.

He nudges it with his foot. “I don’t really drink.”

You blink up at him, already half-melted into the sheets, and your lips twist into a pout—equal parts bratty and pleading. “Why not?”

His answer comes too fast. Like he’s been preparing for this exact moment since freshman orientation.

“It slows down neural processing, reduces inhibitory control and impacts memory consolidation. I’d like to remember tonight, thank you very much.”

You stare at him.

“Satoru.”

He glances up, swallowing hard like he knows what’s coming but still can’t brace for impact. “Yeah?”

Your pout intensifies. Eyes wide, lower lip pushed out just so in theatrical glory. “Pleeease?”

He stares. You bat your lashes innocently.

He squints. You bat your lashes harder.

There's a beat of silence before Gojo caves with a sigh so profound it sounds like it’s been aging in an oak barrel. He grabs a can, muttering under his breath abouy how unfair this is.

“Your Jedi mind tricks are unethical.”

The can hisses as it cracks open. You grin, satisfied by the outcome of your emotional manipulation.

You take a long sip from your own beer, the fizz tickling your throat, then flop fully onto your back.

The bed creaks beneath you—his bed, technically, though it’s felt like shared territory for a while now. It still smells like his laundry detergent, something citrusy and expensive, undercut with the faint scent of old textbooks.

Gojo hovers on the edge of the mattress, like sitting too close to you might electrocute him. He takes small, cautious sips, barely tasting it.

His eyes, however, are not so disciplined.

They keep flicking over—quick glances at your legs, the bare skin of your thighs, the way your shorts have ridden up as you stretch across the sheets like you own the place. The glow of your phone reflects off your cheekbones, painting you in soft blue light, and something in his chest does a little somersault.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, like he’s trying to physically bite down on the thoughts rushing through his head. Thoughts that have absolutely nothing to do with astrophysics or memory consolidation.

Then you giggle.

His gaze snaps up in pure panic. Shit. Did you notice him gawking? Was he being obvious?

You laugh again, thumb tapping the screen, totally engrossed in whatever has you so amused. Followed by another smile. Another quiet snort.

It’s like background music he doesn’t recognize but suddenly hates.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, tone casual and a little too stiff.

You don’t even look up from your screen, “Tinder.”

Gojo's entire spine straightens.

“Tinder?”

“Mmhmm.” You keep swiping, flipping between profiles with a lazy flick of your thumb. “Why is everyone’s idea of sexy just... standing shirtless in a badly lit bathroom?”

“Oh,” he says flatly, staring at the condensation sliding down his can. "I see."

Just that.

Silence follows, heavy and stretched.

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. The can’s cold against his palm, but it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment as your finger pauses on a profile for too long. Too thoughtfully.

You peek up, noticing the weird stillness.

“Hey,” you say, tilting your head. “You okay?”

"What? Uh—" he jolts upright, straightening like someone just called on him in class. “No, I’m good. Very good, actually.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. His knuckles are white where they grip the can, and his eyes haven’t quite made it back to yours.

You hum non-committally, not buying it for a second.

Gojo takes another swig rapidly, wincing at the taste. He wipes the rim with his thumb like he needs something to focus on. Something that’s not you and the casual way you’re flipping through potential hookups like it’s just another Tuesday on his bed. While he's right there.

Just then, an idea sparks in your head.

You roll onto your side, elbow digging into the mattress as you grin. “Do you have Tinder?”

His eyes nearly bug out of his skull.

“I—uh—Tinder?” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “No. Why would I—No. Definitely not.”

You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “That was a lot of hesitation for a no.”

“I just—” he flounders, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting the question. I don’t really do dating apps. Or dating. Or… people.”

You shrug. “You do me.”

The words hang in the air for half a second too long.

Gojo's mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again, like maybe he can reboot himself if he blinks hard enough.

Your own brain finally catches up with your mouth.

“I mean, not do me—like—not like that—I meant friends. You’re friends with me.” You groan, dragging a pillow over your face like you can smother the sentence out of existence. “God. Forget I said anything.”

You sigh as you peek up slightly from behind his pillow.

