maya [51%]

You’re aimlessly scrolling on your phone by the time Yuji gets back, sliding casually into the booth across from you. “Hey, babe!” He grins toothily, fingers drumming on the table like they weren't wrapped in sticky strings of his own cum three minutes prior.

“Hi, Yu!” You beam, “what took you so long?”

He just laughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his head, eyes refusing to meet yours as his cheeks warm. “Nothing. Long, uh… long queue…” he mutters, gaze dropping automatically to the sliver of cleavage your top affords him with. And then snapping back up before you catch him staring. “The queue, yeah! Yeah. Yes. Uh, what did you order?”

“Yu, we’ve already eaten.” You say, quirking a brow at his flustered expression. “I was waiting for you to get back.”

“Oh. Well in that case-“ he says, voice growing in volume to distract himself from the way your mouth looks as you apply lipgloss, “-shopping?”

Pervy!Yuji, who is still the best boyfriend ever even through the constant distraction of your body in front of him. He reallyyyyy doesn’t mean to, but when you’re giggling and holding onto his bicep, pressing the occasional kiss to his cheek? He’s so far gone he'd laugh at himself if he wasn't trying to keep a pleased moan from slipping out.

“Do you mind holding this one while I change, too?” You say, pouring up at him with sparkling eyes. “It’s hurting my wrist.” You both know the bag isn’t hurting your wrist at all, it only contains a few tops and a new bra that Yuji drooled over in the fitting room.

“Definitely!” He says excitedly, grabbing the handle from your hand and slinging it to join the conglomerate of other bags dangling from his arms. Although, when he peers down, he realises he can see the bra. Which shouldn't be an issue, it's only a piece of fabric, after all, but unfortunately Yuji's dick doesn't seem to think that way.

Pervy!Yuji, who gulps as he peeks into the bag- neatly folded, pretty pink lace with the centre bow just peeking out from behind the receipt. He’s never been so thankful for the oversized paper squares in front of his crotch as he feels his mouth pool with saliva at just the thought of your tits in it- and then his absent mind drifts to what bra you’re wearing now.

“Yuji!” You say, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Why are you smiling like that?” Taking in the dazzling, slightly dumb grin plastered across his lips, and the blush on his cheekbones, “I’ve been calling your name for at least twenty seconds-“

You sigh. “I’ll just do it myself. Stand behind me so nobody sees.”

“Sees what, babe- oh.”

You bend over right in front of him in the entrance to the fitting room, hand stretching out to grab the tube of lipgloss rolling across the floor after it escaped your pocket.

Pervy!Yuji, who literally almost cries tears of perverted joy when he realises what you’re doing; if he angles his body jusssstttt right, if he crooks his head to the side correctly then-

“Fuck.” He whimpers under his breath, eyes catching on the sight of the panties hugging your ass. He can feel himself harden in his jeans, heat pooling low in his toned abdomen as his throat constricts around a muffled groan.

“Are you seriously staring at my ass, Yu?” You groan, straightening up eye level. He doesn’t even bother lying- the tent in his jeans is evidence enough, even without the blown pupils and embarrassed blush dusting across his nose.

“I don’t think it’s gonna go away.” He mumbles sheepishly, glancing down at his crotch, “not with you here.” You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, quickly checking the “employee on break!” sign dangling from a nearby rack.

“Fine.”

Pervy!Yuji, who has you gleefully pinned to the wall of a changing room within seconds, the curtain haphazardly yanked to the side to cover up what’s really going on.

“Hah- guess I’m not the only perv here, huh?” He grins lopsidedly, absurdly strong arms holding your thighs around his waist as he rocks into you. “We didn’t even need any prep, babe, that has to be a first, like, scientifically-“

“Shut up, Yu.” You whinge, soaked cunt fluttering around him. You can’t lie to yourself- seeing him so needy really does make you wet, slick shining on your boyfriend’s pelvis.

He’s so big it’s staggering; rosy tip leaking beady drops of pre and his size stretching you out. Pervy!Yuji looks down in lovestruck awe, pink hair flopping down loosely into his eyes.

“Woahhhh,” he remarks, breath hitching between little whines, “you’re so- so-“

“Full?” You offer breathlessly, your hips struggling to keep a steady rhythm of grinding down. It’s a low blow, you’re aware- Yuji never lasts long when you talk to him during sex, something about your voice sending little sparks down his spine.

“Fuck!” He moans into your mouth, “fuck, babe, I’ve told you not to speak like that if you want me to last-!”

“I don’t- mmfh- I don’t want you to last.” Your lips tremble against his, back arching as your fingers interlock behind his neck, “I want you to cum.”

Yuji shudders, body straining with the effort it’s taking to not wrangle you straight to the dubiously greying floor and bury his face between your plush thighs. “Really?”

You brush a lock of pink from his sweaty face, his skin clammy as he overheats below the hoodie he left on to be quicker. Yuji’s eyes are drawn to the gap between your legs again, at the way his fingers swipe through the gloss piling up at his base and cram into your mouth.

It's filthy at best- dribbles of sparkling saliva and glittery trails of your own slick slip from your mouth, tangling together as you gaze up at your boyfriend through heavy eyelashes. "Mmfh!" The noise serves to do nothing but make Yuji impossible harder inside you, his hips redoubling their eager efforts to have you soak him more than you already are.

"You feel so good," he moans, "been thinking about this since lunch- hey, did you know I had to go to the bathroom to jerk off?" Your eyes widen- so that's why he was so flushed!

Gasping in surprise, the noise gets muffled by the two fingers prodding at your forcibly flattened tongue. Yuji beams innocently- if you could only see his face, maybe you wouldn’t suspect he was buried fully into your cunt; his expression is nothing short of sunny, his lips lopsidedly smiling.

"Yeah," he continues shakily, "yeah, I came all over my hand and everything, babe, and all I could think about is how much I wished you were there with me-"

Well, despite everything, he's still your Yuji. He's still sweet, even with his hand shoved into his underwear as he ruts into his fist in the bathroom. It makes your heart do something stupid inside your chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, desperation just prevalent in his tone to make you whine, “c’monnnn, need to see you first.”

The whites of your eyes flicker into view as you cum, clamping down around Yuji’s cock hard enough for it to knock the air out of his lungs. "Ohmygod," he breathes, "fuck, fuck I can feel you doing that around me- oh-" His hips stutter and jolt, finally coming to rest as white spills over your fluttering insides.

Pervy!Yuji grinds his hips in slow circles to let you come down from your high, weakly tucking himself away and making sure you can stand on achy legs. You groan as you wriggle your ruined panties back into place, the offending lipgloss from before tucked safely into your pocket.

Yuji just grins with renewed energy, scooping the piles of dropped bags from the floor like he isn’t dripping down your thighs.

“I’m never wearing a skirt around you again.” You grumble, throat sore and your tongue still coated with the taste of your own slick as you tuck your arm around his to leave. “Pervert.”

Yuji beams.

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

a/n: first time writing for Yuji kinda nervy.. + ty to @kissthesword for this idea even if it took me so long to get around to LMAO

tags (open):

| Chapters |

1 | Something about you

2 | draws me so close

3 | that it has to

4 | be true.

5 | My hearts light

6 | like a feather.

7 | What's it gonna take

8 | for you to say

9 | four stupid letters?

10 | I know that's

11 | what this is

12 | and I know

13 | you know it too.

14 | For this

15 | is the birth

16 | of something new.

17 | So please

18 | stop being dumb

| @kamiflix | ff status; ongoing | updates; spontaneous |

it’s quiet, too quiet for a wednesday night on campus, no drunk kids yelling in the hallway, no bass thumping from the floor below, just the low hum of your laptop fan and the wet, rhythmic sounds spilling from the speakers—some over-the-top video you found twenty minutes ago that’s doing way too good a job at getting you worked up.

your legs are kicked apart, one knee bent, foot planted on the mattress, the other leg dangling off the edge. those tiny shorts you’re wearing—the gray cotton ones that honestly should be classified as underwear—are riding so far up your thighs that the bottom curve of your ass is just straight-up out, peeking like it’s waving hello to anyone who might walk in. spoiler: no one’s walking in. you made sure to lock the door after your roommate texted she’s crashing at her boyfriend’s. perfect. privacy. freedom. the ability to be a complete degenerate in peace.

the laptop’s balanced precariously on your lower stomach, close enough that the heat from the bottom is making your skin all tingly, and every time you shift your hips (which is a lotttt, because god you’re restless), the screen wobbles and the volume spikes for a second—some girl in the video moaning like she’s getting paid per decibel. your hand is wedged between your thighs but you’re not touching yet, not really, just pressing your thighs together around your wrist like that’s gonna be enough to scratch the itch. it’s not. it’s soooo fucking not. you’re throbbing, swollen, slick enough that you can feel it when you clench, and you keep telling yourself just one more minute, just let it build, you greedy little monster.

your hair’s fanned out on the pillow like a halo you definitely don’t deserve right now, and there’s this dumb little pout on your lips because the guy in the video isn’t doing it right—he’s too gentle or something, and you’re over here imagining someone louder, meaner, someone who’d laugh at how desperate you look right now. someone like—

your phone buzzes on the nightstand, loud as a gunshot in the silence.

you jolt, thighs squeezing around your hand so hard you almost moan for real, and the laptop slides dangerously close to your crotch. you scramble to pause the video (too late, the girl on screen is mid-scream), and snatch your phone with sticky fingers.

it’s a text. from gojo satoru. of course it is.

the absolute clown prince of campus, the six-foot-three walking disaster with white hair and those stupid sunglasses he wears indoors like he’s hiding a permanent hangover— or just permanently high on his own ego. the guy who’s been in half your classes since sophomore year, who sits two rows behind you and spends lectures throwing crumpled paper at your head or texting you the dumbest memes imaginable. the guy who once ate an entire family-size bag of takis in ten minutes just to win a bet and then cried because his tongue “felt like sandpaper.” the guy who calls you “princess” in the most mocking, syrupy tone possible and then immediately ruins it by stealing your fries.

he’s your friend. kinda. your annoying, hot, unbearable, stupidly affectionate friend who flirts like it’s a competitive sport and then acts shocked when you flirt back. the one who texts you at 2 a.m. about the dumbest shit imaginable and somehow always knows when you’re awake.

the text reads:

gojo 🍼: yo why’s your snap story just a black screen with the candle emoji u dead or jerking off

you stare at it. then at the ceiling. then back at it.

another text pops up immediately.

gojo 🍼: wait don’t answer that  gojo 🍼: actually do  gojo 🍼: i’m outside your building  gojo 🍼: let me up it’s cold and i’m lonely and i brought snacks

your heart does this stupid flip that has nothing to do with the porn still paused on your screen. p.s. the guy’s dick is literally just hovering there, frozen mid-thrust, and you’re too flustered to close the tab. you sit up too fast, laptop nearly yeeting itself to the floor, and you have to grab it with both hands like a football. your thighs are sticky. your face is hot. your brain is short-circuiting.

another buzz.

gojo 🍼: unless ur busy fingering yourself to tentacle porn again in which case carry on queen i support women’s rights and wrongs

you choke on air. how does he—last time was one time and you were drunk and you told him in confidence and he’s never let you live it down.

you type back with trembling thumbs.

you: i hate you so much  you: go away  you: i’m studying

gojo 🍼: studying the inside of your pussy? valid  gojo 🍼: open the door i can see your light’s off from down here u little liar, which mean you are watching porn!

you glance at the window. the blinds are cracked just enough that yeah, someone standing on the quad could probably see the glow from your laptop. fuck.

you: i’m literally about to sleep

you: go bother someone else

gojo 🍼: can’t  gojo 🍼: everyone else is lame  gojo 🍼: and i miss your stupid face  gojo 🍼: also i have sour gummy worms and those melon ramune things you like  gojo 🍼: and i’m freezing my balls off  gojo 🍼: be a good girl and let me in

your stomach flips again, harder this time. be a good girl. he says that shit on purpose. he knows exactly what it does to you. you hate him. you hate him so much you could scream. you look down at yourself— tanktop ridden up to your ribs, shorts basically nonexistent, thighs glistening a little because yeah, you’re that worked up—and you imagine him seeing you like this and your brain blue-screens.

another buzz.

gojo 🍼: if you don’t answer in ten seconds i’m gonna start singing that one twice song you hate under your window  gojo 🍼: you know the one  gojo 🍼: the cheesy one  gojo 🍼: i know all the words

you can picture it so clearly—him standing out there in one of his dumb oversized hoodies, hair probably a mess from the wind, grinning like an idiot with a bag of snacks in one hand and his phone in the other, ready to make a complete spectacle. you groan, loud and dramatic, and flop back against the pillows. the laptop slides down to rest between your thighs now, and the paused video is still there mocking you.

you type:

you: fine  you: but if you make fun of me i’m kicking you in the dick

gojo 🍼: kinky  gojo 🍼: on my way princess <3

you throw the phone across the bed like it’s possessed and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. you scramble to close the twelve incognito tabs you have open— why are there so many, what is wrong with you?, slam the laptop shut, and shove it under your pillow like that’ll erase the evidence. your room smells like sex and vanilla and faint strawberry. your heart is hammering so hard you can hear it in your ears.

you yank your shorts down a little—sort of, they don’t go far—and pull your tanktop lower to cover the wet spot on the front that you’re praying isn’t visible, which by the way is a useless act of being a modest. you flick on the fairy lights strung over your headboard because total darkness feels too suspicious now, and the soft golden glow makes everything look a little less like a crime scene and more of a way of telling gojo you are horny and eager for sex.

there’s a knock. three quick raps, then two slow ones. his stupid secret knock he came up with last month because he’s twelve years old. you pad over to the door on bare feet, take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm you down, and yank it open.

there he is. gojo satoru in all his annoying glory—hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffy and windswept, cheeks pink from the cold, holding up a plastic convenience store bag like a trophy. his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair even though it’s pitch black outside, and he’s grinning that wide, stupid, lopsided grin that makes your knees feel unreliable. “hi baby,” he says, voice all soft and teasing, eyes already flicking down your body and lingering on your legs like he’s cataloging every inch of exposed skin. “miss me?”

you want to die. you want to drag him inside and never let him leave. you want to slam the door in his face and also maybe bite him. instead you just glare, cheeks burning, and step aside. “get in before someone sees you, idiot.”

you shuffle backward into the dim glow of your fairy lights, bare feet dragging across the fuzzy rug you stole from communal living room last semester, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it always does when he's around—like a moth banging against a lightbulb, desperate and dumb. the door clicks shut behind him with a soft, final snick, and you hear the lock turn too, that little metallic scrape that makes your stomach drop straight between your legs because yeah, he locked it. of course he did. gojo satoru doesn't do anything halfway, especially not when he smells blood in the water—or in this case, the thick, sweet scent of your arousal still hanging in the air like a neon sign screaming horny loser lives here.

he saunters in like he owns the place (he doesn't, but try telling him that), plastic bag crinkling in his fist as he drops it onto your cluttered nightstand—right on top of your half-eaten bag of hot cheetos and that one textbook you've been using as a coaster for three weeks. the gummy worms and ramune bottles clink together inside like a promise. you perch on the edge of your bed, knees pressed together now because suddenly you're aware of how fucking wet you are, how the seam of your tiny shorts is probably soaked through, and if you spread your legs even a little he's gonna see it. like a fucking shark, he’s gonna smell it. he's gonna know. he always knows.

you watch him with half-lidded eyes as he shrugs out of his hoodie, that big dumb black one he wears even when it's not cold, just because it makes him look like some brooding anime protagonist. he tosses it over your desk chair where it lands in a heap on top of yesterday's laundry (including the panties you wore to class, oops— which gojo gonna steal later), and now he's just in that loose white t-shirt, the one that's a size too big and hangs off his shoulders in the most infuriatingly hot way. the fabric clings a little to his chest from the chill outside, and you can see the faint outline of his nipples because of course. pervert.

he turns to you finally, slow and deliberate, and those stupidly blue eyes lock onto yours like lasers. his hair's all messed up from the wind, white strands sticking out everywhere, and his sunglasses are still perched on his head like a crown for the king of being annoying.

“i was about to call you,” you say, voice coming out breathier than you meant it to, leaning back on your hands so your tanktop rides up just enough to flash a strip of your stomach. you're trying to play it cool but your palms are sweaty against the comforter and your thighs keep clenching involuntarily.

he hums, low and interested, eyebrows shooting up as that slow, filthy smirk spreads across his pink lips—the kind of smirk that says he's already three steps ahead and winning whatever game this is. “yeah?”

he steps closer, towering over you even though you're sitting on the bed, and then he's leaning down, planting one hand on either side of your thighs, caging you in. his fingers dig into the mattress, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your legs, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell that stupid clean-boy scent mixed with the cold night air clinging to his shirt.

you nod, just a little, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning at how close he is. “yeah.”

“and why were you gonna call me, princess?” his voice drops, all velvet and menace, and then—fuck—his thumbs hook under the hem of your shorts, just barely, brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs in these slow, deliberate strokes. back and forth. back and forth. like he's petting you. like he's already got you figured out. “what was the big emergency?”

you smile, slow and knowing, eyes dropping to his mouth—those soft, obnoxious lips you've thought about way too many times—and then flicking up to meet his gaze, bright and electric behind those long lashes. your hand moves without permission, reaching up to pluck the sunglasses off his head. his hair flops forward a little as you slide them onto your own face, the world tinting darker, cooler. you shrug, all fake innocence, tilting your head.

“i don't know,” you murmur, voice syrupy sweet even as your heart hammers against your ribs, “maybe like... a 911 fucking emergency?”

his eyes darken instantly, pupils blowing wide behind the faint reflection of the fairy lights in his irises. because yeah, that's your code. that's been your code since that one drunk night sophomore year when you both admitted you'd rather die than actually say “i need to fuck” out loud like normal people. 911 fucking emergency means i'm so horny i'm malfunctioning and if you don't fix it i'm going to combust. it means come over right now and ruin me. it means please.

he lets out this low, broken laugh, half groan, head dropping forward for a second like you've wounded him. “oh my god,” he breathes, thumbs pressing harder into your thighs now, sliding higher, dangerously close to where you're aching and empty and dripping for him. “you're such a fucking menace. you were—wait.” his head snaps up, eyes narrowing with delighted suspicion. “what were you doing before i got here, huh? don't lie to me, baby. your room smells like pussy. were you really watching porn?”

you shove at his chest weakly, laughing even as heat floods your face. “shut up! oh my god, get out of my room if you're gonna be mean about it.”

“mean?” he gasps dramatically, clutching his heart like you've stabbed him, but he doesn't move back an inch—in fact, he leans in closer, nose brushing yours through the sunglasses lenses. “baby, i'm never mean. i'm observant. i'm helpful. i'm literally a humanitarian for showing up to your little... crisis.” his thumbs trace the edge of your shorts again, tugging just enough that the fabric shifts and cool air hits your damp skin. you whimper, actually whimper, hips twitching forward without your permission. “look at you,” he coos, voice dripping with fake sympathy and real hunger. “poor thing. all alone in the dark, touching yourself to god knows what—tentacles again? or was it that one video with the guy who kinda looks like me but lamer?”

“he did not look like you,” you lie, shoving the sunglasses up into your hair so you can glare at him properly. “he was way hotter. better dick too, probably.”

gojo's grin turns sharp, predatory, and he drops to his knees in one fluid motion, hands sliding up to grip your thighs properly now, spreading them just enough that you have to catch yourself on your elbows or fall back. “oh yeah?” he murmurs, voice dangerously soft, eyes locked on the wet spot darkening the front of your shorts like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. “that's fucked up, princess. here i am, actual best dick on campus, and you're out here settling for knockoffs? we gotta fix that.”

your breath hitches, legs trembling in his hands, and you know—he knows—you're already gone. already his. already desperate for whatever mean, sweet, stupid thing he's about to do to you.

“satoru,” you whisper, and it's half warning, half plea. he looks up at you through his lashes, beautiful and terrible, and smiles like the devil himself.

“shhh,” he says, thumbs stroking soothing circles even as his eyes promise chaos. “i've got you, baby. emergency services have arrived.”

your fingers dig into that fluffy white chaos of his hair the second his face dips back down between your thighs, like you're desperately trying to haul him away before he wrecks you completely, but let's be real—your grip is weak as hell, more of a caress disguised as resistance because deep down, you’re already melting into the mattress from the anticipation alone.

“satoru, no—” you half-whisper, half-moan, voice cracking like cheap glass as his nose presses right up against your throbbing clit through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts, nudging it with this slow, teasing precision that sends electric shocks straight up your spine and makes your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the pressure even as your brain screams abort mission. the contact is muffled but devastating, the heat of his breath seeping through the cotton like steam from a hot spring, making everything down there pulse and clench in this desperate, empty rhythm that has you seeing spots.

you whimper—actually whimper—high-pitched and embarrassing, the sound slipping out before you can clamp your lips shut, and you tug harder on his hair, yanking like you’re trying to reel in a wild animal, but all it does is make him groan deep in his chest, this low, rumbling vibration that travels right through the fabric and buzzes against your pussy like a goddamn toy on low speed. “fuck, baby,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled and wrecked, “pull harder, i like it when you’re mean to me.”

the sensation hits you like a truck, thighs trembling and squeezing around his head on pure instinct you nearly knee him in the face, toes curling into the rumpled sheets as waves of heat radiate outward from your core, making your stomach flip and your breath hitch in your throat. it’s too much, too good, too filthy for how innocent it looks, and you can feel yourself getting even wetter, the damp spot on your shorts spreading like evidence of your betrayal.

“satoru,” you call out again, voice shaky and pleading now, not because you actually want him to stop—god no—but because underneath all this horniness there’s this stupid, sappy ache in your chest that you refuse to acknowledge out loud. you’ve missed him, really missed him, like a hole in your routine that no amount of solo sessions or dumb memes from mutual friends could fill.

he’s been off on that fancy family vacation to some exotic island paradise—probably sipping piña coladas on white sand beaches while you were stuck here in your dim dorm, drowning in lecture notes and rainy campus days, feeling lonelier than a forgotten sock under the bed. sure, him diving face-first into your pussy sounds like heaven right now, his tongue and lips and that obnoxious confidence turning you into a puddle, but tonight? you want more—something softer, stupider, like cuddling under your fairy lights while he rambles about dumb vacation stories, or him stealing your snacks and calling you pet names until you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. you’d die before admitting it though; vulnerability is for losers, and you’re not about to hand him that kind of ammo.

so you tug his hair even harder, really yanking this time with both hands, fingers twisting in the soft strands until his head snaps back and he lets out this dramatic yelp that echoes off your posters like he's been shot. he pulls away from your pussy reluctantly, rising up on his knees with one hand clutching his scalp, those bright blue eyes wide and accusatory as he stares down at you like you've committed treason.