He’s not wheezing or doubled over. He’s just sitting there, glasses slightly askew, trying very hard not to laugh. His hand’s covering his mouth, but his ears are going pink.

The way he’s looking at you now—quiet, a little dazzled, still fighting back a full smile—makes something in your chest kick up just slightly.

But even as you hide your embarrassment, he’s sitting there, cheeks flushed, mind spiraling, because—

Yeah. He does you.

In his head. Way too often, and in too many ways.

When you're lying here like this. When your voice dips low and teasing. When you glance at him with something that feels almost too soft to be platonic.

You shove the embarrassment aside and raise your can in front of your face like a shield.

He finally calms down, barely, chuckles trailing off as he shifts his position on the mattress.

“Well,” you say, pushing up on your elbows with new purpose, “guess what?”

Gojo eyes you wearily. “That tone never means any good.”

“You’re about to get one.”

“One what?”

You reach for his phone on the nightstand with zero hesitation. “A Tinder account.”

His entire soul exits the premises. “Wait—what? No. No, no, I don’t need that—”

“You heard me,” your fingers are already flying on the screen. “It’s time.”

He scrambles forward like you just picked up nuclear launch codes. “Hey—hold on, I’m not—You’re not actually serious—”

The screen unlocks instantly.

Of course it does. Your fingerprint’s saved. Has been for months. The kind of trust that feels so loud and yet, here you are, setting up some Tinder date for him.

“Okay, what’s your type?” you ask, downloading the app.

“I—what—how would I know?”

“Well, who do you swipe on in your head? Goths? Muscle mommies? Librarians with a secret dirty side?”

He sputters, face slowly turning the same shade as the beer can in his hand. “Can we not do this?”

“Too late,” you say, half-distracted as you scroll. “First name, Satoru. Age… I’ll let you lie. Height?”

“Six-three.”

You arch a brow, impressed. “Really?”

He scowls. “You want me to open my medical records?”

You chuckle and keep typing. “Alright, big guy. Next: 'What are you looking for on Tinder?' ”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Salvation.”

“Not an option.”

“World peace?”

You glance up. “Seriously?”

He drags a hand down his face, voice muffled. “I dunno… companionship?”

“That's enough. I’m writing 'open to something meaningful, but down for freaky time.’”

“You're very weird.”

“Now, pictures.” Your knees bump under the sheets as you shift closer, elbows brushing while you adjust the brightness on his phone.

“God.”

“Relax. I’m not using that cursed one of you french-kissing a fish.”

“There’s a photo of me french-kissing a fish?”

“You sent it to me, you maniac.”

He groans and falls back against the mattress, arm slung dramatically over his eyes.

“This is a nightmare.”

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t take his phone back.

Because maybe, deep down—beneath the jokes and the beer and the painfully exposed truth—a small part of him hopes it’ll work. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe some stranger with a nice smile will finally make the incessant thoughts of you in his mind go away.

You’re scrolling through his photo gallery with ruthless determination, knees brushing his thigh as you flip past thumbnail after thumbnail like you’re judging entries for a very geeky photography contest.

“Okay,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Let’s find you something non-humiliating—oh, this one’s just… clouds? Wait, is that lichen? Are you seriously out here photographing moss?”

Gojo doesn’t answer.

He’s stiff behind you, frozen like he’s watching someone disarm a nuclear bomb. Because he knows what’s coming. Knows exactly what the next folder might hold.

“Oh. Is this me?”

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over a grid of candid shots.

Your face in full detail, frozen mid-laugh in one, asleep at his desk in another. One photo captures you ranting at a textbook, hands in the air like you’re about to square up with it. Some are zoomed in. Some are taken from across the room.

His ears go red. Bright, angry cherry red.

Before the full meaning settles in, he lunges towards you.

“Okay—alright—that’s enough, give me that—!” His hand flails toward the phone in your grip, panic rising.

You jerk it back with a gasp, half-laughing, half-screeching. “Satoru!”

“We are not doing this,” he says in a rush, voice cracking like an over-wound violin. “Hand it over. Please, I beg you—”

You clutch the phone to your chest dramatically, feigning scandal. “So, you just casually have an entire album of me on your phone?”