“ow, fuck—okay, okay, i know i like it rough but you’re literally gonna make me bald, woman,” he whines, blue eyes all wide and wounded like you’ve committed a war crime, voice pitching up into that whiny drawl he pulls out when he's being extra pathetic, rubbing the spot vigorously as if soothing a battle wound. “what’s with the violence? i was about to give you the best head of your life. i missed you too but damn.”

you chuckle, but it's broken and breathy, catching in your throat like a hiccup because you're still reeling from the ghost of his vibration down there, your clit throbbing in protest at the sudden loss of contact, legs shifting restlessly against the sheets and now he’s looking at you like a kicked puppy and it’s doing things to your chest. “i told you to stop, idiot,” you manage, trying to sound firm but coming off more like a winded mess, cheeks flushed hot under the dim fairy lights that cast everything in this soft, golden haze.

he flops forward dramatically, forehead thumping against your collarbone all long limbs and needy energy, long body draping over yours like he belongs there— he does, shut up. he whines immediately, loud and theatrical, flopping forward onto his elbows so his face is hovering inches from yours, lower lip jutting out in the world's most exaggerated pout. “why stop though?” he complains into your skin, voice muffled and petulant. “i’ve been dreaming about your pussy for two whole weeks. all i could think about was how you taste when you’re desperate and mean. and i was about to make you see god, baby. i practiced in the shower the whole vacation just thinking about you. that’s dedication— ”

but he's already leaning closer before you can answer, being all dramatic as usual, nuzzling into the curve of your neck with these hot, open-mouthed kisses that trail down your skin like molten lava, leaving wet little marks that cool in the air and make you shiver. his hands slide up under your tank top, pushing the fabric higher until it bunches under your arms, and he tugs the neckline down with his teeth—teeth!—until one of your tits spills free, nipple pebbling instantly in the chill of the room, exposed and begging for attention like it's got a mind of its own. he makes this satisfied little humming noise before latching on like he’s starving.

“satoru,” you warn again, but it’s softer this time, playful, fingers still tangled loosely in his hair. but he is being a fucking baby, a menace, he sometimes— often— pretend he doesn't hear you when he gets all horny and pervert. “satoru,” you call his name again, a playful warning laced with laughter, because god he's being such a baby about this, all needy and clingy and over-the-top, pressing his body against yours like he can't bear even an inch of space between you two.

“satoru,” you say again, half-laughing, half-moaning as he sucks a bruise right above your nipple. “you’re such a fucking baby.”

he pulls off with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes glazed and happy. “your baby,” he corrects smugly, then dives back in to bite gently at the swell of your breast. “missed these too. they got bigger or am i just delusional from lack of titty in my life?”

you roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “you were gone forever,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed but mostly just sounding pouty. “twelve days on some fancy beach with cocktails and sunshine and you didn’t even bring me a stupid souvenir. what kind of boyfriend fake-thing are you? i was here rotting in exam season and seasonal depression and you couldn’t even grab a keychain? what’s wrong with you? people bring back keychains, tacky magnets, something. you bring back nothing but blue balls and harassment.”

he hums against your skin, the vibration tickling as he bites down gently on the swell of your exposed tit, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp before he pulls away with a wet smack, lips shiny and smirking. “you want a gift?”

you shrug, trying to play it nonchalant even though your heart is doing that dumb fluttery thing, arms crossing over your chest— which only pushes your tit up higher, oops— as you look away toward the window, pretending the peeling poster on your wall is suddenly fascinating. “i mean, whatever. it's not like i was expecting anything or whatever.”

he stares at your face for a long beat, those piercing blue eyes narrowing like he’s trying to read your mind— he probably is, nosy bastard, like he's peeling back your layers one by one, reading every unspoken word in your expression—the way your lips twitch, the faint blush creeping up your neck—and then he nods slowly, that filthy grin spreading wide.  “oh, i’ve got a gift for you,” he says, voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes your stomach clench. “it's right here in my pants, big one. thick. veiny. best souvenir ever, guaranteed to make you scream. you’ve been begging for it in your texts like a little slut—”

you slap his shoulder immediately, hard enough to make a satisfying thwack, but not enough to actually hurt, laughing even as heat floods your face. “i don't want your dick, you pervert!”

he raises both eyebrows so high they nearly hit his hairline, leaning back on his heels with this mock-shocked expression, hand flying to his chest like you've mortally offended him. “you... don't want my dick? the dick that's had you begging and babbling nonsense every other time? the dick that's basically your favorite toy? wow, okay, noted—i'll just go cry in the corner now.”

“wait—no, fuck, obviously i want your dick,” you correct quickly, words tumbling out in a rush because the thought of him actually thinking that makes your stomach twist, cheeks burning as you shove at him again, lighter this time. “don’t look at me like that, you’re the worst. i want it eventually. later. after. but i want something else too, you dumbass—like an actual gift, not just your ego-stroking appendage.”

he gasps, clutching imaginary pearls before breaking into that bright, stupid laugh that always makes your insides melt, then sighs like you've asked for the moon. “there’s something you want more than my perfect, magnificent, life-changing cock? i’m wounded. i’m devastated. i need to speak to the manager of you.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re smiling despite yourself, cheeks hot.

he sighs dramatically, standing back on his heels, “fine, fine, princess demands variety—i can work with that.” he shifts, digging into the front pocket of his jeans with exaggerated effort, the motion making the shirt ride up and you get a prime view of his abs flexing and fabric pull tight across his thighs and the faint happy trail disappearing into his waistband  and highlighting the obvious bulge there— god, he's already half-hard just from this—focus— and pulls out a small velvet box, not ring-sized but compact enough to fit in his palm, black and sleek with a subtle sheen under the lights.

your eyebrows shoot up, curiosity overriding everything as you sit up a little straighter, tank top still askew and tit hanging out like a casual accessory. “fancy,” you tease, voice lilting with mock surprise, eyes flicking from the box to his face where that smug grin is firmly in place. “what is it, a promise ring? gonna ask me to go steady, satoru?”

he , flicking the box open with his thumb, and inside is a necklace. delicate silver chain, thin and shiny, with a little pendant hanging from it—a tiny, elegant script “satoru” in cursive,

he snorts, flicking the lid open with his thumb to reveal the necklace inside—delicate silver chain, fine and shimmering like it was spun from moonlight, with a pendant that's a small, elegant cursive script spelling out “satoru” in looping letters, the ‘o’ replaced by a heart-shaped pink stone. not garish pink, soft rose quartz maybe, soft and blushing, cut with these subtle facets catching the fairy lights and throwing little flecks of shimmer across his fingers, tiny rainbows across the velvet lining, warm and romantic in a way that clashes hilariously with how possessive it is. it’s pretty. it’s really pretty. it’s also extremely possessive.

you groan immediately, loud and drawn-out, flopping back against the pillows with your hands over your face like the sight of it pains you. “i’m not wearing that.”

“what? why not?” he sounds genuinely offended, holding it up to dangle in front of your face. the pink stone swings like a hypnotist’s charm. “it’s custom! i had it made! look how cute the little heart is—”

“it’s literally a collar,” you deadpan, glaring at him even as your cheeks heat up. “like you’re branding me. ‘property of gojo satoru, if found return to owner.’ i’m not your pet, you neanderthal.”

he gasps, clutching imaginary pearls. “a collar? baby, this is couture. this is loveeee. this is me saying ‘i was on a stupid beach thinking about you the whole time and spent way too much money on something that has my name on it because i’m obsessed with you.’ this is me spending an embarrassing amount of money on vacation to get it custom made because i saw the pink stone and thought ‘that’s her color when she comes.’ but sure, call it a collar, you ungrateful brat.”

you stare at him. he stares back, lower lip wobbling in the most over-the-top pout you’ve ever seen, necklace still dangling from his fingers like a peace offering.

you choke on air, face burning. “you did not just say that.”

“i did,” he says proudly, crawling over you again until he’s straddling your hips, necklace dangling above your chest like a threat. “and you love it. admit it. you want my name right here—” he taps the hollow of your throat, right where the pendant would rest, “—so every time you look in the mirror you remember who makes you dumb and drippy and desperate.”

you stare up at him, heart hammering against your ribs, the pink heart swinging gently between you like a hypnotist’s charm. he’s grinning that stupid, soft, menace grin—equal parts pervert and lovesick—and you know you’re fucked.

“...the stone is pretty,” you mumble eventually, looking anywhere but his eyes.

his whole face lights up like christmas morning. “right? it’s rose quartz. supposedly good for love and healing and all that spiritual bullshit, but mostly it matches your pussy when you’re—” you slap a hand over his mouth before he can finish, but you’re laughing, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. he licks your hand again, slow and deliberate, then pulls it away to beam down at you.

he chuckle, bright and stupid and yours, and leans over you again, the necklace pooled in his palm. “let me put it on you? please? just try it. if you hate it i’ll wear it as an anklet or something. very avant-garde.”

you roll your eyes so hard it’s a workout, but you’re already tilting your head back, lifting your hair off your neck in silent surrender.

because yeah. you missed him so much it’s stupid. because yeah, you want his name against your skin more than you want air right now. because yeah, you’re completely, hopelessly gone for this absolute idiot.

he fastens it carefully, fingers brushing your throat like he’s handling something precious, and when the little pink heart settles into place he leans down to kiss it—soft, reverent, right over your pulse.

he shifts back just enough to stand at the edge of the bed properly, long fingers still cradling the delicate chain like it’s the most fragile thing in the world, even though we both know he’s about to wreck you in approximately thirty seconds. you tilt your chin up higher, hair spilling over your shoulders and onto the pillows, exposing the full column of your throat because yeah, you’re giving in, you’re letting him brand you like some lovesick idiot and you can’t even pretend to hate it. the silver is cool when it first touches your skin, a sharp little contrast to how hot you’re running everywhere else, and he drapes it carefully, the tiny pink heart pendant settling right in the dip between your collarbones like it was made to live there. his fingertips brush the hollow of your throat as he fastens the clasp—slow, reverent, almost tender—and you feel the exact moment it clicks shut, like a lock snapping into place. his. officially. embarrassingly. perfectly.

he just stares, blue eyes going dark and hungry, pupils swallowing up all that ridiculous sky color as he drinks you in. the fairy lights catch on the silver chain and the rose quartz heart, making it shimmer every time you breathe, and his gaze keeps flicking from the pendant to your face to your still-exposed tit like he can’t decide where to look first. “fuck,” he breathes, voice rougher than before, almost reverent in the filthiest way. “you look... fuck, baby. you look so pretty with my name on you. like you were always supposed to wear it. jesus christ, i’m literally gonna cum in my pants just thinking about fucking you stupid while that little heart bounces between your tits.”

you laugh—soft, breathless, a little embarrassed because god he’s so much—and the sound makes the pendant tremble against your skin. “you’re so dramatic,” you manage, but your voice cracks on the last syllable because he’s looking at you like you’re a miracle and it’s doing things to your chest.

he chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight to your clit, and leans forward to brace his hands on either side of your head. “dramatic? princess, i’m serious. two weeks without this pussy and now you’re sitting here all flushed and marked up as mine? i’m half a second from nutting untouched. be nice to me.”

you slap his shoulder again, light and playful, fingers lingering on the warm cotton of his shirt. “shut up, pervert.” but then your hands are sliding up, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him down because you need his mouth on yours now. he comes willingly—eagerly—crashing into the kiss like he’s been starving for it. his lips are soft and greedy, tongue sliding against yours in that perfect messy way that always makes your head spin, tasting like the melon ramune he probably chugged on the way over and something that’s just him. he groans into your mouth, low and desperate, one hand cupping your jaw while the other slides down to palm your bare tit, thumb flicking over your nipple until you’re arching up into him with a soft mmph.

he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips brushing with every word. “okay,” he whispers, voice wrecked and filthy, “now take those shorts off so i can finish what i started. gift time’s over, time for the real present—my tongue in your—”

you slap a hand over his mouth fast, palm pressing against those plush lips before he can finish the sentence, but you’re laughing so hard your whole body shakes with it, the necklace tinkling softly against your skin. “satoru, oh my god, you’re disgusting.”

he doesn’t even fight it—just licks a slow, deliberate stripe across your palm, hot and wet and utterly shameless, eyes locked on yours the whole time. you squeal, yanking your hand away and wiping it on his shirt. “ew! you animal!”

“you love it,” he grins, already sliding down your body like a man on a mission, big hands hooking into the waistband of your tiny shorts. you lift your hips without thinking, letting him drag them down your thighs along with your soaked panties in one smooth motion. the cool air hits your dripping pussy and you shiver, thighs trying to close on instinct, but he’s already wedging his broad shoulders between them, spreading you wide open for his greedy gaze.

“ffffuck,” he groans, long and drawn-out, staring at you like you’re a feast and he’s been fasting for weeks. “look at you. look at this pretty fucking pussy. missed her so much—dreamed about her every single night on that stupid trip. jerked off in the hotel shower thinking about how you taste when you’re all swollen and needy like this. you have no idea.”

he doesn’t wait for permission—he never does—just dives in like a starving man, mouth hot and wet and perfect as he licks a slow, filthy stripe up your slit from entrance to clit. you cry out immediately, sharp and broken, “ah—satoru!”—back arching off the bed as your hands fly to his hair again, gripping tight. he groans into you, the vibration making your thighs tremble around his head, and then he’s devouring you, tongue swirling around your clit in tight circles before sucking it into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure.

“mmph, fuck! yesss,” you’re already babbling, hips rolling up to meet his mouth, the necklace bouncing lightly against your chest with every jerk of your body. he pulls back for a second just to spit on your pussy—gross, hot, perfect—watching it drip down your folds before licking it back up, humming like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“so fucking wet,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled as he buries his face deeper, nose nudging your clit while his tongue pushes inside you, curling and thrusting like he’s trying to fuck you with it. “tastes better than i remembered. my favorite meal. should’ve brought you with me—would’ve eaten this every morning on the beach instead of that overpriced brunch bullshit.”

you moan loud and shameless, “oh god—satoru, don’t stop.” fingers yanking at his hair hard enough that he hisses, but it only makes him double down, sucking your clit into his mouth again while two long fingers slide into you without warning, curling right against that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

“fuck—right there—” your voice cracks, thighs clamping around his head as he finger-fucks you slow and deep, tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit in time with every thrust. the wet sounds are obscene—slurping, sucking, your own slick coating his chin—and he’s moaning into you like he’s the one getting pleasured, hips grinding against the mattress for friction because he’s that worked up just from tasting you.

he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and swollen, eyes wild. “gonna make you fall apart on my tongue, baby. been thinking about this for two weeks straight—how you sound when you’re close, how you shake, how you drown me. not stopping till you’re begging.”

then he’s back at it, fingers pumping faster, tongue lashing your clit in quick, mean little flicks that have your legs shaking and your moans turning into desperate little sobs, “satoru, please—fuck—i’m. . .” toes curling into the sheets, the necklace warm against your skin now from your body heat, the little pink heart glinting every time you arch.

he doesn’t even give you a second to catch your breath, just slides those big hands under your thighs and yanks you down the bed like you weigh nothing, the sheets bunching under your back as your ass hits the edge of the mattress with a soft thump. you squeak—actually squeak, embarrassing as hell—and he laughs all bright and obnoxious, that stupid triumphant grin splitting his face as he drops to his knees on the floor like he’s praying at the altar of your pussy.

“c’mere, princess,” he coos, voice syrupy sweet and filthy all at once, hooking your legs over his shoulders so your thighs are draped across his back, knees bent, feet dangling uselessly. the position spreads you wide open for him, everything on display, slick and swollen and glistening under the fairy lights, and he just stares for a second like he’s memorizing it, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“fuck, look at you,” he groans, dragging it out dramatic and reverent, one hand splayed across your lower stomach to hold you down while the other slides two long fingers up and down your slit, coating them in your wetness before pushing in slow. you’re so soaked they slip right in to the knuckle, curling instantly against that spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you moan loud and broken, “ah—satoru, fuck. . ” hips bucking up into his hand on instinct.

he hums all satisfied, pumping his fingers lazy at first, scissoring them just to watch you clench and drip around him. “that’s it, baby, open up for me. been dreaming about this greedy little pussy every night—how tight you get when i do this—” he crooks his fingers harder, pressing right up against your g-spot and holding the pressure, thumb coming up to rub messy circles over your clit. your back arches off the bed, thighs trembling over his shoulders, and he leans in closer, mouth hovering just above where his fingers are buried inside you, breath hot against your skin.

“gonna make you squirt all over my face,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked on yours as he starts fucking you with his fingers in earnest—fast, deep, relentless, the wet squelch of it filling the room along with your gasping moans. “mmph—yes, right there—don’t stop. ..” you’re already babbling, hands fisting the sheets, the necklace bouncing against your chest with every thrust of his hand. he sticks his tongue out flat and needy, hovering right over your clit like he’s waiting for it, eyes half-lidded and wild.

“c’mon, pretty girl,” he coaxes, all soft and mean at the same time, curling his fingers in a brutal come-hither motion while his thumb presses down hard on your clit. “give it to me. soak me. wanna taste you when you lose it—wanna feel you squirt all over my tongue like a good little slut—”

the pressure builds so fast it’s dizzying, that tight coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter with every stroke, every filthy word dripping from his mouth. your thighs start shaking harder, toes curling against his back, and he can feel it—he knows—because he doubles down, fingers pistoning in and out, palm slapping against your pussy with every thrust, tongue still out and waiting like a goddamn target.

“satoru, fuck, i’m gonna—oh god—”

it hits you like a freight train, the orgasm crashing over you so hard your vision whites out for a second. your whole body locks up, back bowing off the bed as you squirt—hard, messy, unstoppable—clear fluid gushing out around his fingers in rhythmic pulses, splashing across his face, his waiting tongue, dripping down his chin and neck in hot streaks. he groans loud and wrecked, “fuuuck, yes—” mouth open to catch as much as he can, swallowing greedily, eyes rolling back like he’s the one coming undone.

you’re still twitching, aftershocks ripping through you as he keeps fingering you through it, drawing out every last spurt until you’re whimpering oversensitive and trying to squirm away. he finally slows, pulling his fingers out with a wet sound and immediately sucking them clean, humming like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. his face is drenched—shiny with you, hair sticking to his forehead, lips swollen and red—and he looks up at you with this dazed, blissful grin, licking his lips slow and deliberate.

“holy shit,” he breathes, voice hoarse, wiping his chin with the back of his hand only to lick that clean too. “you just baptized me, baby. i’m reborn. this is my new religion—your pussy is my god now.”

you’re still panting, legs jelly over his shoulders, brain thoroughly melted, but you manage a weak laugh that turns into another moan when he leans in to press a soft, reverent kiss right to your throbbing clit. “you’re so fucking gross,” you whisper, but your fingers are already in his hair again, petting gently, affectionately, because god you missed this idiot and his dumb dramatic face covered in you.

he nuzzles into your thigh, smearing more of your mess across his cheek like a cat marking its territory. “gross? baby, this is art. this is love. this is the best welcome home present ever—better than any stupid beach sunset.” he kisses your inner thigh, then the other, soft and sweet now, contrast to the absolute menace he just was. “thank you for the facial, princess. ten out of ten, would drown again.”

you tug his hair lightly, pulling him up toward you because you need his mouth on yours now, need to taste yourself on him, need to feel him close. he crawls up willingly, hovering over you with that stupid lovesick grin, face still glistening under the lights.

“you’re never leaving for two weeks again,” you mumble against his lips, arms wrapping around his neck, the necklace cool against both of your skin now. “never,” he promises, voice soft and serious for once, before ruining it with a filthy smirk. “not when i’ve got a five-star pussy buffet waiting at home. now kiss me, you squirting goddess—i earned this.”

you’re still floating in that hazy post-squirt fog, limbs heavy and tingling like you’ve been electrocuted in the best way, chest heaving under the soft weight of the necklace that keeps catching the fairy lights every time you breathe. your pussy is throbbing, oversensitive and fluttering around nothing, thighs slick with your own mess, and gojo is still on his knees between them looking like he just survived a hurricane made entirely of you. his face is an absolute crime scene—shiny and dripping, hair stuck to his forehead in white spikes, lips red and swollen like he’s been making out with your clit for hours (he basically has). he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue peeking out to lick another stray drop off the corner of his mouth, eyes glazed with pure unfiltered bliss.

“god,” he rasps, voice hoarse from all the moaning he did into your pussy like a fucking animal, wiping his chin with the back of his hand only to immediately suck his fingers clean again because he’s disgusting and perfect. “you just hosed me down, baby. full-on super soaker. i look like i got caught in a rainstorm of pussy juice. i’m never washing my face again—this is my new skincare routine.”

you laugh, breathless and wrecked, kicking weakly at his shoulder with one heel where it’s still draped over him. “you’re so nasty, satoru—oh my god, get up here before i die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“embarrassment?” he gasps, all fake offense, standing up slow and predatory, dragging his wet chin across your stomach, between your tits, leaving a shiny trail like he’s marking territory. “baby, this is a badge of honor. i’m wearing your cum like war paint. i’m a warrior. a pussy-eating champion. they should give me a medal—or another round.”

he settles over you finally, forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in as his hips slot between your thighs like they belong there. his shirt is clinging to him now from the splash zone, white fabric gone semi-transparent over his chest, and you can see the faint outline of his nipples and the stupidly defined lines of his abs. he’s hard—painfully hard—cock straining against his jeans in a thick line that presses right up against your bare pussy when he rolls his hips once, slow and teasing. you both groan at the contact, your oversensitive clit dragging against the rough denim, and you feel another helpless gush of wetness leak out of you.

“fuck,” you whimper, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in because holy shit you’re still so sensitive but you want more, you always want more with him. “satoru—too much—i’m—”

“shhh, i know, i know,” he soothes, but his voice is all dark and hungry, dipping down to kiss you slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself all salty-sweet and tangy on his tongue. he licks into your mouth like he’s still starving, swallowing your little moans, “mmph. . ” while his hips grind in lazy circles, rubbing his clothed cock against your soaked folds just to watch you squirm. “you’re all sensitive and shaky now, huh? my poor little baby, came so hard she painted my face. look at you—still dripping for me. greedy pussy can’t get enough.”

you whine into his mouth, high and needy, “satoru—please. . .” legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, trying to pull him closer even though the friction is bordering on too much. the necklace shifts with every roll of your bodies, the little pink heart pressing cool against your flushed skin, and he notices—of course he does—pulling back just enough to stare down at it with this possessive, lovesick glint in his eyes.

“fuck, that looks so good on you,” he murmurs, voice softer now but still rough around the edges, one hand coming up to thumb at the pendant where it rests against your throat. “my name right here while you’re all wrecked and leaking for me. you’re never taking this off, yeah? gonna wear it to class, to parties, when you’re sleeping—gonna think about how i made you squirt like a fucking fountain every time it catches the light.”

“you’re so—ahn!—possessive,” you manage, but it comes out breathy and fond, fingers sliding up into his damp hair to tug him back down for another kiss because you can’t help it, you need him close. he laughs against your lips, bright and stupid and yours, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“damn right i am,” he says, grinding harder just to make you gasp, “fuck—satoru!” and feel another helpless twitch of your pussy against his jeans. “you’re mine. this pussy? mine. these tits? mine. this pretty little neck with my name on it? definitely fucking mine. been gone twelve days and i come back to you squirting on my face like a welcome home parade—i’m never leaving again, baby. gonna chain myself to this bed. or to your clit. whichever’s more convenient.”

you moan again, louder this time, head falling back against the pillows as he starts mouthing down your neck, sucking new bruises right next to the necklace like he wants to layer his claim. his hips are relentless now, dragging the rough seam of his jeans over your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that have your thighs shaking around him again already. “satoru—wait—i can’t—too soon.”

“too soon?” he echoes, pulling back to grin down at you, all teeth and menace and affection. “baby, we’re just getting started. you think one little facial means i’m done? nah. i’ve got two weeks of blue balls to work out. gonna make you come on my tongue again, then my fingers, then my cock—gonna keep you stuffed and shaking till you forget what day it is.”

he dips down to kiss the pendant one more time, soft and reverent, lips brushing your skin as he whispers, “love you in my name, princess. love you all messy and mine.”

your heart does something stupid and warm in your chest, and you yank him up by the hair to kiss him properly—deep and desperate and tasting like both of you now. “love you too, idiot,” you mumble against his mouth, legs tightening around his waist. “now get these jeans off before i actually die.”

he laughs into the kiss, bright and filthy and home. “yes ma’am. but fair warning—once this dick’s out, you’re not walking straight for a week.”

he doesn’t need to be told twice—hell, he was already halfway there the second the words left your mouth. his hands drop to his belt like it personally offended him, fumbling with the buckle in this frantic, desperate rush that’s so unlike his usual cocky grace, metal clinking loud in the quiet room as he yanks it open. “fuck—yes—finally,” he mutters under his breath, all breathless and wrecked, shoving his jeans and boxers down in one clumsy push until they pool around his knees. his cock springs free, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip already, curving up against his stomach like it’s been suffering without you for weeks (it has). it’s pretty in that obnoxious way his everything is—long, veiny, the head all slick and shiny with precum that drips down the shaft in a slow, teasing bead.

you stare, because how can you not, thighs still trembling from earlier, pussy clenching around nothing at the sight of him. he kicks the jeans off fully, nearly tripping in the process and catching himself on the bed with a dramatic little “whoa—shit,” that makes you snort even as heat pools low in your belly again. “don’t laugh at me,” he whines, crawling back over you fully naked now except for that clingy white shirt, “i’m suffering here. two weeks of hotel lotion and my own hand—do you know how tragic that is? i deserve a purple heart for surviving without this pussy.”

“poor baby,” you coo, mocking and soft all at once, reaching down to wrap your fingers around him because you can’t resist. he’s hot in your hand, velvet-smooth over steel, throbbing when you give him one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum. he groans loud and broken, “fuuuck, baby.” his hips jerking forward into your fist like he can’t help it, forehead dropping to yours as his eyes flutter shut.

“sensitive?” you tease, pumping him again, slower this time, watching his abs clench and his thighs tense where he’s kneeling between your legs. the necklace shifts against your chest with every breath, the little pink heart catching the light, and his eyes snap open to zero in on it immediately, pupils blown wide.

“you have no idea,” he rasps, voice cracking as you twist your wrist just right on the upstroke. “been hard pretty much since i landed. kept thinking about you in those tiny shorts, about bending you over your desk in the library, about this exact moment—fuck—tighter, baby, please—” he cuts off with another moan when you oblige, gripping him harder, feeling him pulse in your palm. “ahn—yeah, like that. . . god, your hand’s so much better than mine. everything about you is better. gonna ruin me again, aren’t you?”

“maybe,” you murmur, guiding him closer until the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, sliding through your folds in one slick glide that makes you both shudder. he’s leaking so much it mixes with your wetness, making everything messy and perfect, and you roll your hips up just to feel him drag over your clit. “mmph—satoru.” the friction sending sparks up your spine even though you’re still sensitive from earlier.

he whines, actual whines, high and needy in the back of his throat, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he tries to hold still. “don’t tease me,” he begs, voice all wrecked and dramatic, “i’ll literally die. i’ll combust. my dick will fall off from neglect—please, baby, let me in—need to feel you around me so bad—pleaseee.”

you take pity on him—on both of you—because you’re aching too, empty and fluttering and desperate for him to fill you up the way only he can. “okay,” you whisper, lining him up properly, the blunt head pressing right against your entrance, stretching you just from that. “slow, toru—fuck—”

he pushes in slow like you asked, but it’s torture for him—you can see it in the way his arms shake where they’re braced beside your head, in the way his jaw clenches and his breath stutters out in ragged pants. inch by inch he sinks into you, splitting you open on his cock, and you’re so wet from before that he slides in easy despite how thick he is, bottoming out with a low, drawn-out groan that vibrates through his chest into yours. “holy fuck—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s overwhelmed. “so tight—still so fucking tight after all that—gonna kill me—ahn!”

you’re not much better, moaning high and broken, “satoru, oh god. . .” your nails digging into his shoulders as your walls flutter around him, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness that’s always just on the edge of too much with him. he stays still for a second, buried to the hilt, letting you both breathe, letting you feel every throb of his cock inside you, every twitch when you clench down on purpose just to hear him whimper.

“move,” you finally gasp, rolling your hips up to take him deeper even though he’s already all the way in, legs wrapping tight around his waist. “please—fuck me—need it—”

that’s all it takes. he pulls back slow, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, then snaps his hips forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs, “fuck—yes. .  .” as he setting a rhythm that’s deep and punishing right from the start. the bed creaks under you, headboard tapping the wall in a steady thump-thump-thump that’s gonna get you noise complaints tomorrow, but neither of you care. he’s fucking you like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you, cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, hitting that spot that makes your vision spark white.

“like that—” you sob, back arching, tits bouncing with every slam of his hips, the necklace swinging between you like a pendulum. “harder, satoru—pleaseee.”

“yeah?” he pants, grinning down at you all feral and beautiful, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, shirt clinging to his chest. “want it harder? my greedy little princess—missed this cock that much? been empty without me, huh?” he shifts his angle just right, grinding deep on every thrust now, the head of his cock kissing your cervix and making you see stars. “take it—fuck, take it all—gonna fill you up so good—”

you’re babbling now, incoherent moans and his name over and over, “satoru, satoru. fuck—don’t stop.” he have your toes curling, thighs shaking around him as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly again already. he drops to his elbows, chest pressed to yours, mouth finding yours in a messy, desperate kiss, swallowing each other’s moans as he pounds into you relentlessly.

“love you,” he gasps against your lips, voice raw and soft underneath all the filth, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch your leg higher so he can go deeper. “love you so fucking much—never leaving again. gonna keep you full of me always—

mine.”

you cling to him, nails raking down his back under his shirt, the necklace warm between your bodies now, the little heart pressed right over your heartbeat like it belongs there. he’s ruining you, remaking you, loving you in the only way gojo satoru knows how—loud, messy, overwhelming, and so, so sweet.

he slows just enough to make you whine in protest, that deep, relentless rhythm faltering as he pulls his hips back a fraction, cock dragging slowly and teasing along your walls until you’re clenching around him desperately. “satoru, no—don’t you dare stop,” your voice all high and broken, nails scraping down his back under the damp cotton of his shirt.

he laughs, breathless and mean, blue eyes glittering with pure mischief as he sits back on his heels, still buried balls-deep inside you. “oh, baby,” he coos, voice syrupy sweet and filthy, “i’m not stopping. just rearranging you a little. gotta fold my favorite girl up like a lawn chair—wanna see how deep i can really get.”

before you can even process the words, his big hands are sliding down to the backs of your thighs, gripping tight, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave pretty little marks tomorrow. he pushes forward slow and deliberate, forcing your knees up toward your chest, your calves sliding over his shoulders until you’re bent damn near in half, ass lifted off the bed, pussy tilted up toward him like an offering. the stretch in your hamstrings burns in the best way, and the new angle has his cock sinking even deeper, the head nudging right up against your cervix on every tiny roll of his hips. you cry out sharp and wrecked, “fuck—satoru—too deep.” your back arching as far as it can in this position, tits bouncing with every thrust, the necklace swinging wildly between them, the little pink heart glinting like a filthy trophy.

“too deep?” he mocks, grinning down at you all sweaty and flushed and gorgeous, hair sticking to his forehead in white strands, shirt clinging transparently to his chest. “baby, you’re taking me so fucking well—look at you, folded up all pretty for me, pussy swallowing my cock like it’s starving. you feel that?” he pulls out slowly just to slam back in, hard enough that your whole body jolts up the bed.

“ahn, yes, fuck,” and he groans loud and dramatic, head tipping back. “that’s me all the way in your guts. gonna rearrange your organs, princess. gonna make sure you feel me for days every time you sit down in lecture.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like forever, deep and grinding and punishing, hips snapping forward in short, brutal thrusts that have you seeing stars, your thighs trembling against his chest, toes curling in the air. every drag of his cock lights up every nerve inside you, the pressure building again so fast it’s dizzying, and you’re babbling nonsense, “satoru, please, i’m gonna, fuckkkk, again.”

your tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it is. he’s moaning right along with you, filthy and unrestrained, “yeah, fuck! squeeze me just like that, my perfect little slut,” until suddenly he stops, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you.

you whine loud and betrayed, “no, no, why,” as you are trying to rock your hips up for more friction, but he holds you pinned, chuckling dark and breathless. “easy, greedy girl,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you messy and slow, tongue licking into your mouth while he’s still throbbing inside you. “not done with you yet. wanna fuck you from behind—wanna watch that pretty ass bounce while my name swings between your tits.”

before you can even catch your breath, he’s pulling out—slow and torturous, making you feel every inch leaving you empty and clenching around nothing—and sliding off the bed. he stands beside it, tall and naked and stupidly gorgeous, cock slick with you and jutting up against his stomach, and reaches down to grab your ankles. “c’mere,” he says, voice rough with want, tugging you toward the edge of the mattress until your legs are dangling off, feet barely brushing the floor. you’re still folded and shaky, but he manhandles you like you weigh nothing, flipping you over onto your stomach and then pulling your hips up until you’re standing bent over the bed, chest pressed flat to the rumpled sheets, ass in the air.

“fuck, look at you,” he groans, hands spreading your cheeks apart so he can see everything—your dripping pussy, swollen and gaping a little from how hard he just fucked you, slick running down your thighs in shiny trails. he steps up behind you, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades to push you down harder into the mattress, the other guiding his cock through your folds, slapping it heavy and wet against your clit once, twice, three times until you’re jolting forward with every hit. “satoru, please, stop teasing,” your voice muffled into the sheets.

“teasing?” he laughs, all mean and delighted, slapping your pussy again with the length of his cock, the wet smack echoing loud in the room. “baby, this is foreplay. gotta make sure my favorite hole is ready for round two—look how fucking wet you are, dripping all over my dick like a desperate little mess.” he lines up finally, the fat head pressing against your entrance, and then he pushes, one long, forceful thrust that buries him to the hilt in a single stroke, forcing the air out of your lungs in a broken scream, “fuckkkk.”

he doesn’t ease up, doesn’t give you time to adjust—just grips your hips bruisingly tight and starts pounding into you like he’s trying to fuse you together, skin slapping against skin loud and obscene, the bed creaking dangerously under the force. your hands scrabble for something to hold onto, fingers twisting in the sheets as he fucks you hard and deep, every thrust shoving you up the mattress until he yanks you back by the hips. “take it, fuck, take every inch,” he growls, voice wrecked, leaning over you to mouth at the back of your neck, teeth scraping the chain of the necklace. “love this pussy—love how you feel around me—love how you look bent over and stuffed full of my cock, mine!”

you’re moaning into the sheets, high and nonstop, “yes—yours, fuck, harder.” again, non-stop, he have your toes curling against the fuzzy rug, body rocking forward with every brutal snap of his hips. the necklace swings beneath you with every thrust, the little heart brushing the mattress, a constant reminder of who’s ruining you so perfectly, and you can feel another orgasm building fast and overwhelming, coiling tight in your belly as he hits that spot inside you over and over and over.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can hear you better, “moan louder, baby—let the whole dorm know who’s making you dumb on this dick—let them hear my name around your pretty neck while i fuck you stupid—”

you’re lost in it, in him, in the way he owns every inch of you without apology, loving you loud and messy and filthy and sweet all at once.

he doesn’t let up for even a second, hips snapping forward with this brutal, steady rhythm that has your whole body jolting against the mattress, cheek pressed into the rumpled sheets that smell like vanilla and sex and him. every thrust shoves you forward an inch, tits dragging across the comforter, nipples hard and aching from the friction, and he just yanks you back by the hips like you’re his personal fucktoy, fingers bruising your skin in the shape of his grip.

the angle is devastating—his cock slamming into you from behind, deeper than before, the head grinding against that spot inside that makes your eyes cross and your mouth fall open in a constant stream of broken moans, “fuck, satoru, right there—don’t stop, oh god. .  ” your voice muffled and hoarse, echoing off the walls along with the wet, obscene slap of his hips against your ass.

“listen to that,” he groans, all breathless and wrecked, slowing down just enough to pull almost all the way out before slamming back in, making you scream into the sheets “ahn—fuck!” and he laughs, low and filthy, one hand leaving your hip to reach forward and flick the dangling necklace where it swings beneath you. the little pink heart bounces with every thrust, catching the fairy lights in tiny flashes, and he’s obsessed with it, you can tell. “hear how wet you are for me? that’s two weeks of missing this dick talking, baby. pussy’s so sloppy she’s crying all over my cock—fuck, gonna ruin this pretty little hole till you can’t walk to class tomorrow.”

you try to push back against him, desperate for more, ass jiggling with every impact, but he pins you down harder, palm flat between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest deeper into the bed while your back arches perfectly for him. “stay right there,” he growls, voice rough with possession, leaning over you so his shirt brushes your sweat-slick skin, his breath hot against your ear. “love seeing you like this—bent over, stuffed full, my name swinging under you like a fucking claim tag. everyone’s gonna know tomorrow when you’re limping around campus wearing that necklace. gonna look at you and think ‘yeah, gojo wrecked that.’”

“satoru—please. . .” you sob, fingers clawing at the sheets, knuckles white as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, your pussy fluttering around him in warning. he feels it—of course he does—and his rhythm stutters for a second before he doubles down, fucking you harder, faster, the bed frame groaning in protest like it’s about to collapse under the force. his free hand snakes around your hip, fingers finding your clit swollen and slick, rubbing messy circles that have your thighs shaking uncontrollably, “yes, fuck, right there, i’m gonna come. . .”

“yeah? gonna come all over my cock again?” he taunts, voice dripping with mean affection, pinching your clit lightly just to hear you yelp, “satoru!” before soothing it with quick, relentless strokes. “do it, baby. . . milk me, wanna feel this pussy squeeze me while i fill you up, gonna pump you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all week. fuckkk, look at you, taking it so good. my perfect little slut. . .”

the orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you so hard your vision blacks out at the edges, whole body locking up as you scream his name into the mattress, “satoru, fuck. i’m coming, cominggg. . .”

your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses, gushing around his cock in hot, messy spurts that soak his balls and drip down your thighs. he groans loud and broken behind you, “fuuuck, yes, squeeze me just like that.”

hips stuttering as he tries to fuck you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you’re whimpering oversensitive and boneless beneath him.

he doesn’t stop though—not yet—just slows to these deep, grinding rolls of his hips, letting you feel every inch buried inside your spasming walls, his fingers still lazily circling your clit to keep you teetering on that edge. “one more,” he murmurs against the back of your neck, kissing the sweat there, tongue darting out to taste your skin. “gimme one more, princess—wanna feel you fall apart again while i breed this pretty pussy—wanna watch my cum drip out of you with my name around your neck, fuck. . . you’re so perfect when you come for me—”

you’re already shaking your head weakly, overstimulation making tears prick at your eyes, but your hips are pushing back against him anyway, greedy and desperate even when you’re wrecked. “can’t—satoru, too much,” you gasp, voice cracked and raw, but he just chuckles dark and sweet, nipping at your shoulder.

“you can,” he coos, all soft menace, pulling out slow just to watch you clench around nothing before sliding back in with a filthy wet sound. “you will. for me. because you’re mine. my good girl, my favorite—gonna keep you full and shaking till you forget how to say anything but my name,”

he straightens up again, both hands gripping your hips now, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust like he’s using you to chase his own release, the pace turning brutal and unrelenting. your moans turn into these high, broken sobs, “please. . . fuck, satoru, again.” the pleasure-pain building impossibly higher, your body no longer your own, just his to take and ruin and love however he wants.

and god, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

he doesn’t give you even a breath to recover, just keeps that punishing pace like he’s trying to fuck the memory of every lonely night you spent without him right out of your body, hips slamming into your ass so hard the impact ripples up your spine and makes your tits bounce against the mattress. you’re so overstimulated it hurts in the sweetest way, every nerve lit up and screaming, your clit throbbing from his fingers, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock like it can’t decide if it wants to pull him deeper or push him out. tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes now, soaking the sheets beneath your cheek. “satoru, fuck! i can’t, too much, gonna break—” but your body betrays you completely, hips pushing back to meet every brutal thrust, greedy and desperate even when you’re falling apart.

“break?” he laughs, breathless and mean and so fucking fond, leaning down to drape himself over your back, chest heaving against your spine, one arm hooking under your waist to hold you tight while the other keeps rubbing your clit in those quick, filthy circles that make your vision spark white. “baby, you’re not gonna break—you’re gonna come again for me, gonna squeeze my dick so hard i see stars, gonna milk every drop out of me like the perfect little cockslut you are—” his voice cracks on the last word because you clench down involuntarily at the praise, and he groans loud and wrecked right in your ear, “fuuuck—there it is,do that again. . .”

you sob, high and broken, “satoru—i’m—oh god, again.”

and the second orgasm barrels into you without mercy, harder than the first, ripping through your oversensitive body like lightning. your pussy clamps down on him in violent pulses, gushing around his cock again, hot and messy, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you as you shake apart under him. “coming—fuck, satoru—coming so hard. . .” your voice is shredded, muffled into the mattress, whole body locking up and trembling uncontrollably, toes curling so hard they cramp, the necklace swinging wildly beneath you as your back arches off the bed.

he swears viciously, “shit—baby, fuck yes.”

feeling you squeeze him like a vice, and that’s what finally does it, what finally pushes him over the edge he’s been teetering on since he first sank into you. his rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically as he buries himself as deep as he can go, cock pulsing hot and thick inside you.

“gonna come, fuck, take it, take all of it!” he groans, long and filthy, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he empties himself in heavy, endless spurts, filling you up exactly like he promised. you can feel every throb, every hot jet painting your walls, and it drags your orgasm out longer, makes you whimper pathetically as he grinds deep, riding it out with these sloppy, desperate thrusts that smear his cum and yours together.

he collapses over you finally, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon, his weight heavy and comforting, cock still twitching inside you as the aftershocks ripple through you both. “holy… shit…” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and wrecked, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your sweaty skin. “you just… drained me. i’m dead. deceased. write ‘death by perfect pussy’ on my tombstone.”

you laugh, weak and shaky, clenching around him just to hear him hiss and feel him jerk inside you. “you’re* the one who wouldn’t stop,” you mumble, turning your head to nuzzle at his cheek, the necklace cool against your flushed chest now. “i told you i was sensitive, you animal.”

“sensitive?” he echoes, grinning against your shoulder, nipping the skin there before soothing it with his tongue. “baby, you came twice in ten minutes—i’m calling that a talent. an olympic sport. gold medal in cock destruction.” he shifts a little, still buried inside you, and you both groan softly at the movement, oversensitive and raw. “fuck, i’m gonna be leaking out of you for days. gonna feel me every time you sit down, every time you walk to class—gonna think about how full i kept you and get all needy again, huh?”

you whine, reaching back to smack weakly at his thigh. “shut up, toru—i’m literally dying.”

“dying happy,” he corrects, all soft and smug, finally pulling out slow and careful, making you both shudder at the drag and the sudden emptiness. he watches with way too much fascination as his cum immediately starts dripping out of you, thick and white, sliding down your thighs in slow rivulets. “fuck, that’s hot. look at that—my favorite creampie. should take a picture. commemorative.”

“don’t you dare,” you mumble, but there’s no heat in it, just fond exhaustion as you collapse fully onto the bed, limbs jelly, heart racing. he flops down beside you immediately, tugging you into his arms like you’re his personal body pillow, legs tangling with yours, face buried in your neck where the necklace rests against his cheek.

“never,” he promises, voice muffled against your skin, pressing a soft kiss right over the little pink heart. “this view’s all mine anyway.” his arms tighten around you, possessive and tender all at once, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “missed you so fucking much. don’t let me leave again, okay? chain me to the bed. or to your pussy. i’m flexible.”

you laugh into his chest, fingers sliding up to play with the damp hair at his nape. “deal. but you’re cleaning the sheets tomorrow, you menace.”

“worth it,” he murmurs, nuzzling closer, voice going soft and sleepy. “so fucking worth it.”

you’re melted against him like warm wax, the kind that’s been poured and left to set in the shape of his body—naked skin on naked skin, the thin sheet barely covering your hip because neither of you can be bothered to pull it higher. his shirt is long gone, flung somewhere near the door with the dramatic flair of a man who declared it “too restrictive for post-nut clarity,” and your tank top followed shortly after, peeled off between lazy kisses and his whining about how it was “blocking the view of his favorite necklace.” the room is quiet except for the soft whir of the fan and the occasional creak of the bed when one of you shifts, fairy lights still glowing like a cheesy rom-com filter over your tangled limbs. your cheek is pressed to his chest, ear over the steady thump-thump of his heart, one of his arms slung heavy around your waist while the other traces random shapes on your bare back. your eyes are closed, body humming with that deep, syrupy exhaustion that only comes after he’s fucked you absolutely senseless.

then he opens his mouth and ruins the peace, because of course he does.

“you ever think,” he murmurs, voice low and sleepy-rough, “that maybe we’re soulmates? like, in every universe i’m out there annoying the shit out of you and you’re putting up with me anyway? because i refuse to believe anyone else would let me live after the things i just did to your pussy.”

you snort so hard it shakes both of you, eyes cracking open to squint up at him. “soulmates? really? that’s the line you’re going with after folding me like a lawn chair and coming inside me twice?”

he grins down at you, all soft and dopey, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and leans in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead—gentle, reverent, the kind of kiss that doesn’t belong on the same mouth that was just saying the filthiest shit imaginable ten minutes ago. “what can i say,” he whispers against your skin, “i’m a romantic.”

and there it is again—that memory slamming into you like a truck. his voice raw and desperate in the middle of everything, gasping love you, love you so fucking much like it was ripped out of him, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore. he’s never said it before. not in the almost two years you’ve known him—first as the annoying white-haired idiot in your intro psych class who kept stealing your pens and drawing dicks on your notes, then as your actual friend who dragged you into every dumb adventure imaginable, then as the friend you started hooking up with because the tension was unbearable and the sex was insane.

it started innocent enough—late-night study sessions turning into late-night makeouts, one drunk confession that you both wanted more but were too scared to ruin the friendship, so friends-with-benefits it was. safe. casual. except it stopped feeling casual for you months ago, and you’ve been starving for the real thing ever since, hoarding every soft look and lingering touch like a dragon with gold, too terrified to ask for more.

but he said it. love you. and now he’s kissing your forehead like you’re precious and you’re spiraling.

you swallow, heart suddenly racing again. “toru,” you start, voice small, lifting your head to look at him properly.

“hm?” he hums, thumb brushing your cheek, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear with that gentle focus he saves just for you.