His hands fly to his face,as he practically crumples in on himself like a collapsing star.

“I didn’t—it’s not an album, it’s just—okay, it’s a folder, but it’s not weird!” he sputters from behind his fingers. “It’s just—memories and.... nostalgia.”

You let out a soft laugh and toss the phone toward the bed, letting it bounce harmlessly onto the sheets. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just take a picture for your profile.”

He peeks through his fingers, squinting at you like a kitten after getting caught in the trash. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad? Satoru, I should charge you royalties.”

That gets a choked laugh out of him.

And still, you’re smiling. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for your best friend to have a secret camera roll of your face. Like this is fine.

Like you’re still choosing to sit next to him, shoulder brushing his arm like none of this has made anything weird.

“Come on,” you say, shifting closer. “Let’s make you look irresistible.”

He exhales. Yeah, sure.

Like that was ever the problem.

Gojo's already given up on dignity. His hair sticks out at odd angles, his hoodie is bunched up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and his face wears the expression of a man preparing for social execution.

You sit back and squint at him critically, arms crossed, head tilted. “You look too much like a dork.”

He lifts his head an inch. “Wow. That’s incredibly helpful and uplifting.”

“Aw, it’s fine. You’re cute.”

You continue breezily, already plotting. “But we need right-swipe cute. You wanna look like you might mansplain physics and then make someone cum in under ten minutes.”

He just stares. “…What the heck does that even mean?”

“It means you need range, Satoru!” You leap off the bed, hands flailing like an overzealous theater director. “You need to look like someone’s weird little crush.”

You yank his closet open. The door creaks, hangers scraping against each other as you rifle through it.

“Do you even own anything that doesn’t scream extra credit ?”

He calls weakly from the bed, “I have a black turtleneck somewhere. I wore it once, for my thesis presentation.”

You sigh. “Tragic. We’ll work with what we’ve got.”

Moments later, you emerge triumphant with a handful of options—an unreasonably crisp button-down, a soft black tee that looks criminally flattering, and something silky you definitely don’t remember him owning.

“Try these,” you announce, dumping them onto the bed like a fashion connoisseur.

He eyes the pile like it’s radioactive. “You want me to change… into thirst trap attire?”

“Correct.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Fine," You huff, hands on your hips. "I guess I’ll just have to make you.”

His eyes widen. “Wait, what does that—”

You pounce with tipsy audacity before he can finish. He yelps as you tackle him backwards onto the mattress, the bed groaning under the sudden weight. His beer can tips off the edge with a dull thunk, but neither of you notice.

You land on top of him with a soft thud, hands braced against his chest, your knees digging into the bed on either side of his hips. His hands fly instinctively to your waist, fingers splaying like he’s trying to steady both of you, or maybe just himself.

And suddenly, everything goes quiet.

You can hear the faint hum of the light overhead. The slow, shaky inhale he takes. The way his thumbs press in ever so slightly.

Gojo's gaze flickers from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

You exhale, the sound catching slightly.

He swallows, hard. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t—just—are you okay?”

Your lips twitch. “You’re the one under attack, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“I—well, yeah,” he breathes, voice thinner now. “You’re on top of me. Kinda hard not to worry.”

You tilt your head. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” His throat bobs, fingers flexing against your hips. “Not even a little.”

You lean in, only slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”

He gives a short, stunned laugh. “Not exactly my field of expertise.”

You smile softly. “Guess you're lucky you’ve got me, then.”

Click.

Gojo flinches as the shutter goes off. Light bounces off his glasses, eyes blown wide.

“That angle was godly. You’re welcome.”

His jaw drops. “You cannot—there is no way—you’re not posting that, are you?”

“Absolutely,” you say, holding up the phone proudly. “The world deserves to see this.”

He slaps both hands over his face, muffling a noise that might be despair, might be laughter, might be a scream into the void. “I trusted you.”

You smirk and climb off him, far too pleased with yourself. “You’ll thank me when you’re drowning in matches.”

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