“earlier,” you say, hesitating, fingers fidgeting against his chest where the necklace rests warm against your skin. “when you said… you know. that you love me. what did you mean?”

he blinks, eyebrows shooting up like you just asked if the sky is blue. “what do i mean?” he echoes, tilting his head, fingers still stroking your hair. “baby, i meant i love you. like, duh.”

you stare at him for a second, brain buffering. “but… you’ve never said that before. we’re—we’re just—” you gesture vaguely between your naked bodies, “—this. fucking. hanging out. eating bad ramen at 3 a.m. you don’t… you don’t do the love thing, toru. is it because you missed me? or were you just… overheating at the moment?”

he laughs softly, but it’s not mocking—it’s warm, a little sheepish, and he shifts to prop himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly, the sheet slipping down to his waist. “overheating? princess, my dick was literally inside you, everything was overheating. but no, that’s not why.” he pauses, biting his lip like he’s trying to figure out how to say it without sounding like a total sap, then sighs.

“look, yeah, i jerked off to your nudes every single day i was gone—don’t look at me like that, you sent them, you knew what you were doing—but it wasn’t just that. i missed you. the whole annoying, perfect package. missed stealing your hoodies and watching you pretend you’re mad about it. missed dragging you to vending machine runs at midnight. missed hugging you when you’re stressed about exams, kissing you when you’re not expecting it, falling asleep with you snoring on my chest like a tiny chainsaw.”

“i do not snore,” you mutter, but it’s weak because your heart is doing cartwheels.

“you do, it’s cute,” he says immediately, grinning, then sobers a little. “point is… i suggested friends-with-benefits in the first place because i was already stupidly in love with you and too much of a coward to say it straight. thought if i could just… be close to you, even if it was just sex at first, maybe you’d catch feelings too. or i’d eventually man up and tell you. turns out getting you off three times is what finally did it.”

you’re staring at him, mouth slightly open, because what the fuck. gojo satoru—campus legend, walking wet dream, rich pretty boy who plays guitar like it’s nothing and has half the school drooling over him, the guy whose dick is apparently a religious experience according to every girl he’s ever slept with (rumors you tried very hard not to hear)—has been in love with you this whole time? the guy who could snap his fingers and have anyone, who’s smart and athletic and funny and tall and built like a god and fucks like one too, has been pining like a lovesick idiot?

“you’re serious,” you whisper, searching his face for any hint of a joke. “you… love me. like actually love me. not just because i let you rail me into the mattress.”

he snorts, but his ears are pink, and he reaches up to flick your forehead gently. “yes, dummy. i love you. have for ages. you’re my favorite person to annoy, to kiss, to fuck, to just… be around. i meant it earlier. mean it now. not just because your pussy is a national treasure—though it is, five stars, highly recommend—but because it’s you.”

you swallow hard, the necklace suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, the little pink heart warms against your skin. “you really mean it?”

he softens completely, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “i really mean it,” he says, voice low and serious, eyes locked on yours. “love you. for real. no take-backs. no overheating. just you.”

you surge forward and kiss him—hard, desperate, pouring every unspoken thing into it, and he kisses you back like he’s been waiting his whole life, arms wrapping tight around you, pulling you on top of him like he never wants to let go.

when you finally pull apart, breathless and grinning like idiots, he rests his forehead against yours. “so… girlfriend?” he asks, voice teasing but hopeful, fingers tracing the chain around your neck. “or do i have to beg? i’ll beg. i’ll get on my knees again. third time’s the charm.”

you laugh, watery and happy, and kiss him once more, soft and sweet. “yeah, toru. girlfriend.”

he whoops loud enough to wake the whole dorm, rolling you both over so he’s on top, peppering your face with kisses. “fuck yes. best day ever. now cuddle me before i combust from feelings. too many. system overload.”

Even with your highest heels on, the pink-haired leader of Curses Epsilon (Curses ε, the most sought-after fraternity on campus) seemed to loom above you. Crimson eyes narrowed. Smile predatory. Signature black t-shirt tight.

He always had caught your eye, you had to admit.

C’mon, it was impossible for him not to: a few heads taller than most of the student body, more sculptured, more attractive. You’d heard a rumor that he did modelling down in Shibuya sometimes and you didn’t doubt it. He walked around this very university like he owned it. He probably did.

Sukuna pushes back his cotton-candy locks, and you’re seeing the roots of reddish brown where his undercut was.

The shade was so at odds with the utterly devilish look those tattoos gave him. Even now you could see the ink peaking out at his wrists, his collarbones, his nose bridge. They snaked all over his body. Sensual. And when he slowly dips his head down to kiss the underside of your jaw, you start to wonder just how far those patterns went…

“Oh.” You gasp, grabbing onto his well-built shoulders.

They flex through his thin t-shirt when he’s leaning even closer, and you’re suddenly remembering that he was here on a scholarship for wrestling. The infamous leader of his weight class on your university team. The King of the Court. At least that explained his irresistible build - you wonder whether he was a semi heavyweight? A heavyweight? Did they even have those?

You couldn’t think.

You’re tipping your neck further to the side, and from the edges of your peripheral vision you see the way that Sukuna raises one pink brow- before draaaaagging a line of soft kisses down the side of your throat. Filthy. Fleeting. 

You’ve seen that look on him before - it’s the one he’d shoot at admirers that dared to stare too long. That sort of ‘if you want it come and get it’ look. That sort of challenge. Prowling through campus corridors that seemed to shrink whenever his figure waded through, sports bag slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from his shower, you could expect the sports superstar to throw at least ten at a time. 

Though you couldn’t really blame them! You suspected that about half the student body - and perhaps even some professors - held a burning fire for Ryomen Sukuna, and the other half simply wouldn’t admit to it.

And just as long as his list of admirers was his roster.

Or so the whispers claimed…‘His latest catch is actually the mother of-’ ‘They say he has five girls at once and they know about it but stay-’ ‘He swings both ways so what I’d give for a chance-’ ‘His longest relationship was two days and that’s because they begged him-’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’

Stay away.

You didn’t have to be told that to know. 

It was an unspoken rule on campus, the lay of the land.

Quite the dichotomy, wasn’t it? Stay away from Ryomen Sukuna, unless he’s the one that approaches you first and then it’ll be like your wildest fever dream, your wettest, and when he finally leaves- well, weren’t you told to stay away?

That’s the way things were. And all any heartbroken ex-companion would get is a few soothing words by the very same people who would turn around and make an example out of you.

‘Didn’t you see what happened to so and so…? Stay away.’

He was like a guilty pleasure that most people knew better of, knew would become an addiction. However, still indulged in anyway.

And so here you were. Cooped up in some dimly-lit frat party, cramped until every breath felt like it was singed with the copious amounts of alcohol around you, surrounded by booming beats and bellowing boys. In nothing but the most sinful dress you’d stowed away for a night just like this. Though you had to give yourself some credit- you didn’t wear this just for Sukuna, that’d only happened to be a happy accident!

In fact, you hadn’t even been expecting to meet him here.

Sure, it was the fraternity that he was the leader of, but Sukuna was always quite the…busy man. To put it lightly.

No—when your friends had urged you into this very party, you’d worn it with the thought of another man in mind. None other than your two-timing, two-toned, two-inched ex Zenin Naoya.

Your relationship was never meant for a happy marriage with two kids and a house that had a picket fence, but the straw that surely broke the camel’s back was about a week ago when you’d sneakily scrolled through his social media likes. And say whatever you want about privacy, but the multiple other girls he was entertaining and the deplorable podcasts about women he’d been secretly listening to let you say whatever you wanted.

And your first words to Naoya afterwards had been that you wanted to break up. Your second had been cussing him out.

Which was why, when Utahime had told you that he’d be attending (likely to try and pick up another poor girl), you’d immediately rifled through your closet for this skimpy dress you knew he’d hate. And still jerk off to later.

Speaking of…how ironic was it that you’d run from one red flag and straight into the arms of another.

The thought mulls lazily in your brain, before it’s quickly overtaken by the feeling of Sukuna resting his hands just over the small of your back. Something stirs carnally at the pit of your stomach, and you don’t think you’ve felt this way for a long time - not even when you were still with your ex. 

“Prove it.” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

He stops, raising those brows of his again.

And you don’t hesitate a single second before looping both arms around Sukuna’s neck and bringing him closer to you. And the hulking man lets you manhandle him as you please, lets your lips whisper just a breath’s distance away from his. In the distance you think you can hear a few gasps, feel a few stares. “Prove that I want you. Badly.”

And Ryomen Sukuna’s realizing that he didn’t need the alcohol, not really.

Not when he was already drunk on you.

His lips are on yours before you can say anything else.

Your first time meeting Ryomen Sukuna ended up with you pushed into the bedroom at his frat house and holding onto the headboard so that it won’t break against the wall. Bang-bang-bang. He’d lifted your trembling hands off of them, eventually, and placed them between your legs to roll over your clit. You don’t think he cared for a single sultry moment if any of his frat brothers happened to hear.

In fact, with the way that he’d been plunging his massive girth between your legs (the rumors really hadn’t exaggerated!) you’d almost wondered if he wanted them to hear. You wouldn’t be surprised.

Sukuna fucked hard, fast.

He made you stupid on his cock and chased his high like an absolute madman- though, that’s not to say he was a selfish lover. No—perhaps for his own ego, you were made to cum at least thrice on his fat, throbbing length.

And after the deed was done he’d rolled over to the side of the bed and tugged off the sticky condom. Discarding of it into the nearby trashcan, Sukuna rifled through his bedside cabinet for some wet wipes. 

Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t the type of after-sex cuddles and aftercare, you’d come to learn. As he’d handed them over to you gruffly, and flicked at his lighter to burn up a cigarette.

Taking a deeeep drag of it, he turns towards you and brings his lips so close that you think he might just kiss you—only to puff out a smoky cloud in your face. “Inhale.” You do as he says, and let the fumes burn your throat. The side of his lips were quirking up in a smirk, “Mmm, good.” Sukuna gestures at his walk-in closet, one that you’d been eyeing for the sheer luxury of it when you’d first entered. “Might wanna find a t-shirt in there, your dress is a little…”

You looked at the sad heap of silky fabric on the carpet - torn now. “And whose fault is that?”

“Heh, just go get yourself a t-shirt, girlie.” Sukuna sits back on the headboard, and you’re appreciatively eyeing his half-naked figure. Prominent pecs. Ladder-like abs. Tattoos that stand out against his golden, tannish skin. He’d tugged on a pair of black boxers by now that did nothing to hide the happy trail of dark pink hair that you had your nose pressed up to minute ago. “Or don’t.” He looks at you with a sleazy smile- shit, he’d caught you staring. “I don’t mind.”

“S-sure ya don’t.” You’re managing out, tight.

And almost robotically, you manage to pull yourself onto your wobbly legs and take one step—Sukuna chuckles to himself as you stumble.

With a glare thrown over your shoulder, you walk into his closet. About as large as your entire dorm. Rows upon rows. Shelves upon shelves. Clothes upon designer clothes that made you wonder just how loaded a future professional wrestler is.

There were brands on his shelves that you couldn’t even recognize but knew were high-end simply from looking at their logo. Gawking, you flip past a few hangers - Versace, Burberry, Burberry, Gucci, Loro Piana, Dior, Dior, Dior, Dior-

Eventually, you simply give up to snatch the (hopefully) least expensive thing you could find: a wrestling hoodie with colorful logos on its front and ‘Sukuna’ emblazoned across the back. 

The fabric was oh-so-soft in your hands, made of pure cotton that tempted you to tug it on your body as soon as possible. Oh, you’re marveling at the way the ending hem of it reaches well past your torso, engulfing you like some sort of blanket. Experimentally, you’re pulling the hoodie flap over your head and giggling at the way it droops down all the way to your nose. Unable to help yourself, you tug the sleeves up to where your wrists were and press the pink fabric to your nose.

Strawberries.

What a smell for such a guy.

“Fuck-” You’re whispering into the fabric, slightly muffled. The rush you were feeling gets dampened down a bit as you remember where you are, “I’m getting way too ahead of myself.”

When you’re finally walking out of the closet, Sukuna was lounging on his king-sized bed and scrolling through his phone. You take a moment to admire him like this- his long limbs stretched across the mattress, hair still sex-ruffled, your nail marks prominent down his shoulders, hands hugging a pillow to his chest.

He looked as if he was carved by the heavens themselves. Though he fucked like the devil.

He’s flicking his eyes casually your way, eyebrows slightly raising as he takes in your attire. “Nice choice.” Sukuna hums, voice deep with sex. “Didn’t think ya had it in you.”

And then he’s patting the empty side of the bed once more.

More, his eyes said. He wants you even more.

You almost instinctively take a step forwards before-

“Actually-” You start, fighting to keep your words steady. You keep yourself rooted in front of his closet and fidget with your fingers. “Before we do anything more, I wanted to make some things clear.”

“Mn.” He’s turning his phone off with a slight sigh, placing his hand atop his head. 

Sukuna says nothing more, and you take it as a signal for you to continue. Taking a deep inhale, “I don’t really do this one-night stand thing often- not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Heartbeat quickening at the way his lazy smile grows, you don’t know why he made you feel the need to explain yourself. “But since we’re-”

“And who says we’re a one-night stand?”

Your heart does something funny with its tempo, “Wh-what?”

He tilts his head as if analyzing you, almost feline with his movement. Sukuna’s pinkish tongue darts out to wet his lips, still sweet with the taste of your pussy. “What if I want two nights? Three? Four? What’re you gonna do then, girlie?”

“Th-then-” You’re clenching your fists—fuck, it made it so hard when he was looking at you like that. “Then you’d have to get tested.”

And that…seems to make him pause.

“What?”

“Then you’d have to get tested, duh.” You’re crossing your arms in front of your chest - oh, it was quite amusing to watch the Ryomen Sukuna scramble for words. And you can’t help the spike of satisfaction, as he so-very-obviously didn’t expect that. “And we’d have to set boundaries. And share schedules. And you’d have to tell me if you meet up with another one of your ‘friends’ so that we can get tested again.”

“…”

“…”

Without warning, he bursts out laughing. “Thorough, aren’t ya?” 

He wipes away a tear of mirth from the right side of his face and- c’mon! You honestly didn’t think it was that funny! Sure, you hadn’t had any…arrangements like this before but you couldn’t have been too far off for the requirements?

“What are you-” But as you start to protest Sukuna only guffaws even louder.

“Alright, alright-” He’s raising up a hand as if to tell you to stop before his (well-toned) sides start to split. It’s only once you take a step back and huff n’ puff yourself into silence that the man finally starts to calm down. Looking down at his lap, “Damn- fuck, I’ve never had my boner killed so fast.”

“It’s just the requirements.” You’re grumbling.

“Girl, I might as well cut off all my ah- ‘friends’ as you so-nicely put it and marry you.” Quite dramatic, but alright. You notice that he doesn’t push back against your boundaries, however. Sukuna stares you down, eyes twinkling with something that you couldn’t quite discern. “And what exactly would you like to call our little relationship then?”

“Friends-with-benefits, what else?”

“Mm, I like it.”

“And nothing more- no marrying any time soon.” You shudder when you think of your last failed relationship.

Sukuna grins, “Keh- don’t have to worry about that.”

.

.

.

“Okay-” Utahime slams! all one-thousand pages of Shoko’s anatomy textbook down on the cafeteria table, rattling your trays and making the surrounding students glance at your trio. You’re watching as her glass of orange juice splashes precariously around the rim and inches one watery hand towards the pages of the book. “-spill.”

You’re startling at her sudden interrogation, “What?”

And to your horror, even Shoko puts aside her medical notes to pay full attention to the commotion between her friends. Both of them staring—squarely at you.

“You heard me.” Utahime crosses her arms, “Something’s up with you these days- and we want to know what.”

Shoko nods, sighing the way she did whenever she was assigned a particularly difficult medical case to discern. “Sudden glow about you- likely a mix of estrogen and dopamine boosts, slightly dazed look in your eyes, increased screen time, unconscious smiles, unexplained disappearances at odd times of night.” She taps her pen on her chin, “Science says you have a boyfriend.”

Utahime gasps, “And we haven’t heard about it?” Throwing an arm around a deadpan Shoko, who says nothing when the other girl shakes her to and fro. “We- we, your very best friends since freshman year, haven’t heard about him.”

“So who is it? I’m curious.” Shoko probes.

“Tell us or I cry-”

“It’s no one.” You’re finally managing a choke out, to which you’re met with the most dramatic groans from both your friends. This time, they’re loud enough to garner the attention of over half this section of the cafeteria- and in your peripheral vision, you swear you could feel the intensity of two crimson eyes…

Your eyes flick to the side - and there’s your first mistake.

Utahime gasps, kneeling on the bench to look over Shoko’s head. “He’s there-” Above your frantic pleas for her to just settle down, “Don’t lie, I saw your eyes move! He’s there I just know it-”

You grab onto her dress and start tugging, “Uta, for heaven’s sake just sit- down-”

“Hmmm, the only ones there are Professor Yaga- no. Todo- no. That PhD student, Higuruma- maybe.” As her options dwindle, she sweeps her eyes. “Ijichi- no, eugh. No offense, my dear, it’d just get so troubling to have to peg him all the time.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “U-Utahime, oh my god!” Even Shoko simply lets it happen in amusement.

Until finally, her eyes waft over the group of fraternity brothers that sat tall amongst the rest of the students. She wrinkles her nose at them, “One of the Curses Epsilon boys- no way, you’re smarter than that.”

They were such a boisterous bunch. Murmuring what were most likely innuendos with each other, clapping each other on the backs with guffaws. Almost handsomely stupid the way they kept looking to their pink-haired leader for approval. Occasionally, someone from a neighboring table would walk up to them in an attempt to talk to Sukuna - and the entire table would fall over themselves to erupt in wolf howls. 

You were almost thankful for the way Utahime had given you the excuse to stare right at him. The way he’d wave off whichever newcomer, the way he’d roll his eyes at his friends’ antics. You’re realizing that his group was mostly composed of athletes, evidenced by the team jerseys and the trays upon trays of food were wolfing down.

Sukuna, noticeably, wasn’t wearing his wrestling hoodie.

The thought makes something shift at the pit of your stomach.

“Oh my god, it’s one of them-” Utahime’s following your line of sight with something akin to horror, and even Shoko seems to be rapt with an attention that she didn’t ever have in her classes.

Both of them had easily let their eyes slip past the boys, it seems. And it’s only once they saw your lingering gaze, only once they saw that familiar smile across your face, that they’re realizing.

Widened eyes slipping back to the rambunctious table.

You snap your eyes to your purple-haired friend once you register her words, “N-no, wait-”

“You stuttered!” She squeals, and you don’t know whether it’s out of excitement at the gossip or sheer fear. She turns to Shoko, “She stuttered, right? I’m not dreaming? She stuttered?”

Shoko nods, “She stuttered.”

Utahime whirls back to face you, “You didn’t even stutter when you told off that asshole Naoya- thank you for that recording by the way, it was quite the pleasure to listen to.” Shaking her head as if to make herself get back on topic, “Either way, are you or are you not dating one of the Curses Epsilon boys?”

“I am…” You pause, “-not.”

They both groan at your response. Utahime even reaches over the table to shake you by the shoulders, “Tell us- I can- tell- when- you- lie-”

“No- no listen!” You’re defending yourself, swatting away her grabby hands. “I’m really not dating one of them, promise! It’s just…”

Shoko asks, “Just?”

You sigh, there was no getting out of this now. “Remember that party we went to at their house a few weeks ago?” Continuing as they nod, your heartbeat starts to accelerate as you realize you’re getting to the meat of the story. “Right- and remember how I disappeared halfway through the night and told you that Akari dragged me off somewhere?”

Utahime gasps, “I have connected the dots.”

Shoko frowns, “You haven’t connected shit.”

“I’ve connected them.” She replies, “I always assumed you ended up hooking up with someone that night and didn’t think much of it. Now you’re telling me that it was one of them-”

“Keep your voice down!” You plead, “But yes, it was…and the thing is that one night turned into two, two turned into three.” Your skin starts to heat up as you remember just last night when you’d snuck out to be let in through the back door of Curses Epsilon. To be pressed onto all fours and ruthlessly ploughed into- “But look, the point is that now we’re kinda…sorta…friends-with benefits.”

They gasp in unison.

Utahime’s all but standing on the bench once more, “Who is it-”

“Whose dick do I need to cut off.” And Shoko is, too.

You put your face into your hands with a groan as they start listing off names.

“No.”

“Choso?”

“No.”

“Larue?”

“No.”

“Kenjaku?”

“No.”

“It surely can’t be fucking Sukuna-” Both of them look at you, look at the impression on your face. And they turn to each other with serious expressions, “She’s fucking Sukuna.”

There was no use in telling them to keep their volumes down now - people turned their heads your way and started to whisper. You could only imagine what the rumor mill was conjuring up now. Hell, even Sukuna himself casually flicked his head your way in interest.

And you wished you could sink even deeper into your seat.

“Did you see that-” Utahime hisses.

“I saw.” Shoko replies.

And the purple-haired girl reaches over to clasp your hands, “He was giving you that look- oh my god. He looked like he was about to eat you up—” And you think that Utahime is perhaps the only one who’d look over and glare at Ryomen Sukuna the way she did just then, “You know what they say about him, right?”

“I’m well aware.” You breeze off, “It’s nothing serious- just no-strings-attached fun, promise. I could break it off at any time and not feel a thing, and I know the same goes for him.”

“Well, that’s good.” Shoko crosses her arms, “And you’re getting tested, right?” 

“Of course.”

Utahime scoffs, “Yeah but it’s not like he’s seeing you that often, right?” A pause. “Right?”

“Well…”

You’d been saved in that very instance by a bzzzz—! in your pocket: a text from the man of the conversation himself. And with a quick apology to your friends (you loved them, you really did, but you supposed that was enough interrogation for the day) and a glance at your calendar to make sure you didn’t have any more classes for the day—you were racing out of the cafeteria.

Followed suspiciously closely by a certain pink-haired wrestling superstar.

You didn’t quite care who saw what or thought what, because a few hours later found you back in your single dorm room.

Fucked stupid.

Sex still hung in the air.

You were sprawled out across your humble single bed, heaving as if you’d just ran a marathon. Head sinking into the pillows. Cunt all drooling with your splashin’ slick. Still reeling from the aftershocks of your multiple highs.

With Sukuna’s athletic stamina, however, he seemed to be barely affected. Taking a light drag of his cigarette (you’re sure the building had a no smoking policy…), he looks over your dorm room with faint interest. Much smaller than his but also much…cozier, you had to admit.

Lived in.

He takes in the polaroids of you and your friends, all the cutesy lights, the columns of books. Sukuna stares hard at one of the pictures above your headboard—it was one of you, Utahime, and Shoko after shotgunning a few beers. On the verge of throwing up.

“Cute- the dorm, I mean. S’nice.” He says, blowing out a streamline of smoke at the photograph. “This purple-haired one s’the one that was screamin’ about us in the cafeteria today?”

“You heard that?” You exclaim.

“Girl, the entire cafeteria and Gakuganji’s senile ass heard y’all.” He rolls his eyes with a grin, “Dunno whether you’re louder then or…” Such a devilish, devilish grin. “-here.”

“Shut up.”

“You certainly didn’t-”

“They threatened to cut off your balls if you broke my heart, y’know.” You don’t quite know why you’re telling him - Sukuna was probably used to the threats of his love interests by this point. You’re turning to your side and facing him, trying not to shiver at the way his eyes glide appreciatively down your exposed body. “Not that there’s gonna be anything at stake to break.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

“And what if?” He asks you, to which you only look at him in confusion. Sukuna takes his sweet time puffin’ on his cigarette once more before satiating your curiosity, “What if I break your heart?”

You think about it for a little bit, “I won’t cut off your balls.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll cut off your entire dick and feed it to you myself.”

The cigarette falls from his hands and onto your carpeted floor- which Sukuna hastens to put out with an uncharacteristic yelp. You guessed wrestling scholarships didn’t cover burnt-down dorm rooms, and you have to stifle a giggle at his actions.

“You-” He pants out, finally looking up after picking the scorched nub between his fingers and throwing it into your trashcan. Almost glaring those rosy eyes down at you, “You think you’re soooo funny, huh, mama?”

You chuckle, “I do.”

“Well, yer lucky you’re cute.” He grumbles to himself, at least- you think that’s what he grumbles to himself. Because the moment you’re looking at Sukuna in slight surprise, he turns his head.

You see nothing but the sharp edge of his jawline, those high cheekbones, the tips of his ears that were flushed with…the sex? Surely? Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, Sukuna brings a hand up to cover them under the pretense of scratching his sweaty undercut. “Never met anyone with this much fuckin’ audacity.”

You yelp, “H-hey!”

“Hey yerself.” And then he’s heaving himself up and digging underneath your own fucking bed as if it was his. How strange, this familiarity. The two of you had only known each other for a few weeks (though you had to admit you had spent considerable hours together) and here Sukuna was rifling through your room like nothing - you just wasn’t sure whether that was a him thing or…He’s finally pulling out—

“That- that’s my rose toy?!”

“Yeah, let’s give ‘er a spin.”

.

.

.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Itadori Jin’s voice echoed out from the other line, almost reaching a fever pitch in defensiveness. 

Sukuna rolls his blush-red eyes, he’d been standing outside this godforsaken café on a call with his brother for what felt like hours now. With you inside and waiting. All warm. All…fucked-out—anyway! The point was that you were inside all comfortable, and he was a hulking figure looming outside some frilly café grumbling profanities underneath his breath. 

In his defense, it was after one of your ‘hangouts’, alright! 

It was just another day with you. After he’d pumped deep into your lungs, Sukuna just-so-happened to hear your stomach rumble in hunger. And he was the one to have suggested taking a stroll down to the lil’ café down the block. It was packed with college students, and he didn’t really care who saw - besides, bearing through the gaudy interior theme and re-play of music certainly not his taste was almost bearable for the pleasant surprise in your ears.

And the refueling, of course. The main reason he was taking you here was because (surprise, surprise!) a house full of college men didn’t quite have the nutrition needed to last a few more rounds. And Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t done with you just yet.

He just didn’t expect to have been assaulted by a phone call from his older brother the very second he’d taken a step inside. And Sukuna had told you to find a seat for the two of you, deciding to take the call outside. He knew his brother wouldn’t give up if he declined the call.

They always were alike, Sukuna and Jin.

Sure, maybe not in personality - Jin was always a bit of a goody-two-shoes, though he could hold his own in a fight. Sukuna was the one everyone said they had to watch out for.

The one that didn’t get invited to birthday parties by fearful parents, the one picked last during team sports because they said he’d start a brawl, the one visited only by his brother and his father the first time he’d ended up in the ER after a fight, the one who only had those two to cheer at his wrestling matches. Only ever those two.

Whatever. 

Same rosy hair.

Same features (for the most part, at least. Sukuna’s constant trips to the gym and the ER had resulted in him having a rather more rugged look than his twin).

Same stubbornness.

They’d ended up going to different universities, with Jin attaining a scholarship for marine biology a few hours away. Which meant that family functions weren’t quite as frequent as they used to be, but he could still hear it in the man’s voice - that stubbornness.

It made the younger of the two brothers feel the heat creeping up on the back of his neck, slightly squirming as Jin admonished him—“I’m just saying that you sound happier than usual-”

“Jin.”

“And that’s a good thing!” He could practically envision the bespectacled man throwing his hands in the air, trying to hold back his smile. “Hell- Ryo, it’s a wonderful thing! You finally have someone making you happy! You’ve finally met someone special! You finally have someone in your life-”

“I don’t have trouble getting around.” He grumbles, and—well. Ryomen Sukuna isn’t quite the type to explain himself, but with his brother…

“Ryo.”

“Alright, alright!” Sukuna bursts out, and a mother nearby grabs her child by the hand and speedwalks away. “Alright, I haven’t met up with anyone else! I’ve cut off all of my ah- friends, for lack of a better word.” He could hear the smug hum of his brother, “But that’s not because it’s special or anything, it’s just because…”

Jin urges, “Go on…?”

“Because s’just convenient, alright?” He’s finally answering, “S’too much of a hassle to get fuckin’ tested after each one, so I might as well only have her in my life- ah wait, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“I knew it.” Comes the squeal, “Listen, Ryo, I just don’t want your stubbornness to get in the way of something special-”

“And I don’t want to hear yer voice- goodbye, old man.”

The ringing tone to denote that the call has ended is much more soothing than his brother’s voice, he decides. And he takes a few deep breaths before tucking his phone back in his pocket- turning it on silent mode.

He turns around to step inside and—there you are.

Dressed in that hoodie of his that he’d forgotten to take back from you. The air of someone that’d just been properly fucked. Through the glass, he sees you staring at the other people outside. He strays his gaze himself to see what you see- you’re chuckling at that little boy who skips along the pavement, you gasp at the delivery driver with a stack of boxes who almost trips, you coo at the elderly couple walking their dog. Hand-in-hand.

Sukuna looks down at his own empty hands.

Scarred and calloused. 

Before he’s reaching his dominant one upwards and pushing open the swinging café doors. You look up from the booth you’d chosen for yourselves as he enters, waving him in the right direction. It was one by the window, he notices, though in the very corner of the place as if you’d wanted to hide yourself away.

Perhaps hide the two of you away.

Hm…Sukuna thinks, rubbing at his chest. And thrusting both hands into his pockets, he’s sauntering right up to you.

He’s not blind to the stares he garners from some of the other customers, and though any other time he might have thrown a stray wink or two - and honestly, nothing was stopping him now - he simply sides into the seat opposite you. “Sorry ‘bout that, mama- emergency calls.”

“Emergency?” You raise your brows in amusement, peering at the man opposite you as if you were analyzing every inch of him. And he almost couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago, you’d been shaking and whining underneath him. “I don’t know anyone named ‘Emergency’ at our school.”

“Goes to another school.” He quips, knees bumping against yours as he stretches them out underneath the table. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, girlie~”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

In almost no time, the waitress is bounding up to your table and jotting down your orders. He orders his coffee black, no sugar—and you roll your eyes at him. 

The older woman then coos down at the little interaction, “Oh, you know we’ve got a special offer just this week in honor of our upcoming fifth anniversary? 100% off on all desserts for couples!” Her eyes wrinkle beautifully at the edges, “Would you two perhaps be…”

You open your mouth, “Oh, we’re actually-”

“Completely in love.” Sukuna interrupts you casually, his large hand settling over yours on top of the table. “Maddeningly. We’ll take one of everything for the lady and a strawberry shortcake for me, thanks.”

“Oho, you two.” She chuckles, walking off. “Ah, young love~”

You watch as she leaves—and snap your head towards Sukuna so fast that you think you may have gotten whiplash. “You-”

“It’s for the offer, don’t overthink it.” He lets go of your hand and crosses his arms. You almost miss the heat of it - was the air conditioning in this place too high? You’re sinking your hands into the sleeves of your- his hoodie, and Sukuna’s slouching in his seat. “Take it home- all the desserts, share it with your friend or whatever. It’s for you, anyway.”

“Right.” You’re not quite sure what to say- “Thank you?”

It’s a rather long and awkward silence that follows.

You attempt to break it by grasping for some shred of conversation, “So ah- is everything alright?”

He raises a pink brow in question.

And you don’t know how he manages to do it - how he manages to make your veins bubble and bolt inside of you with just a single look. “The ah- the call, I mean.” You’re squirming in your seat at his half-lidded gaze, so intense. He always looked at you with this certain fire, whether in bed or…here. “You were just out there for so long, I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”

He rests his chin on one hand and tilts his head, “Not worried about me, are you? If it was anything serious?”

“And if I was?”

“You shouldn’t.”

To which you furrow your brows in confusion, “What do you mean? Of course I’d care if something bad happened to you.”

Sukuna only holds your gaze, his expression unreadable.

He reaches a hand down his chest - right over his heart - and lightly rubs that spot. Finally looking away from you, the frat leader answers. “No- no, it’s nothing serious. Just a…friend.”

“I see.” You still.

“You said I could still have ‘friends’, right?” He asks, a note in his voice that was imperceptible. Sukuna looks at you with a meaning that you didn’t fully understand, and you’re realizing that the two of you had been leaning over the table for quite some time. “Or has that changed?”

It seems like an age before you break his eye contact, “Nothing has changed.”

Sukuna leans back in his seat, “I see.” There’s silence between you both once he reaches into his pocket and starts scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone. “Then yeah- it was a friend that called. I’ll get tested afterwards though, don’t you worry that pretty head of yours over it.”

“Good.”

A few more minutes of silence.

He can’t bear it. “Lemme eat you out in the bathroom as an appetizer before our food?”

“Be quick.”

.

.

.

“Truth or dare! Truth or dare! Truth or dare!” Utahime chants, jovial words slurring into a nearly-incomprehensible mess as she claps her hands. Messily, she’s pulling you and a few others into a haphazard circle on her bedroom floor.

All cooped up in a room that was decidedly not designed to hold this many people. The air dimmed with LED lights and cheap alcohol. Bass thumping throughout the bones of her apartment - it was a small get-together that’d turned into a large get-together that’d turned into friends of friends of friends both invited and uninvited 

You swear you’d seen a few graduates sneak themselves onto the living-room-turned-dance-floor before you were being pulled into her room by your inebriated friend. One who, as the host, was deciding what the game of the night would be. “Truth or dare!” 

Pronouncing, more like.

Shoko rolls her eyes, “Your ability to turn into a twelve-year-old when you’re drunk both fascinates and abhors me.”

“Jokes on you I don’t know what that word means.” Utahime sticks her tongue out, to which most of the group giggles. 

“But seriously- are we twelve?”

“Fine…” Utahime grumbles, and clicks her fingers as if happening across a sudden epiphany. “Dare or drink, then!” She’s peering towards Shoko with a smug smirk, “How’s that for all adult and mature, hm?”

“That’s almost worse.”

You’re taking the opportunity to sweep a look at the (likely) players: some more of your friends, Ijichi, Haibara, Higuruma from the PhD students, a few sweet sorority girls, some strangers, one Curses Epsilon member-

Your eyes widen as you take in the long-haired man—Choso, you believe his name was.

He catches you staring and smiles at you shyly, an expression that you hope you’re returning without it looking too much like a shocked grimace. 

You’d seen this very man around Sukuna sometimes, and he seemed to be one of the quieter amongst the bunch. Below Sukuna in terms of rank, certainly, they seemed to have an almost brotherly relationship that stood out to you when you looked at the group. And, listen! It’s not that you didn’t realize a member of his fraternity could attend parties - in fact, Curses Epsilon was synonymous with parties. 

So you should have expected this. So you should have been prepared for this.

But the fact that he was here…a part of you couldn’t help but wonder whether that meant Sukuna was here, too…

What that meant he was doing…

Who…

You’re startled out of your little reverie by a call of your name- and to your horror, you’re realizing that you’d been staring right at Choso. The man was squirming before you, his ears tinged just the slightest rosy shade.

Heart thundering at your throat, you look away and turn back to Utahime. Slightly breathless, “Wh-what?”

“You’re up first!” 

She’s pointing down at the carpeted floor, which had a glinting vodka bottle in the middle that’d been spun, it seems. Its transparent circular nozzle stares you down in an almost-accusing way and makes you shift uncomfortably—you didn’t even know that they’d begun spinning bottles yet. And whoever was to fall victim to the end of its vermicular spine was the first up for their dares.

And it just-so-happened to be you. 

You gape, “I-I…”

“C’mon, c’mon! You can’t back out now-” Utahime taps her chin and pretends to think, “I dare you to—”

“Fucking hell…” You already know that this wasn’t going to end up well for you.

And just as you expected, her eyes slide over to meet another pair of eyes—dark, doe-like eyes that had been fixated on you ever since you’d been fixated on them. Subconsciously or not. She smiles as she drinks in the sheer intensity that Choso had been staring at you with, “I dare you to make out with the person sitting opposite you for ten seconds.”

Your brows furrow, “Sitting opposite…” Eyes lifting up to meet—his. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Choso’s pink lips part, the tips of his ears furiously red.

And there’s a few seconds of silence- between you two, but not the drunken students that surround you two. They erupt into cheers and wolf whistles, ribbing at a quiet Choso Kamo to get on with it. 

As you stare, stunned, he peeks up at you through his long lashes. “W-would you mind?” His quiet voice was almost inaudible.

“I…don’t.” You find yourself answering, mouth moving faster than your brain can compute. 

And before you know it, you’re rising to your feet and making your way to the middle of the circle. Those dark eyes widen as you draw nearer- so different from the red ones that you were used to.

Something in your stomach clenches, and you feel a strange buzz zing! throughout your entire body. You’re not sure whether you like it or not.

Choso himself starts to get closer to you, and your pulse quickens at his closing proximity. His eyes turn half-lidded as they flick to your lips and back up to your face, like he was making sure that you were okay with this. Tentative. Almost…shy. You’re admiring the tousled look of his hair, that tremble of his lips, and the way his eyeliner makes him look so soft. 

You wanted to run. You wanted to kiss someone. You wanted to run. “I- I really don’t.”

Choso kisses you.

For a beat. Two.

One of his ringed hands snake upwards to grip the column of your throat, and you’re parting your lips with a moan! Fuck, you were getting wet. Just in time for him to slip in his tongue and-

CRASH! THUD!

You’re wincing at the rush of light that assaults your retinas, and as you slowly blink back your vision- you realize that there were tears in them. Because of what, you’re not too sure. But you chalk it up to the harshness of the light as your eyesight clears back up.

And then you’re seeing—oh, it couldn’t have been a figment of your imagination.

You’d never mistake that cotton-candy hair anywhere.

Sukuna was on Choso, with the other man sprawled out on the ground and the rugged wrestler on top of him. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. A vein throbbing at his neck. His entire body was rigid and honed for a fight that he knew he was going to win. He had one tattooed hand gripping the front of Choso’s shirt, and the other pulled back mid-punch.

A punch that he was frozen in.

A punch that clearly hadn’t landed yet.

From what you’re surmising of the situation, Sukuna had pulled the other man off of you by his collar. From what you’re surmising of the situation, he was all but about to attack the other man just because he was kissing—

“Ryo.” You’re starting, a hand reaching out as if to stop the fight yourself. 

Any and all floatiness from the liquor had now completely dissipated from your body, and you were only left coiling in thick, unyielding tension. Surprisingly, your voice doesn’t waver. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid or god help me-”

Almost as if jolted to life by the sound of your voice, Sukuna lets go of Choso in a single, jerky movement.

Though he doesn’t speak - and you’re almost thankful for it, you don’t know what you’d say to him. Instead you’re breaking out of your little trance and pushing aside Sukuna—yes, pushing him to the side so that you can get to Choso.

Stunned, he lets you move him.

He always has.

With both hands gently placed upon either side of Choso’s handsome face, you’re inspecting him for any injuries. He flushes slightly at your touch. And - tactfully - no one nearby says a single word about it. “I’m- I’m alright.” Choso says, his tone slightly hoarse.

But you don’t give up until you’re completely and utterly sure that he’s okay. “Hm, well alright.” Finally letting up, you start to move yourself- and only then do you realize that you’d been straddling Choso’s hips. Hurrying to scramble off, “O-on behalf of him, I apologize.”

You’re lightly bowing and he stops you with a hand at your shoulder- only to glance at Sukuna and let you go as if you burned. “No, no! It’s my fault for not knowing-”

“Don’t worry.” You spare a glance at Sukuna, who had his eyes downcast and his expression revealing nothing. “There’s nothing to know.”

And that…that makes the Ryomen Sukuna flinch—

As if he’d just been stabbed.

As if the temperature in the room had dropped to freezing.

As if you’d plunged your hand right through his ribcage and torn out his heart.

But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at his point. “Again- I’m so sorry.” Turning back to Choso, who’d been watching the exchange with side eyes - right along with half of the party that’d turned up from the living room now at the whispers of a commotion here. Especially one with the wrestling star—and over a girl at that! “And about that ah…” You gesture at his hips…the ones you’d been straddling.

Choso blushes even deeper, waving his hands in front of him frantically. “No- no, I didn’t mind! I mean- I mean, it’s alright and you don’t need to apologize! But you didn’t need to apologize anyway because I didn’t-”

“Man.” Shoko rests a hand on his shoulder, “Stop talking.”

He immediately clicks his jaw shut.

The next thing you’re doing, you don’t even know if you even fully thought it through. Because one second you’re standing up—and the next you’ve got your hand wrapped around Sukuna’s waist—and the next you’re dragging him through the packed party—

Through the crowd that turns their head to look at your unlikely duo, that turns their head to watch the gruff leader of the wrestling team be led out as if he was a naughty child.

Sukuna lets you take a few steps out of the apartment’s front door, before he’s halting in his tracks and gripping onto your waist instead. Not hard enough that it hurts, not gentle enough for you to be diverted anywhere but his one-track destination to…well, you weren’t quite sure.

“Ryo- I mean, Sukuna—” You squeal as your heels click-clack! down the stairs. You don’t pull yourself free from him, because you know he would let you. “Sukuna, I demand to know where we’re going-”

“There’s nothing to know.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s the last thing he says. The only.

And you can only follow as Sukuna draaaags you out into the night-lit street, cars lining the pavements like the straps of lingerie on a faceless body. An outstretched. A ready. 

You’re recognizing the gleaming black body of his new Audi in an instant - you would anywhere, to be honest. It took up about half the street. Imposing, just like him. It always did make your heart skip a beat to see it parked outside whatever rager you were attending for the night. Just as soon as you’re registering the car, you’re having your back pushed up against it-

“What are you-” You gasp out, before his lips are on yours.

Furious. Feral. Fighting to open them roughly with his own mouth, he’s taking a single look at your prettily parted lips and spiiiiitting straight onto your tongue- before stuffin’ it with his own tastebuds, just in the way that Choso was about to mere minutes early.

You muffle out, “M-mmpf- Sukuna!”

“Ryo.” He rasps, blindly unlocking the door and pushing you into the spacious backseat. “You know m’always your Ryo.”

That night he fucks you harder, faster than any time before.

As if he was claiming every inch of you.

And you don’t end up going home for the night—no, you end up at Sukuna’s instead. And if he made you moan his name even louder than usual, well, it’s only in the morning that you realize that Choso’s bedroom was right next door.

.

.

.

Ryomen Sukuna had flowers—

An entire bouquet of red roses that he’s sure the florist ripped him off for - surely something grown out of the dirt couldn’t be that expensive?! But he did have to admit that it looked wonderful taking up more than half of his backseat—the very same backseat he’d fucked you senseless in not too many nights ago.

The two of you hadn’t seen each other properly since Utahime’s party.

What with his wrestling practices for the upcoming tournaments, and your finals rounding the corner. It’s honestly by sheer miracle that Coach Kashimo had cancelled today’s training for some reason or the other (he honestly didn’t look too closely, merely glancing at the email before driving to the nearest florist whilst texting you to ask whether you were free). And, well, here he was…

So fucking pathetic in his excitement to meet you that he’d forgotten the damned flowers in his car!

Sukuna hopes that they weren’t wilted as he struggles to put on his ripped jeans, discarded on your bedroom floor right along with the rest of his clothes. He’s looking around frantically for his t-shirt, when you glance over at him from the bed.

And he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt in your eyes.

“Leaving so soon, Ryo?”

“Uh huh.” He’s absent-mindedly responding—where the fuck where his socks? Did he even need socks just to go down to his car-

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, “Another appointment?” Another person, is what you really wanted to ask, but…

“Something important that I forgot.” Sukuna replies, looking underneath your bed and ah- there they were. He feels you sitting up on the bed, blanket clutched to your naked chest, as he sits on the mattress with his back turned and finishes dressing up. “Fuckin’ hell, can’t believe I even came up here forgetting-”

“Right.” Your tone was clipped.

“Should’ve gone down the second I remembered but-”

“Should have.”

“Because it’s mad urgent-”

“More than me.”

“I just got a little distracted, y’know?” The pink-haired man glances over his shoulder with a teasing smirk, slightly frowning at the way you turn your head away from him. Hm…he attempts to lighten the mood, “S’all your fault, girlie~”

“Sukuna.”

And that makes him slightly wither in on himself. That tone. That name. Trying to get a good look at your face, he leans towards you. “What’s wrong…?”

“I think we should end this.”

Everything.

Everything was wrong.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t fight your decision, Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t try to get you to explain. He lets your words sink into his being like a pebble cast out in the vast and unceasing Blue—and he lets them fester within him just as mysteriously.

He’s walking out of your dorm a hollow man.

Right up to his car, he’s taking automatic steps. Where he flings the door open and grips the bundle of stems of those- of those fucking roses.

He wants to destroy them.

Sukuna’s hand trembles as he raises them high in the air to chuck- before his peripheral vision features two familiar faces. Unbreathing, he’s turning his head jerkily to the side and staring at them—matching crows’ feet, a slow hobble, the slightly hoarse laughter between a whispered conversation. A vision so private that he almost wants to look away, he didn’t know how you did it.

It scares him how quickly he recognizes the elderly couple to be the exact same one you’d been admiring from afar that one day at the café.

It scares him.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t know why he hands his heartbreak bouquet to the old couple that day. But he does remember one thing - the delighted smiles on both their faces, the way the old man had so-clearly wanted to hold the blushing, beautiful flowers. But he’d given them to his wife anyway.

Seeing the young man staring, the old man had winked. 

A knowing smile on his face.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” To which the sweetly older woman had reached down to pluck! two blossoms from the bouquet. And without hesitating, she’d tucked one behind her husband’s ear—and then beckoned Sukuna to lean down to tuck the last one behind his. Rosy red against lovely pink.

His eyes widen as her slightly roughened hands cup his cheek.

Humming with a smile, “You are so easy to love, my dear.”

Something in him breaks a little at that very moment.

And Ryomen Sukuna drives the entire four hours it takes him to drive to Itadori Jin’s university, to damn-near bang down his apartment door.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Jeez…” His older brother’s familiar voice - stubborn, so stubborn just like his calls out from inside the apartment. He doesn’t care that it’s 2AM and Jin’s neighbors would be complaining, right now he just…really needed his big brother.

He can hear the footsteps get even closer. “Who the hell is it at this time- I swear if it’s rent then I already paid it two weeks ag-”

The door clicks open.

Jin’s face freezes in surprise—before it’s dropping at the look on Sukuna’s face.

“Oh, Ryo.”

His arms are around the taller man’s instantly.

And if Itadori Jin felt his sweater drench where Sukuna’s face rested, then he doesn’t say a word about it.

“What did I tell you about keeping your someone special, Ryo?”

.

.

.

It’s the next day when you’re waking up to an incessant knocking at your door.

It pounds like the headache you’d been sporting all night.

And you’re getting up, your eyes swollen - not just from sleep (in fact, you don’t think you slept a single wink all night) - and your movements all sluggish. Looking down, you realize that your pyjamas- Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie, was still drenched in tears. Your blinks were heavy. You felt a mess.

You barely even wanted to get out of your bed, and you don’t think you would have had it not been for the sheer ferocity of the knocks. 

Were they trying to break down your damn door?!

“C-coming!” You’re coughing out, sure you had a doorbell that was going unused. Disgruntled, you’re unlocking the door and reaching for the doorknob. “Jeez, Uta, I swear this isn’t really a good time if you’re going to-”

The first thing you see is red.

Red.

Red.

Red roses.

Bouquets of it lined every inch of your dorm’s corridor, as far as your eye could see, some even piled on top of each other, the largest held between Ryomen Sukuna’s trembling hands.

And the second thing you see is, well, red again.

The blush that dusts his handsome face, rivalling his pinkish locks. Sukuna takes a half-step forwards- before he seems to think better of it and lurches right back. His thick brows furrow in sincerity, as if he just wanted to make you feel his words— “I love you.” He pants, as if he’d just run here. And it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of your lungs. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-”

“Oh, Ryo.”

And it’s all the confirmation Sukuna needs to let the bouquet in his hands drop down to the floor. Rustling. Letting the blossoms be replaced with something that is, to him, far more beautiful.

He crushes you so tightly into his embrace that you almost can’t breathe - nothing but the soft strawberry scent that engulfs you whole. And you almost don’t think you need to. Not right now. “I love you.”

“You idiot.” You choke out, “You idiot- you’re so- fucking- stupid.” You punctuate your words with punches to his chest, which makes it rumble with a chuckle. “And I’m even more stupid because I…”

“Yes?” Breathless.

“I love you even more, Ryo.”

He sighs with his entire soul and collapses in on his world—you.

A few minutes later.

What feels like absolutely no time later.

You’re finding your back laid flatly against your single bed - a humble compartment in your dorm room. But now it had you sprawled out across it and reaching for your rickety headboard to hang onto dear life, Sukuna kneeled at the foot of the bed and clawing at your tear-stained sweatpants.

Pulling at it.

Tearing through it.

Your whines intermingle with the rip-rip-riiiip of fabric once he’s exposing your naked legs. You were wearing nothing underneath it, and Sukuna’s fucking groaning as he opens up your thighs to take the heavenly sight in-between.

“Fuh-fuck…” You swear you see a line of glittering drool fall down the side of his mouth, one that Sukuna’s gulping back as soon as it comes. “Holy fuck, sweetheart, how do you look even tastier every time I see ya?”

You’re huffing, unable to stop yourself. “Maybe you’re just mixing me up with-”

“Don’t say that.” And though his voice was quiet, it was stern. It meant every word he was saying, “Never say that.”

Gliding his roughened hands down the tender inner parts of your thighs- you’re shivering as you feel every line and callus from his palms. Remnants of wrestling. The softness of holding you. It makes something in your heart lurch, “I-I just-”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.” Sukuna looks away with a light blush as he cuts you off, “But I do. We have much to talk about…but the one thing I need you to know is that ever since I met you, I have never, and will never, so much as look at anyone else.”

“Ryo—” You whimper, feeling the thick crowned edges of his thumbs inch towards your drippin’ core.

“And I want you to know that m’yours.” He nudges his handsome head closer, until he could breathe in the sultry scent of your pussy. You could feel the cold breeze of his inhale- “Soul…and body.”

And then he’s lavishing his loooong tongue out to lick a wet stripe at your clothed pussy.

Sluuuuuurp—! Such a greedy taste of your cunt. Before Sukuna’s drawing his muscle back in just to do it all over again - flick after flick where you were most tender. With the tip of his tastebuds he’s outlining your glistening crevice, and pinpointing them right where the knob of your clit was located.

You’re twitching as you feel him enter his lengthy tongue juuuust underneath the drenched fabric of your panties, before fishing it back out whenever he feels he got too close to your pussy. 

“P-please-” You’re grabbing onto Sukuna’s head of pink hair, trying to move him even closer. “Want you even closer- stop teasing now.”

He rolls his eyes rudely, “Teasing? You think this is me teasing, sweetheart?” And before you can register it, he’s reeling his tongue all the way back into his mouth. Leaving your poor cunt all throbbing and completely untouched. “This is me teasing.” As you buck your hips pathetically with the desire for his ridged texture, “What I was doin’ earlier was just savoring, mama.”

You throat was thick with need, “But- but what is there to savor-”

“What the fuck are ya talking about?” One of his pink brows raise.

“I mean-” You hasten to explain, your entire body radiating pure heat and need. “You’ve already had me like this before-”

“Oh—” And suddenly, the most lecherous smile plasters across his attractive face - already slicked with copious amounts of wadded slick that sticks to him like some sort of adhesive. “Girlie, you don’t even know the half of what m’capable of.”

And before you know it—Sukuna’s rugged fingers come down to spank! right on top of your pussylips. 

Before you know it, he’s clasping the side of your ass cheeks and flipping you right over as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. With one finger hooking onto your panties- you can distinctly sense when the wrestler seems to think better of it and instead bites his pearly white canines down on your soaked underwear.

You’re muffling out with your face pushed into your pillows, “Wh-what are you-”

Before he’s teeeeeeearing your panties right down with nothing but his mouth.

Exposing your quivering pussy all for him to see, smearin’ apart your folds with both his thumbs. He takes a few seconds to admire the slick that splashes out of your entrance, before spitting vertically down your slit.

Simply to add onto the mess.

It’s the only warning you’re getting before Sukuna completely surges in and shoves himself nose-deep between your puffy folds. Just the tip of his nose drags down the middle of your cunt from behind, and before you know it- his tongue is zig-zagging at your hole wiiiiiildly—

He’s like a madman. He’s like a man starved.

Gulping at the excess of your leaking sap and then munching himself even close to lap at the dewdrops of slick just about to fall out of you. They don’t even have to be pouring out of you for your greedy Sukuna to be gluing himself to your cunt.

Shovelling his tongue even deeper. 

And when your tight orifice can’t take any more of him, he’s grunting out into your cunt and spitting.

“Fuck.”—He’s clenching his jaw and spitting out once more at the slight resistance of your hole. Just the way that Sukuna’s wet muscle was oh-so-thick, and he kept having to pry apart your pussy folds even further just to inch inside. Until you’re shivering at the feeling of his knobbly tastebuds dragging down your walls, “C’mon c’mon c’mon- just fucking take it my girl, I know you want to.”

“I swear your tongue got even bigger, Ryo-”

Your velvety walls close in on him, keeping his slippery tongue hostage while he only tries to ebb even deeper. He’s clenching his jaw at the slight resistance of your tight hole. “S’only been a day and she’s forgotten me this much?”

Fisting at the pillows, “I didn’t, it’s just you’re too big.”

“Appreciate the flattery, mama.” You could feel his grin against your softened flesh. “But it’s my fault.”

Instinctually, you’re raising your head off of the spit-drenched pillows to ask just what he meant-

“But I guess I hafta eat her out so she remembers this time, hm?”

But you didn’t have to ask for the answer.

You didn’t even have to think—honestly, you don’t think you can even, well, think by the time he’s got a hold of you.

Because Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on his promise—Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on all his promises.

He was latching one ruthless hand onto the side of your hips and manhandling your hips to start gyratin’ down onto his open maw. Angling you in just the right position so that his swollen lips can latch onto your throbbing clit-

“Bet’cha didn’t know that m’a good multitasker.” He’s gurgling out, wads of slick n’ spittle clogging up his throat. And the thing was—Sukuna didn’t care how much he had to suffocate on your pussy, he fucking loved that shit.

“I-I don’t think I did.” You’re replying.

“And bet’cha didn’t know that I- fuck, I can reach in so deeeeeep.” The large muscle of his tongue swipes in so deeply inside of you- you can’t even fully comprehend whether he’d plunged inside all the way up to his chin because of how dumb he was fucking you.

Rough, hard strikes at all your most delicate spots inside.

Finishing off with the most sinful noises - it’s like the deeper he gets, the louder those noises get. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I r-reach yer- hah, g-spot this fast, hm?”

You’re furrowing your brows. Sure, you were slowly getting more and more dazed on his cock - but surely you weren’t that mindless that you wouldn’t notice? “Wait, but I don’t think you ever actually—oh.”

And then you’re feeling it.

And you’re realizing that Sukuna had timed it precisely for the middle of your sentence, when he can hear the effects of you stumbling and falling apart on his very tongue.

Mazing all the way inside as if searching for treasure, his thorough inches are spreading out your walls so well. Not leaving a single crevice unturned, a single drivelling orifice, a single bundle of nerves- that he’s honing in on and darting straight against.

Pushing down on the area of your g-spot, you’re suddenly jolted by the electricity of your pleasure. He snickers, “There it is.”

Crying out, “Th-that’s just mean, Ryo.”

“Th-th-that’s just mean.” Mocking, in a lilting pitch that was most certainly not reminiscent of your own. With a tough roll of his eyes, he’s only unfastened his maw to take you even deeper from behind. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could be meeeeean—fuckin’ meaner than you even even thought.”

“I-I think I know too well.” Or so you claim - but shit, Sukuna had never eaten you out like this before.

With his pointed chin jutting against the base of your treacly cunt, and his nose curving against your slit. Sukuna isn’t just thrusting his tongue inside you, he’s also making sure to flick and linger his tastebuds into any orifice he knew you were fragile at.

Again. Probing.

Again and again and again.

And with a smug chuckle, Sukuna claims. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could go reeeeeal fast.” Until you’re hanging your head down to stare between your slick-sheened legs and all you could see was a pink blur intruding at your folds. “Or reeeeeeal slow.”

“F-fuck, that feels so good.” Your back arches into the perfect curvature when his velveteen tongue starts slowing down into an agonizing pace.

It was just so slow that you could feel each line and crevice of his rows of tastebuds, and just so thorough that speckles of your syrup were darting from your orifice and splattering! down onto the mattress. It starts forming a puddle on the sheets beneath you- one that Sukuna was certain not to go to waste.

His free hand skids down the insides of your thighs, layering his fingers in a thin glaze of your pussy’s slick. And whence his fingertips were all done and coated, the pink-haired man was raising them up to his mouth and sucking the sweetness off.

Not. A. Single. Drop. Wasted.

With a groan, he’s not letting his time go to waste, either. And he’s back funneling your snug channel with his tongue—in and out, in and out, in and out. “Take yer pick- s’all for you, mama.”

“Sh-shit, but I like both.” You didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or your pussy by this point - but you were too gone on his tongue to even care. Slightly bucking your hips into his mouth, “But I- ngh, do like it a bit better when you go…faster…”

A sudden spank down on your clit once more, “Atta girl.”

Nose pressed up against your slit, tongue lashing ruthlessly inside.

Ruthlessly.

If you thought you were ruined on the movements of his tongue just earlier, then this sudden sloppy cadence has you seeing fucking stars. 

The gooey end of his tongue swabs against every tender spot at your innards, somehow forking at your luscious g-spot and attempting to reach even deeper. Perhaps your cervix. Perhaps your womb. And Sukuna’s permanently patterning his tastebuds against your walls. Swirling and swirling and swirling right on time with the caresses at your clit.

He didn’t care how much you bucked and trembled at the sheer pleasure of it, the frat leader’s fingernails dig deep into your flesh every time you lurch away.

“Ah ah-” Only to be hauled back down in mere seconds by one of his strong arms. Back and forth, back and forth, baaaack and forth. With an unceremonious squelch! your pussy’s being plastered back down onto his mouth. And Sukuna tongues your folds back open to start jutting in between your lips, “Don’t- haaaah, fuck, don’t fucking run away…how m’I supposed to eat out my girl’s pussy if yer fucking running away?”

“I don’t know, you’ve never- hck!” Before you can open your mouth with your next few words, Sukuna’s showing you what it means to be his girl.

To have his knobbly fingertips pinch at your clit and start drawing—“H-heh…can ya spell it?” He rovers his thumb even harder on top of it like a button, “Bet’cha didn’t know I could do that. Spell it. Or are ya fucked dumb on m’mouth already?”

You’re replying crossly, “M’not fucked-”

“Then spell it.”

With a pitiful moan, you’re throwing your head in a downward direction to try and see exactly what he was-

Smack!

Yet another mean swatting on top of your puffy pussylips, and Sukuna’s tutting against them. It was as if his lips were glued to your pussy using the slick adhesive of your juices, and he didn’t want to detach himself even to speak—even to speak. “Ah ah- no cheating now, mama. Noooo cheating.”

“Fuh-fuck—” He angles his fingertips as if he was about to strike you once more. “Fine- I meant fine! The first letter is, mmm…”

“Yeeeees?” Drawling out.

And your pupils are swirling in time with the sultry motions of his digits. It was a pattern that makes every hair on your body stand on end - too curly to be a particularly pointy letter like ‘A’ or ‘K’ and yet not even half as curly to have been an ‘S’ that might mean his name. “Is it…R?”

“Atta girl.” Yet he plants another slamming of his fingertips that makes you throw your head back and whine, “Whoops- accident, sweetheart, accident.”

“F-fu—” Fuck you, is what you meant to say.

But Sukuna’s roughly bashin’ away at your sweetest orifice a few more times, leaving a big bruise against the side of your walls with his tongue. And it simply leaves you speechless, “Mmmm, nope! The next letter isn’t ‘F’, try again.”

“Y—!” You’re bawling out, your jaw falling agape at the sheer incredible speed at which he was drawing out all those whines and noises. It was simply unbearable in the best way. Unbearable. 

You could tell that he had so-very-clearly been holding back at your previous…hangouts. And you could feel the burning sensation of bliss start up at the pit of your stomach, “And is the rest of the word ‘Ryomen’?”

“Mmm, three correct.” He answers, to which your hazy mind guesses that the first letters were R-Y-O…“Quite the sneaky lil’ thing, aren’t you? And ah- here’s a little hint, this next one’s an apostrophe.”

“Fuuuuuck, m’close.” You’re whimpering out in response- and his response, he’s only slashing at your g-spot at a faster rhythm. Only plucking at your tender clit—“S, and the next letter is- ngh, P.”

“Good, goooood—”

“U.” You gulp, and you’re unsure whether it was because of your oncoming high or because a lecherous part of you already suspected what the rest of what he was writing may be. “S…S…” Your entire body shivers, limbs unravelling - and you’re not quite sure whether you’d make it until the end of-

“Final letter.”

“Y!”

“And wha’s that spell—?” Sukuna grins out, “Her pretty lil’ name.”

Your lips wobble as you try to enunciate, “Ryo’s pussy…”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re seeing a split-second of flashing lights before you’re suddenly pushed onto your high - hard, overtaking waves of pleasure that leave you all boneless against Sukuna’s eating mouth. But that worked just alright for him- he’d simply white-knuckle onto the side of your hips and lavish your tight entrance with his entire tongue.

Probing, again and again.

The cushy edge of his tongue swipes forwards to strike your g-spot right on time with the peaks of your euphoria. Like a perfect button for him to press on and increase your pleasure until you were simply shaking, “And my girl feels so goooood on her Ryomen’s mouth, doesn’t she?” He pants, fingers pinching your clit now and rolling between the roughened pads of his index and thumb. “Feels so nice cumming on Ryo’s tongue- bet’cha didn’t know it could feel this good, huh, sweetheart?”

Furiously shaking your head, “Didn’t- didn’t know- hck!”

And with a few more moans you’re just splashin’ your clingy wads all down Sukuna’s throat, all across his handsome lower half. “Ooooo- aaaaaatta girl—”

“C-can’t stop cumming.” You shake, tears sparkling at the edges of your eyes. “It just feels so good-”

“Leave some for m’cock, alright?”

But he was the one that wasn’t leaving anything, that wasn’t showing you any mercy.

Even once the sparks of your startling orgasm have bated, he’s plunging his wide tongue in and out. Scouring the inside and outside of your treacly pussy. Licking up every single ounce of slick sploshed down your front. 

Dripping wet.

Only once you’re well and thoroughly overstimulated does Sukuna actually falter his movements, “Mmmm, there ya go, girlie~” He’s pulling his prolonged muscle out of your hole with a sloppy squeeeeeelch! He looks down at your mindlessly clenching pussy and admires his handy-work. “And now for the real deal.”

“Th-that wasn’t the real deal?” You’re asking through a whimper.

“That? That was just my appetizer, y’know?” The pink-haired man snickers at his own joke - though it really didn’t sound like a joke to you.

You attempt to flip yourself over- but Sukuna keeps you firmly in place with a hand at your hips. “Ah ah- don’t you think of running from me. Not now. Not ever.” And while you’re still draped across your front on the bed like this, Sukuna’s starting to tug off your hoodie—

Before he realizes just which one it is - his, his name on the back - and he stops immediately. 

“Actually…” Sukuna stands, and you know that tone of voice didn’t bode anything good for you. “Why don’tcha keep it on, hm?”

Instead, he’s the one that’s stripping now.

That skin-tight shirt.

Those baggy pants.

Those boxers that were—oh.

Your eyes widen, “Is it just me or did…grow even bigger since last time, Ryo?”

“Mmm- why don’t we ask my pussy about it later, hm?”

And with that said, you’re getting to turn around and admire all of Ryomen Sukuna’s toned, tanned muscles. They ripple as he discards his clothes somewhere over his shoulder, making those tattoos of his look as though they were moving by themselves.

Greedily, your eyes follow the circles on either of his deltoids. The snake-like patterns down his pecs. The rings around his beefy biceps. The rings around his wrists. All the way down to the rings around either of his meaty thighs.

Shyly, you’re realizing that you’d skipped over one spot in particular.

And you drift your eyes back up—Sukuna’s erection was hard and hot between his legs. The most furious red at his mushroom tip that made him look as though he was so achingly needy he might as well fall off.

That you might as well count each one of his throbs.

Biting down on your lower lip, you’re impatient as you follow a bead of milky pre that dollops on top of his thick tip. Smearing just a bit. Travelling down, down, dooooown the veiny length of his shaft- until it ends up at the unruly tufts of pink at his base.

His tattooed base.

One more ring around his hilt, and next to that—you gasp.

“Oh…oh my god.” Without a second thought, you’re leaning in to get a closer look at that irritated patch of skin next to Sukuna’s v-line. And if your eyes weren’t deceiving you - that part of his skin had a swirling black calligraphy of none other than your fucking name on him. “Don’t tell me you’ve-”

“I did.”

You gape up at him, “Ryomen Sukuna, you’re fucking crazy-”

“I know.” He shivers as you reach out to touch it. Sukuna was fully unclothed now and prowling towards you on the bed, like a predator closing in on his prey. “But I couldn’t just name that pussy of yours ‘Ryo’s pussy’ and not contribute my part, too, could I? I had to show my dedication too, mama.”

“But putting it permanently on your skin-”

“Is the best decision I’ve ever made.”

You knew there was no talking him out of it, and Sukuna’s eagerly smoothing his calloused palm on top of your stomach. Caressing you. Drinking you in with his eyes.

Flipping you onto your stomach once more-

“Now face down, ass up- I wanna fuck my girl right.”

You’re barely managing to let your sweaty scalp hit your pillow before Sukuna suddenly has his obtuse tip squeezed between your pussylips and pushing and pushing—

“Oh—”  Your eyes are scrunching as tight as they could close, and the only thing you can do is utterly melt into Sukuna’s carnal desire. You don’t think you’d ever get used to his sheer size. “Oh my god- oh my fucking- ngh, I always love h-how you feel-”

“For now-” And it’s a damn miracle that the man could speak - especially when your tender walls were squeezing him like that. “F-for now just pretend it’s the first time.”

Did he just stutter? What was he even…“Wh-what- oh.” You’re being shut up by Sukuna’s rugged, ravenous tip once more. He’s swabbing every treacly spot of your insides without even trying - simply just attempting to fit and fit and fit—

“Just- hah- just pretend s’the first time.” He kisses his lips to his teeth, both clammy hands plastered onto the side of your hips to help him funnel his massive cock inside.

His flared slit lodges against the roof of your cunt, and you’re arching just so beautifully into him- that he can’t help but lean down and bite at the side of your throat. Humming in satisfaction at the way the marking is just covered by his hoodie, it gives him the courage he needs to say those next few words. “Pretend s’just you and I. Pretend s’our first time- ngh.”

“You mean to say—oh.” You’re dizzy on the way his honed tip was perfectly opening up your hidden spots, and every time he’s reeling his hips back it’s just a constant back and forth. “Don’t think I even knew I had a spot there…”

“Good- good, jus’ like that.” He grunts out, holding you even tighter to his muscular body. “Pretend s’like we’ve never fucked before. You’re my girl- always have been. M’your Ryo- always have been. Always will be.”

“A-always will be-”

“And right now s’our first time, I’ve never fucked you before- oh, forget about all those fucking times in my room and in the car.” He whispers out, something desperate cracking primally at the back of his throat as he eases his way inside. “S’our time now—and I get to finally, finally fuck you as mine.”

All his.

And you’re finding that when Sukuna’s fucking you as just his…it means he’s so much more ravenous than you’ve ever known him to be.

So much more ruined.

So much more out-of-control—

It’s like he’s truly realized his full potential. “Since yer mine I get to- hah! stop you from running from my cock whenever I like.” Hauling you down like a ragdoll with both hands on your waist, you shrill at the slamming contact of his hips against your hips. His thighs against the backs of your thighs. His large cockhead against your ready cunt. “I get to fuck you raw for the first time. I get to fuck you so much- s-so fucking much n’ I don’t even have to worry about the marks I leave.”

“What marks?”

A slam so hard that you swear you can feel the globular end of his shaft right near your throat—“These marks.”

And you’re almost about to repeat your question in search of an answer once more- before you’re realizing what exactly Sukuna means.

Marks.

The marks he was leaving on every gooey orifice inside your cunt, on the globes of your ass being pummeled by his hips, on the sides of your body under the mercy of his grip.

Using that very same grip, he’s folding you on all fours underneath him. Tighter and tighter. Closer and closer to his hulking body. Before your muddled brain can register it, Sukuna’s reaching over his meaty right leg to plant right on top of your sweaty scalp.

Yes—on top.

The heel of his foot ends up on your head, and your eyes snap open in- perhaps shock, perhaps at the sheer audacity of him. You jolt.

“Ah ah-” The only thing you hear before one of his hands clasp ‘round the cottony fabric of your hoodie and tugs it down - it seems that your sudden lurching movement had made his uniform bunch up by your head. 

And the famed wrestler wasn’t just bringing it down to take a good look at your pretty self. No—he was also bringing it down to read the name - his name - emblazoned across your back and jostling to and fro while you were being fucked by his ruthless hips. “Theeeeere we go, gotta rep the name, mama. Especially the first time.”

“Rep the set? You’re already fucking me- ngh, senseless.”

“And yet I already get to have you- fuck, wear this f’me. My girl. My lovely, lovely girl.” His toned figure leans down and he’s sloppily kissing at the name. 

His name—fuck, how he loved this position. That was why he’d purposefully chosen it, to have his name peak up at him as he ploughed himself into you like a madman. Grunting out once your sopping lips squeeze him at the stretch, “The girl with my- hck! last name-”

“Ryo!”

“Whoops- too soon?” He doesn’t even sound the least bit regretful. And you can’t even answer, because then he’s only fucking your surprised whines out of you, “Mmm, and don’t forget that I also get to do- heh, this.” And as if it was even possible, his vicious hips accelerate their tempo against you. “I get to do whaaaatever I want with my girl’s pretty pussy- ah, apologies, my pretty pussy just to fit my thick cock inside.”

“I-inside-” You mindlessly babble out, “Want it inside-”

“Yeah? Want it all the way until my tattoo? Never been fucked like this before, have ya?”

Well, he has fucked you like this before. But that coherent part of you realizes that that wasn’t exactly the answer that Sukuna wanted right now—“No- no, never. You’re the first to fuck me like this, Ryo, mmm.”

“Good.”

Whether he was praising you for keeping up with his conversation - or whether he was praising you for taking his cock until he’s bottoming out - you’re not quite sure. Either way, the curly pink hairs at his base finally reach your folds—and they scritch-scratch at your pussy in such a carnal way you never knew you needed.

As he’s fully inside of you, the wrestling superstar hunches his entire body over and shivers. And pants. And throbs his entire length deeply inside of you in a way that makes your head pound with a rapid ba-thump! Ba-thump! Ba-thump!

“H-here….” One of his hands lifts off of your hip to caress down the front of your stomach. Sukuna feels for where his swollen tip was pulsating against your womb, and presses doooown against that lil’ bump. “S’my first time kissin’ my girl over here, isn’t it?”

“It- it is—”

And Sukuna truly is fucking you like it’s the first time - he’s fucking you like he’s angrier he didn’t have you earlier, he’s fucking you like he’s making up for all the lost time.

Just roughened, piercing bashes against your g-spot- he doesn’t even have to try to locate that bruised n’ battered little area on your channel. The rounded orifice of it gets pummeled by his shaft, and you’re seeing stars due to the sheer pressure of him. “It feels so- ngh- fuck.” You could barely even string together a sentence, head feeling all airy. 

“Feels soooo—?”

“I don’t- I don’t even…” He doesn’t even have to be fully inside to let his curvaceous tip poke into your cervix. Purposefully angling his hips, Sukuna’s rub-a-dubbing the door to your womb with his puckered tip. “Th-think m’cockdrunk, Ryo.”

And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the way that his rude cadence seemed to stutter. “C-cockdrunk?”

Nodding through your tears, “I am, I am—oh.”

But of course, never let Ryomen Sukuna be known as the man that doesn’t take care of his cockdrunk partner. 

Never. 

Because in a split-second, he’s lifting his rude foot off of your head and you jolt at the sudden rush of blood to your scalp. “Oh- oh my…”

Only mere moments of mercy before you feel your entire limp body be hoisted off of the mattress.

Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your scalp, and you’re flailing at the feeling before- “Shhh, shh sh- be a good girl f’me before you make me put that foot atop your head again, mama.” Sukuna grunts, and suddenly you’re feeling one of his strong arms look around your neck.

You could feel all those developed biceps of his bulging against your throat once Sukuna cradles your neck and squeeeeezes. Spittle flowing out of you and down his veiny forearm like a fountain, “D-did you just put me in a fucking- ngh, headlock?!”

“Mhm.” He shows absolutely no remorse, “And I don’t hear her complaining.”

In fact, he could only hear the most sopping wet squelches emanating from your cunt.

And so Sukuna keeps holding you in this treacherous headlock whilst he’s pummeling you from behind. All those veiny inches of his cock being slurped right up between your pussy lips. Again. And again. And again and again and again—

It feels like hours have passed before you’re jolting at the sudden feeling of Sukuna’s warm fingertips slithering down between your sheeny legs once more. Your clit throbs like it’d missed his touch- and never one to leave you wanting more anymore, he’s twisting his rugged fingers on the nub.

Letting the patterned edges of his digits start twistin’ and turning that swollen knob in his hand. Your cunt squelches out a wet splash of slick at the sudden pleasure, “I-it just feels so good-”

“I know.” Sukuna hums, all smug with himself. “She’s told me- heh, think about thaaaat—I get ta speak with her for the first time tonight.” Before you can say anything else, he dips his head down to look at your cunt from underneath you and coos. “Hey, girlie, how are ya~?”

“Y-you’re unbelievable-” And yet he’s rovering his thumb all over your clit in a way that just has you gasping for more, and your cunt squelching out even louder.

“Mmm, m’doing good, thanks for asking.” He continues…a fucking conversation with your pussy. And at your widened stare, he shrugs. “What? M’only having a chat with- hah, my pussy. Wha’s wrong with that?”

“N-nothing…” You suppose.

“Exactly.” And then he times the ministrations of his thick thumb just right to roll over your clit in synchronization with his cock. You’re feeling one incredible thud! at your g-spot, and then you’re feeling another drag on your clit. This time…a pattern that you’re finding strangely familiar- “Can you spell, mama?”

“Are you asking—” Smack! A rude spank on your cunt, “F-fuck…”

“Apologies ‘bout that. S’my first time with you, remember? And I hafta get to know you. Get to do this.” He hums, and it’s not to you anymore. He’s completely and utterly devoted to keeping all his concentration on giving your pussy the utmost pleasure possible - from two different places of origin. “So about that spelling—”

“Fuck, Ryo, what are you trying to…”

This time, he’s not cutting you off. This time you’re trailing off out of your own volition, your ears listening for the sequences of letters that Sukuna calls out.

A sequence that sounds oddly familiar.

A sequence that spelled out your name.

He drag-drag-draaaaags your clit and it lets out a particularly loud lecherous sound that the larger man beams at, “Mmm, exactly. Perfect pronunciation and all- now let’s see if you can spell the rest.” And without further ado, Sukuna’s expert fingertips start outlining a different set of letters on your throbbing clit.

Making you shake with pleasure, “W-wait that spells…” Silently mouthing along.

S—he’s accelerating the thumps all the way at the back of your cervix, until you’re feeling dizzy.U—K—just the sheer amount of tears that streamed down your cheeks already told you that you were getting close to your high. U—

Your eyes widen, “Y-you’re not seriously-”

“Shhhh.”

N—but oh, he was. As if he was reading off of that sports hoodie on your back. And he was letting you tremble uncontrollably in the aftermath of his constant strikes and thumps at your greedy orifice, drilling into you with a hunger that never satiates. A hunger that tells you he’s wanted to do this for a long, long time. A—

You whisper what exactly it spelled out.

Your name, with the last name of-

“-Sukuna.” The man himself finishes off, before leaning down to leer at your drivelling cunt. The very same that was slurping and squelching away maddeningly at your gushing slick—“S’gonna be your name very soon, my girl.”

You don’t quite know which one of you he’s talking to - you or your pussy.

But you don’t quite care at this moment, either. Because in almost no time, you’re bursting into your nth high of the night - it’s no longer simply your second anymore.

Because as soon as you’re crashing into the white-hot wave of your second, you’re plummeting into your third. Your fourth. Your fifth. Seemingly dragged out of you as if it was oh-so-easy by none other than Sukuna’s ruthless cock.

You shake as it explodes through you, harder than any other orgasm you’ve experienced in your entire life.

Toes curling.

Lashes staining with tears.

The only thing you can do is arch your back into Sukuna’s sculptured one and let him thoroughly bash you through your zaps of euphoria. Over and over.

He lets his veiny shaft glide down your gooey insides, caressing every inch of you that seemed to explode with pleasure any time he was pistoning into you. “Yeah-” He grunts, feeling you uncontrollably clench around him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah- cum around my cock, sweetheart. Only around my cock—” His headlock on you tightens, “-got it?”

“Got it-” You babble out stupidly, your cheek slipping along the sheen of saliva you’d created on his forearm. “I got it, I got it- but…”

One pink brow raises, “But…?”

“But I also want you to do o-one thing f’me.”

He nuzzles the crook of your neck, “Anything.”

“Cum inside?”

And, well, Sukuna did say ‘anything’—didn’t he?

Because with a few more vulgar thrusts, the infamous frat leader is tipping his head back and emptying himself out inside you. You could feel the way that his thiiick balls clench from behind you, each of those wadded webs of ivory sap being poured out into you.

Each and every single one.

Stuffed and stuffed inside of you.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you take in the second skin that he’s layering on top of your insides. Something so warm and filthy feeling heavy inside of your orifice—fuck, you’re discovering that a primal part of you loved the feeling.

It sploshes! out into your deepest depths and create a lil’ puddle that you can feel even at your cervix. Just swirled around by his thickened tip, “C-cumming—” The man rasps out, voice botched with a primal sort of hoarseness. He stutters as he cums. He shakes as he cums. Crimson eyes shuttering at the most blissful feeling in the world, spurting his seed inside your needy pussy. “And then there’s that- hah! I get to cum inside you for the f-first time…”

And it really was the first time he was filling you up like this. All the way up to the brim and fucking those pearly beads of cum right back inside you, “Kinda- ngh, always wan’ you to cum inside me.”

He pecks the side of your temple, hips still shifting filthily. “Hey then we’re gonna have a- mmm, mini-Sukuna before you’re even Mrs. Sukuna, girlie.”

“M-maybe I don’t mind…” Bucking your hips back into his for more friction.

“Talkin’ outta that pussy, I see.”

With yet another sudden spank! on top of your sultry folds, you’re being flipped over once more and stuffed right back up to your womb with Sukuna’s thickened inches. All of them shoved right up until you can feel them at your very throat- “We might have to dumbify her too, I’m afraid.”

“S’gonna be a long night.” You’re commenting with a shiver.

Sukuna grins, “How’d you spell ‘the first of many’?”

.

.

.

The tournament was in an uproar by the time you’re running into the stands.

Well, more bowing and apologizing as you scramble to your seat past rows of other supporters- but you stand by it nonetheless. You’re letting out a pant of relief as you finally plop unceremoniously down onto the only empty chair in the stands, placing down your bag and pulling on the collar of Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie in an attempt to fan yourself. 

“You’re late, my dear.” Utahime hisses from the row behind you, flipping off the middle-aged man that grumbles at her.

“I know, I’m sorry!” You whisper back - ah, so that’s where they were. A few more rows behind her were some of the Curses Epsilon brothers - including Choso - that you had been starting to get to know, little by little. They wave happily at you and you wave back with a grin. You’d been wanting to get seats next to all of them, but it seems they’d filled up faster than you’d hoped.

At the very least you were lucky to have your friends so close by you, and you’re shooting them an apologetic smile - after all, you were the one that’d bugged your two best friends to join you watching Sukuna’s wrestling match. You mouth, “Whole story. Explain later.”

“Traffic?” Shoko asks from next to your purple-haired friend, looking up from her anatomy textbook. For what reason she had that, you weren’t quite sure…and you weren’t brave enough to ask, either.

Choosing the short story, you’re nodding at her suggestion.

You’d run all the way here, truth be told.

Sukuna was already halfway through his final match of the tournament, one more and he’d win this collegiate title. And though a part of you was upset that you’d missed out on so much (sure, you could watch them later on the recordings, but it was the principal that counted!), it made you so-very-proud to see so many of the recruiters with their eyes locked on Sukuna and Sukuna only.

Your boyfriend of just shy of a month.

You couldn’t blame them—fuck, you just wished you hadn’t had to wait so long at the dry cleaner’s! Apparently there had been some sort of mix-up that’d resulted in you being quite delayed while you actually waited to claim the hoodie you knew and loved too much.

Sure, it’d been slightly stained from some of last nights…activties (somewhat of a good luck ritual, he claimed, though you knew what he really wanted to do was fuck you in the hoodie with his name), but beloved nonetheless! 

Anyways—after falling behind your schedule, you’d been hit by traffic, and then there was the issue of actually trying to navigate the stadium, and then- well, here you were!

Evidently, it seems that Sukuna is sensing the same thing.

Because in the middle of an ankle lock, Sukuna’s crimson eyes flick upwards towards the stands- and they’re meeting yours instantly.

A charged tension only the two of you could feel.

Squirming slightly in your seat at the intensity of his stare, his realization, you give him a wave.

In mere split-seconds, Sukuna has the other man slammed down onto the floor and his sweaty body struggling to even move. You cheer, that had to have at least been two points.

“We’re lucky you’re here, my dear.” Utahime leans down to whisper to you. “You won’t believe what that boyfriend of yours was like before the game- moping around, calling you, staring longingly at his phone wallpaper of you—eugh! I didn’t even know that a man of that size and strength could act like a lost puppy.” She shudders.

Shoko states plainly, “What she means to say is that your boyfriend missed you.”

And you’re just about to open your mouth to answer- when right beside you, a jittery voice speaks up.

“P-pardon me.” The three of you turn your heads in the direction of the man that’d been seated to your left, you hadn’t paid much attention to him considering the frantic state you’d been in when you first got here. “Did you say ‘boyfriend’?”

And now, you almost wished you did.

Because the man beside you looked exactly like Sukuna only…softer. Quieter. Calmer. With an air about him that told you that perhaps he was the type that grew up with quite a bit of responsibility. He wore a sweater with the shapes of some marine animals sewn into it. He didn’t have any of Sukuna’s tattoos or the chiselled look of a recent athlete or the gruffness he wore like a cloak - but the resemblance was uncanny. 

The bespectacled man adjusts his glasses and your jaw drops—this must be his older brother that he told you so much about! “You must be his girlfriend that he’s told me so much about.”

“Y-yes!” You snap out of your little reverie at his words, and you’re immediately reaching out your hand for a handshake. “You must be his older brother, Jin?”

Jin pulls you in for a hug, sighing out against you. “Thank you so much for taking care of him.”

“No- not at all! The pleasure’s all mine, and he’s the one that takes care of me most of the time.” You’re sheepishly admitting, “Thank you for taking care of him all this time, I know he looks up at you so much.”

The other pink-haired man blushes, scratching behind his neck. “W-well I wouldn’t say that…” He glances to his left, “Oh! And silly me- I forgot to introduce you to our father.”

You’re beaming at the gruff old man seated next to Jin, a furrow between his brows that you could’ve recognized anywhere on his younger son. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

The introductions between you and Sukuna’s family go swimmingly (if there was a wrestling alternative then you’d have said it), and you’re finding that they were the absolute sweetest. Jin was soft and compassionate, the polar opposite of Sukuna and yet so similar to him at his deepest core. Wasuke was more like Sukuna on the outside, and you swear you could feel your sides splitting at the quips he’d comment about his son while you all watched the match.

Eventually, the three of you along with your friends in the latter rows are chatting up so much of a storm that you almost don’t notice—“He’s about to win.”

At the sound of your voice, the rest of your group looks over at the ringed boundaries of the match.

Instantly, you’re all up on your feet and cheering at the top of your lungs. 

All of you.

Jin and Wasuke.

Shoko and Utahime.

The Curses Epsilon boys.

You.

And when Ryomen Sukuna finally defeats his tough opponent, you can’t decide which one of you cheered the loudest.

But what you do know is that he’s sauntering up past the boundary the minute his win is announced - all sweat-streaked and spitting out his mouth guard, all panting and toned with his muscles, all uncaring whether or not his coach is talking to him right now.

He doesn’t care

He doesn’t care.

Sukuna’s breaking into a sprint once he sees you getting off the stands—and scoops you into his arms whilst you yelp in delight. 

You knew you must look such a sight, you and this hulking man.

You feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck, whispering. “Could you all have been any louder?” And you could feel the way his face burns against your skin.

“What- the King of the Court fan club?” You’re innocently questioning, “Yes, that is our name and you can thank Jin for that. And no, we don’t show signs of stopping any time soon- we actually plan on expanding to the rest of the campus by the end of semester-”

He peeks up at the group behind you, here just for him - his brother and father, your friends, his fraternity brothers - and groans. And you can only laugh.

“You all are insufferable.” Sukuna says, baritone dramatically pained. “Especially you.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

He presses his lips to yours, “That, I am.”

A/N. A MAN WHO YEARNS IS A MAN WHO WHAT??

Not in front of him. Not behind him. Not even anywhere around him. It was - quite fittingly - emanating from above him, as if the heavens themselves had split open, and the first sign of the pearly gates was the voice of an angel.

You. 

Gojo instantly darts his gaze to where the wiry, bespectacled cashier was staring to avoid eye contact with whom he likely thought to be a madman. A rather cheap device, with rather cheap graphics. A box with the most beautiful voice.

The first spark of elation today.

It sung to him, almost like a siren.

“I-it’s the leading contestant—eek!” The cashier says, and cowers in fear once Gojo’s azure gaze snaps to him in a split-second. Unwavering. Intense.

As the young man trembles, Gojo reads the name tag on his uniform: Ijichi. Huh? That name almost sounded familiar, was it perhaps a long lost friend? Some obscure family member? He looks at the man again, maybe not. Or perhaps…

“We go to the same school.” Ijichi sighs, when it becomes obvious that Gojo was furrowing his pale brows at the name tag. “I’m two years below you, but we had extended maths together. I sat next to you?” Again, that knit between the other’s eyebrows only grows deeper. “Also you plastered one of Yaga’s pictures on my backpack today.” He adjusts his glasses, “And my face.”

Recognition floods Gojo’s face, and he snaps his fingers. “Ahhh, I remember you now- yeah, sorry about that.”

“I-it’s alright! It was an accident.” Ijichi pauses. “I think.”

“Heh…” Pointedly, the white-haired of the two doesn’t answer that question. Instead, he’s turning his eyes back to the television above Ijichi, ravenous not to miss a single second.

The cashier follows, more easy-going now without any additional customers or managers there to keep him moving. He could afford to ask, “Ah- her. Do you watch idol competition shows often? I didn’t expect that of you, Gojo-senpai.”

“Excuse me?”

“I-I mean-” Ijichi waves his hands fervently in front of him in explanation, “It’s just- those shows really do target a certain demographic and- I just didn’t quite expect it with your…oh, but it has been g-getting popular these days so I don’t know what I’m saying-”

“I don’t.” Gojo admits, cutting through the other’s blubbering. He crosses his arms in front of him and aims to look as dignified as possible as he admires the lil’ dance you were doing as you sang. “It’s just…”

And he almost felt stupid asking this- hell, he almost felt fucking shy (which is impossible, Gojo Satoru is never shy). But he does so anyways—

Holding his head high. Index pointing straight at the blurry screen. Pixels which would not hide your beauty.

“Who’s that?”

“Th-that?” Ijichi turns his head back towards the television, and his face breaks out into a dopey smile - Gojo doesn’t even know why it irritated him so much. After all, that was exactly how he felt, too.

So why the hell was another smiling at you like this-

That’s when Ijichi says your name.

And any and all annoyances with the other man simply melts. Simply turns the insides of his chest all warm and gooey. Simply leaves him a little weak in the knees (and he was damn glad that his lower half was obscured by the counter).

Gojo repeats your name, like he was tasting it.

“Stage name: Cupid.” Ijichi continues, watching you dance about the screen now, as well. “She’s been a fan favorite since her audition, even though producers did do a bit of dirty editing to try and make her unpopular- fans saw right through it. And now she’s been in the lead for weeks.”

“Talented.” Gojo grits out - one word. Perhaps the only word that wouldn’t make him positively shatter that nonchalant façade of his and embarrass himself in front of fucking Ijichi of all people.

He nods at the vocal break you were continuing on-screen, your gentle lashes fluttering shut as you put your all into a song that seemed to be of your own make. You nail the note. He trembles. “Though I’ve…seen better.” Lies.

“She has come a long way.” Ijichi hums, eyes closing as he savors the music. It was the last few chords, perfectly in harmony. “She’s the fan-favorite to win the contract from executives, expected to debut sometime next year.”

“Ah- another idol then.” His throat remains parched with his own lies, growing dryer by the seconds of your voice. Your dance. Your presence. “Talented, though…” You finish off your final belt, and Gojo can only repeat, stupidly. Nonchalant, nonchalant. C’mon Satoru, you can do this. 

Gojo shuffles, “So uh- what’s the show name?”

“Idol Academy.” The black-haired man answers, “New episodes air every week at 9PM.”

Scratching behind his back—nonchalant. “Ah, I’ll let my sister know-” You fool! You don’t even have a sister! And only too late does Gojo realize that Ijichi seems to realize this as well, “I mean- uh, Shoko…who is like a sister to me. I’ll let her know- and maybe I’ll check it out, too- if I have the time. Probably won’t though.” Nonchalant! Nailed it!

Ijichi nods, and he looks away from your finished performance. “Well, if you want to vote for her for the upcoming finals then her number is #143.”

“Ah, we’ll see…probably…won-”  Except, for idols, a finished performance isn’t really a finished performance at all. Nonchalant! Nonchalant!

Because then there’s the ending fairy—you with your bright smile directed at the camera, your arms moving behind you as if you were drawing back a bow and arrow. Pop! The arrow embeds…deep into his heart. “I’m going to marry her.”

Gojo pauses after his confession.

Ijichi pauses after his confession.

It seems the world pauses after his confession.

Everyone but you (which made sense you were practically out of this world), who nodded along to the comments that the judges were giving you. As you walk off the screen, Gojo practically leans over the counter to watch your every step- and even your steps past the television frame-

Ijichi reaches up to turn off the television.

So nonchalant.

“Gojo-senpai…” He starts, and this time it’s Gojo that cowers at the way his schoolmate was looking at him.

Before he knows it, there’s the smack! of something being plastered on his face. Flat and glossy. Colors bursting even behind his scrunched-up eyelids.

A…poster.

“Her official poster.” There’s more than just a little amusement in Ijichi’s tone as he watches Gojo rip the paper off of his face and stare down lovingly at your own, right in the middle of it. Smiling a smile that seems to be just for him (nevermind the fact that this had once been Ijichi’s poster). “9PM on Channel 8, #143. Don’t let her down.”

Gojo would vote for you like his life depended on it.

That night, he went home and created a second Twitter account for himself.

@thestrongestfanboy: Voting for Cupid #143 on Idol Academy and u should too or else (҂` ﾛ ´)凸

@Fushidaddy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: already voted, youre late to the club lmao.

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy: Blocked.

Liked by @CupidOfficial.

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@MnetIdolAcademy: ANNOUNCING THE OFFICIAL DEBUT LINE, CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR RISING GLOBAL STARS!

[GLOBAL VOTE FINAL RESULTS]

RANK #1—Cupid

(Read more)

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And he did.

From his phone, his laptop, his mother’s phone, his father’s phone- Geto’s phone, Shoko’s phone (where he found a copy of the last test paper’s marking scheme—he knew that little con-woman cheated, he feared for her future patients). Until, ultimately, you did win the competition. 

Just as he’d wanted you to.

And Ijichi as well, he supposes. But he is younger (at least, visibly) and more beautiful - therefore Gojo thinks it should count more.

And so you swept every award in the reality competition, and snagged center spot in every headline, concert, and fan account that was ready to feature the freshly-minted popstar.

Almost two years later, by the time that your official debut had come ‘round with a hit single and an album that was climbing the charts, he’d just entered his first year in university. And by then, practically everyone in his life knew by now that he was a sort of…stan. Gojo accepted the title begrudgingly, after Geto and Shoko had walked into his newly-acquired dorm room one day and found every inch of his walls covered in your posters. There was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of you underneath his bed, too, but thankfully they hadn’t found that yet.

Geto threatened to strangle him until he took down the posters of you on his side of the room, at least. They were sharing, after all.

The room was appreciated on stan Twitter, at least. His latest post about it racked up a solid 992.1k views.

@thestrongestfanboy: New room pic!! Can u guess my ultimate bias, bet u can’t^^  \(★ω★)/

Attached was a picture that he’d forgone every single rule and regulation about internet safety to post: from the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, to the cardboard cut-out of you, to the plushie of your cupid character, to the American flag with your face on it (why always the American flag for these things, he wasn’t sure), to the rare photocards that he was holding up for the camera. It was a shrine.

The replies…not so much.

@pinkillit: Lemme guess…Cupid? Lol so real, I luv her too!

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @pinkillit: Well I love her more than u so…(￢_￢;)

@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Damn

@gggggnarly: WOAH??

@hearts2hurts: I can’t even send hate, this is impressive ngl.

@utahimeslefttoe: need to do this with my bias

@lovelicky: Parasocialism, who?

@yuuthebaddie: You scare the huzz

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I don’t need the huzz when I have my queen #thearrowhitme  (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

@Fushidaddy7 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: kinda wish I could hit you rn too #fakefan

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy7: ??? Blocked.

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ?? 

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Don’t u think it’s kinda problematic to be pushing 40 and arguing with minors online?

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: youre 19 tf are you talking about?? and also because you claim the arrow hit you, but you don’t even have her rare “First Love, First Kiss” photocard. youre no better than a local lol.

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: U seriously think ur a bigger fan than me? I was there since even before our girl debuted. Lmao.

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i was there before she even entered the show- and yes. i am.

That particular scathing reply wasn’t over with just that, and Gojo had realized - clicking on the notification, to his slowly-growing horror - that it would be accompanied by a picture, as well. A snapshot to a room that looked much like his own.

From the posters of you dating all the way back to your pre-debut days, a selfie with you at a rookie fanmeet before (dammit) you’d entered the competition, the cardboard cut-outs, the plushies, the flags, the rare photocards. And yes…the ultra-rare ‘First Love, First Kiss’ photocard that he’d last heard went for a comfortable few hundred dollars on the market.

With you costumed like a sweet, sweet cupid. 

Sparkling eyes. Angel wings. Holding up the second button from the top of a school uniform - a symbol of confession in Japan - as if you were confessing to someone. 

To him.

Gojo’s giggling stupidly and kicking his feet on the bed as he zooms in on the picture, taking in your picture on the photocard- before his phone buzzes with yet another Twitter notification and his heart plummets as he realizes just whose room this is. Fushidaddy8 himself could be seen reflected on the lone mirror in the room: scarred lips smirking, his beefy arms raised in a flex, biceps the size of Gojo’s head—

@pinkillit: He kinda ate you up ngl.

Ignoring that, he responded to the aforementioned perpetrator. 

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: Well I’m going to marry her!! Hope that helps!! ╮(︶▽︶)╭

@Fushidaddy8 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: delulu really isn’t the trululu kid

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy8: That trend’s dead, unc.

Though he did slide into the other man’s direct messages right after that, in the hopes of buying out the exclusive photocard from him.

He was laughed all the way out of his direct messages.

Gojo Satoru did several things next.

He blocked (and reported) @Fushidaddy8.

He subscribed for a gym membership.

He dragged Geto out of their shared dorm room (sleep-deprived and grumbling at the 3:41AM on the clock, bound to miss the important physics exam that day…semantics, heh) as moral support on his trek to the post office. Where, when his best friend shivered at the cold early morning and questioned just what and to whom were they mailing, Gojo had answered-

“Oh, just my second button.” The very same one that he’d kept safely since their graduation from high school a few months ago - because, see, Gojo Satoru wasn’t the type to fall in love.

He wasn’t the type to confess.

Though, he did get confessed to more times that he could count (he was perhaps the second most popular bachelor on campus, right after Geto - but even that was a highly-debated ranking of first and second). He just never found the one.

That is…

Gojo beams, plastering on a few stamps on the cardboard box- much too big for but a single button. In it, he poured his feelings—corny, yes. But true. “I’m going to send it to my girl, Cupid-”

Geto punches him before he can finish.

@thestrongestfanboy: The lion does not concern himself with the pain that comes with #truelove, even if he cried a little ☆⌒(> _ <)

@Fushidaddy9 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmao loser.

Just a few months later, another one of your limited edition photocards was released: the “Said Yes!!” photocard that sold out instantly. Just the cutest photo of you receiving a second button in confession, your expression one of pleasant surprise.

No one believed Gojo when they told them that the button was his.

He bought five.

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@BuzzFeed: Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who’s The Biggest Fanboy of Them All? Cupid’s Fandom Compare Notes on Fanboy Shrines and 35 Other Delulu Stan Happenings This Week.

(Read more on buzzfeed.com)

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Gojo Satoru had bought 67 albums. 

67…heh.

Sixty-seven different copies of the very same album—yours.

Sixty-seven different copies of the latest addition in your platinum-reaching, Grammy award-winning discography: the ‘Obsession’ album.

Of course, they’re all yours. Because who else would have such banger songs that he wouldn’t mind replaying over and over again until Geto threatened to smash the damn things? Who else would have exclusive photocards so cute stuffed into the crevices of said albums, that he just had to collect them all? Who else would host a fancall event that he simply had to put a dent in his sizable bank account to win?

It was somewhat of a lottery system, and Gojo’s sure he’d funded his local record store for a few months at least with how much he’d cashed out there.

He’d been up bright n’ early on the day your album hit the stores - camping outside with a few avid others of your fandom (though, proudly, he’d been the first one there). Rushing with the rest to buy up your album, your merch, and with it…a chance to see you.

Every album bought was an entry into the raffle that’d grant them a chance to see you.

Just a few minutes of your time through the screen, and even that was like looking through the pearly gates of heaven in Gojo’s eyes. He’d dreamt about it, he’d manifested it, he’d tweeted about it so many times on his private account that everyone but Haibara had blocked him on.

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I’M 22 NOW SO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME GET WHAT I WANT   (ಥ﹏ಥ)

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: LORD KNOWS IT WOULD BE THE FIRST TIME.

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (read more…)

@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboyPRIV: I believe in you Gojo-senpai ^.^

@Fushidaddy27 replying to @HiByeRawr: dont

@thestrongestfanboyPRIV replying to @Fushidaddy27: How did u even get here??

And so, the wait had dragged on with a few more accounts blocked. 

Until, finally, one day Gojo had been simply scrolling through his emails as he usually did. A few updates from Canvas on his assignment grades. A few A+’s. An email from Geto with nothing but one of those old pictures from Yaga’s abstract dance classes attached. A few more A+’s. An email from the record store saying he won the fancall event. Yet another picture of Yaga-

His heart had damn near stopped.

Actually- Gojo doesn’t think he was even breathing as he hurriedly scrolled back and clicked open the email from the record store. He reads the very first word—

“Congratulations…”

And that’s all he needs to stand up and cheer-

“Shhhh—!” The cryptid-like elderly librarian, Gakuganji, shushes him from just a few tables away. A glare so intense that it makes Gojo sit back down in his seat in an instant, ducking back down to stare at his phone screen.

Heart thundering. Fingers trembling. “Oh my god…” He whispers to himself, knees bouncing underneath the mahogany table as he’s clicking on the link embedded into the email.

It takes him to the official site of your management, where the list of winners had been announced on one page dedicated especially to you. And there - right at the very top - his name. 

Gojo Satoru.

Censored, yes. But he could read it well enough - it was only confirmation of what he already knew through the email. 

And as Gojo tries to tame his giddy elation inside the library, he forgoes those revision papers of his to instead tap away at his phone. First, he texts his parents. Then he texts his friends. Then he emails Nanamin (also one of his friends, but the man had him blocked everywhere else…)- and just as he caught sight of that winner’s email again, Gojo squeals—

“Out of my library!”

Later, Gojo Satoru was added to the campus library Wall of Shame (and Nuisances).

But he didn’t care.

Not one single bit.

@thestrongestfanboy: About to meet my future wife- how do I look?  (￣▽￣*)ゞ

Attached was a selfie of him making your signature bow-and-arrow pose a few days later.

He was well-fitted in his best dress shirt that hugged his toned waist. Cologne practically palpable through the screen. Soft white bangs tamed. Donning a silver chain. False glasses on because he heard in one of your latest interviews that you liked nerds.

Cheeks rosy.

“Bro, isn’t the call for like two minutes?” Geto grumbles from his bed on the other side of the room. Their cramped dorm was already small enough without the other pacing every inch of it in nervousness. 

Gojo whips around with a snarl, “No, for your information it’s actually two and a half minutes.”

Geto squints, “Right…” Before he raises his nose into the air and sniffs—“And god- what is that awful fucking smell?”

“You don’t like it?” His best friend asks innocently, “It’s my cologne.”

“There’s no way your cologne smells like that?” The dark-haired man gapes, leaning back in his bed as he covers his nostrils with a palm.

Geto already has his answer by the way that Gojo starts to squirm. “Well…I may have also added in a bit of your cologne, too…”

“…”

“And Nanamin’s.”

“…”

“And Shoko’s-”

“What the fuck, Satoru?” Geto slaps a hand over his forehead, in the way he much seemed to do when it came to an antic that Gojo did without his consultation (he means, c’mon, if they were to be dumb fucks then they should be dumb fucks together). 

But this was too far even for him.

And Geto only sighs before he’s reaching for his heavy headphones, placing the cushioned device on top of his head. “After this, we’re taking you out to touch grass, man.” He opens his phone to something and blocks out Gojo’s whining protests with it. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious when I say you better not fuck this up for me, Suguru.” Gojo stabs an accusing finger at his best friend, while his other hand reaches for his own phone - the scheduled time for your video call was nearing. “Keep yourself scarce when she calls me.”

“Mhm, whatever you say.”

“Because she’s my future wife-”

“Crazy story, bro.”

With Geto not even close to responsive any longer, Gojo huffs as he looks through his notifications-

@Fushidaddy31: YOURE SO CHOPPED LMFAOOOOOOOO

Nevermind.

Instead, he waits in front of his desk. Phone propped up. Earbuds plugged in. Back straight against his chair. More formal and elegant than he had in any of his other meetings or lectures before.

He turns off his notifications and opens up the app that management had directed him to through emails. Pressing on the screen record button, Gojo’s stomach turns as a staff member performs an ID check before the call.

And then it starts.

Your beautiful, beautiful face pops up on the screen.

Those eyes. That smile. The voice that says, “Hello?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Gojo’s heart drops to his stomach then takes a high-speed elevator right back up to his throat, he can feel the ba-dump! of it there. And later - years and years later - he’ll be able to cringe at the way that his naturally deep voice broke- “H-he-”

Before your face pauses.

It freezes.

And suddenly the call ends.

wait…Gojo taps on his Wi-Fi…he taps on his data…he taps on anything and everything that might make a difference. And yet, nothing ever does. Gojo immediately throws down his earphones on his desk and stands- so fast that his chair topples over—“Suguru!”

The dark-haired man jolts in his bed, turning over at the shriek with his brows scrunched in confusion. Seeing the state his best friend was in, he raises his phone as a shield. “What?”

“Don’t what me- don’t- you- you—” So enraged that he couldn’t even string together a coherent sentence. Face red. Veins popping on his neck. The only way that Geto manages to even slightly discern what the other man may be talking about is by the way he points at his phone, the shared Wi-Fi router, then his phone. 

Geto’s mouth drops, “Ah…” And he catches sight of the orange, blinking right on the router that told the both of them that the day’s data has been finished. He looks at his phone…with the absolutely massive update that had just completed. “In my defense, Love and Deepspace had an update-”

“Suguru, I’m going to kill you.”

Ultimately, no amount of begging or crying to attempting to throttle Geto could reverse the fact that Gojo had won a fancall…and missed it.

All because of his Wi-Fi.

“There there, man.” Geto pats his friend - draped across his bed with his face in his hands - on the back. “At least the new event loaded- it’s an idol event, and I’ll let you play it with Sylus-”

Gojo only sobs louder.

“And then after that, we’ll actually go touch grass. How about that?”

@thestrongestfanboy: Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday to HELL. @DigiGeto ur going to HELL.

@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Mb

@Fushidaddy32: rare aesthetic: fancall with #her n made her do the coldplay kiss cam trend with me heh

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy32: Blocked.

@Fushidaddy32 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: ??

@CupidOfficial: So glad to be able to talk with my lovely fans during the fancall event today!! Thank you to everyone that attended, and even those that didn’t attend heheh…I see you, and I love you <33

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@Variety: This week’s cover story:

Global Superstar Cupid: On Stardom, Surprises of Fame, and the Undying Support of her Fans (“There was actually this funny story with a fan that froze—”)

(see page 9…)

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Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine.

Gojo Satoru was in heaven.

Gojo Satoru was going to meet his wife.

Everywhere he looked, he could see that beautiful face of yours. 

From the floor-to-ceiling posters against the stark white walls, to the stalls upon stalls of merchandise that featured you, to the rows upon rows of people wearing t-shirts with your face on it. Posters. Plushies. Bow-and-arrow lights. Everything that his heart could ever yearn for.

And that included you.

And no- Gojo hadn’t died and gone to heaven (evidenced by the way that no matter how many times he pinched himself, it still bruised). Don’t be silly! He was simply at a place that was rather similar, he imagines.

A fanmeet.

Where the excitement was palpable, and everyone here had arrived with the same goal in mind - to spend just a few precious moments with you in person.

In person!

Geto was the one that’d snagged him the ticket to this event, to make up for the rather tragic incident with the fan call two years ago. And so here he was, at your first-ever fanmeet in Tokyo. Gojo vibrated on the balls of his feet, and with his towering height he could make out just a few more meters until he managed to see you up-close.

He held one of his most prized possessions - your first poster from Idol Academy, the one that Ijichi had gifted him so many years ago - to his chest and sighed. In less than an hour, he’d have it signed. In less than an hour, he’d get to hold your hand.

In less than an hour, he’d get to see you.

There was a part of him that felt like it was tugging towards you already- and Gojo has to bounce himself slightly to find a way to channel the adrenaline.

It’d been quite the arduous journey to get to here, and he didn’t want to make a single mistake now - all the albums he’d bought, all the pictures from your latest fanmeets that he’d fawned over, all the stan Twitter fights. 

Honestly, just today he’d gotten into it with some delusional loser online (@urmomstype) that’d been spreading rumors about you being…particularly close with the famed actor you had in your newest music video. Gojo shudders as he thinks back to it:

@urmomstype: A thread of all the PROOFS that #Cupid is dating the hottest k-drama actor right now—

Inside was some amalgamated mess of pictures of ‘shared couples items’ (half the population owned that shit, c’mon, that actor was far from special) and coded messages that apparently littered your social media. By the end of it, the user had been self-assured, a few other misogynistic antis were spouting hate, and Gojo was furious.

He’d typed away so fast that his thumbs were nothing but a blur.

@thestrongestfanboy: U call this proof?? Holy fucking airball lmao (￣ヘ￣)

@thestrongestfanboy: Bozo

@thestrongestfanboy: Ratio + L + my fav is better than ur fav

@thestrongestfanboy: She isn’t dating anyone BOZO!! Even if she was (which she isn’t) it’s none of ur business and ur a loser so go back to doing loser things. I bet ur an anti from that one other agency…凸(`△´＃)

@Fushidaddy89 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: yk for once i agree with you

@urmomstype replying to @Fushidaddy89: Why are two uncs replying to me…arguing with a minor btw.

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @urmomstype: With this gift I summon-

It had lasted a few hours (and that was on the shorter end of the stick). Until, ultimately, Geto and Shoko had pulled his phone away from his face (he was defending your honor!) and reminded him that there were much more important things on the horizon.

Namely, you…

Besides, he was glad to get away from the epic highs and lows of high school football stan Twitter. He was glad not to have to fight with what was likely some middle-aged, parasocial man there over you. He was glad not to get into futile shipping wars that-

“Do you think her actor boyfriend will be here?” 

An agitating, grating voice breaks through his thoughts (really, it was the squeaky voice of a child), and Gojo’s immediately whipping his head down, down, down behind him.

It was a buzzcut boy, wearing a t-shirt with your face and a pair of soft feathery wings that was sold as one of your exclusive merchandise—and yet…those angelic appendages still wasn’t enough to hide the mischief in his face.

Gojo stares at him.

And he stares at Gojo.

“You.”

“You.”

As his blonde-haired guardian looks on in slight shock, Gojo stabs an index his way- “User urmomstype?”

“User thestrongestfanboy.” He then points at himself, “But you can call me Todo Aoi.” And before the older man can begin to sputter again, he raises a small palm to silence him (and why was Gojo being silenced by what looked like an eight-year-old?) “I already know who you are, Gojo Satoru. You’re infamous inside the fandom, y’know?”

He gapes, “I am?”

“Mhm.”

Before he starts twirling the curls of white at the base of his neck, Todo stares in bewilderment as the taller man starts squirming. “So like…d’you think that means there’s a chance she’d notice me, too?”

“…”

“…”

“F-forget that-”

“You really think you can pull fine shyt?” Todo squints up at Gojo, and then down at the sheer amount of merchandise he was draped in. “You’re chopped with a negative aura that no amount of aura farming could possibly replenish, brother. Your eyes are built like a 24k labubu. If you were a meal, even Fanum wouldn’t ask for tax. Even I’d win a mid-off against you. I hate to break it to you but she’s much better off with that actor-”

“Don’t think that just because you’re speaking in brainrot terms I don’t understand you- I’m brainrotted, too.” Seething, “And they’re not even dating-”

“Maybe, maybe not.” 

“Definitely not!”

The little boy nods, sagely. “Still got the views for the music video, didn’t I? And what did you do? Whine about how you weren’t married to her yet?”

And to that he doesn’t have much to say, “Well…”

The blonde-haired woman that’d been holding Todo back finally announces her presence, “Hi there- apologies. My name’s Yuki.” She reached out her hand, and they shook - with Gojo dazed by the absolute demolishment of his character. “I’ve warned him about his ah- ragebaiting issue…it’s a work-in-progress.”

“I-I see…” Gojo breathes, looking back at the line - just a little longer and he’d be out of here. Just a little longer and he’d get to see you—“One question, I’m not actually chopped, am I?”

As Todo whispers the definition to Yuki, she shakes her head happily. “Oh, not at all! You’re not exactly my type, but trust that you’re quite the handsome character.”

“Handsome enough to pull my wife?” At her visible confusion, he jerks his head where your figure was seated at a black-clothed table, signing posters and making conversation with your line of fans. Oh- how perfect you were.

“O-oh! Her?” A line of sweat beads at her temple, “Well, why not?”

Gojo - quite maturely - sticks his tongue out at Todo.

But the boy only replies, “You look like you wear wigs.”

Gojo self-consciously runs a hand through his soft white hair, “I-I don’t!” He did take particularly good care of his hair.

“Do you wear wigs?”

“No, I do not-”

“Have you worn wigs?”

“No, I have not-”

“Will you wear wigs?”

“…Maybe?!”

“When will you wear wigs-”

“Please!”

“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to step out.” A gruff, masculine voice speaks out from beside him- and it didn’t match Todo’s probing voice. Not at all. Gojo turns his surprised head around and finds himself face-to-face with a stony-faced man. 

As tall as him. Even beefier. With shades that reflected his own widened blue eyes.

His jaw drops, “Wh-what…”

The security guard gestures to Todo, and then towards the door with the ‘Exit’ sign. “For your disruption, we’re going to have to ask you to step out of the premises.” He cracks his knuckles, “Or you shall be escorted out.”

“No-” Gojo’s gasping, looking around for an answer. “No no no no- disruption? What disruption?”

“Arguments with a child-”

“That lil’ shit deserved it—” Gojo whines out, before realizing that that likely didn’t help his case. “I-I mean-” He’s gesturing to the boy that was clearly not disrupted in any sense of the word, “-look at him! He’s completely fine! In fact, I’m the one emotionally scarred.”

The other two also start to protest this course of action, and the security guard stays silent for a beat, and lets the counterargument sink in…

Before he raises his walkie-talkie up to his mouth, “We’re having some resistance here, I request back-up at the front of the line.”

“No no no-” He was just a meter away - a meter. “No, wait- please no.” And by now, the other fans were starting to point and stare at him now. At the way he was panicking. At the way he was trying to inch himself closer to the signing event. At the way he was so close to you- and yet, so far, with two burly security guards that clapped their hands down on his shoulders and dragged him away by his arms.

All the way to the exit.

As you stared.

“NOOOOOOO—!”

@thestrongestfanboy: I’m gonna be honest, kitten, daddy’s about to kill himself   ٩(× ×)۶

@Fushidaddy103 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i saw the video youre trending on tiktok lmaooooo

@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: F in the chat

@pinkillit replying to @urmomstype: F

@hearts2hurts replying to @urmomstype: F

@utahimeslefttoe replying to @urmomstype: F

@lovelicky replying to @urmomstype: F

@CupidOfficial: Tokyo, oh Tokyo~

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TRENDING ON TIKTOK:

#Cupidfanmeet

#thatonecrazyguy

#thestrongestfanboy

#Cupiddatingrumors

#Cupidbemywife

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This was it.

This was Gojo’s last chance.

He hadn’t won a fancall since that one time (no matter how many albums he bought, the universe just wasn’t on his side), he’d been barred from your Tokyo fanmeet, he’d been known as that one delusional fanboy in your fandom.

Which was honestly fine. Gojo was fine.

He was completely and utterly fine-

“OHMYGODSUGURUI’MSOCLOSEITHINKICANSEEHERICANSEEHER-” Gojo yelled in Geto’s ear, over the roaring crowd that was most likely saying the same thing he was. He shook the man, and then proceeded to shake his other best friend standing right beside him. “YOUGUYSARETHEBESTANDILOVEYOUANDYOU’LLBETHEBESTMANANDBESTWOMANAND-”

“Not if I kill you right now.” Shoko mutters, punching Gojo right in the stomach so he’d shut up for the first time in the past few hours. She takes a puff of her cigarette, even though the stadium had a strict no smoking policy.

She needed it.

She deserved it.

Though, she supposed that there was no one to blame but herself. 

It was obvious the toll that all the failed fancalls and fanmeets had taken on Gojo. And while she couldn’t quite understand the sheer ahem- delusion that came with it, she knew that this was something important to him. And Geto did, too.

Which was why, with the power of social media, the duo had reached out to that ‘urmomstype’ boy and his blonde-haired guardian. Apparently, even after Gojo had been escorted his merry way outside, the two had tried to overturn the decision, explaining that it’d all just been some silly banter and there really wasn’t anything to remove him over. ‘He might be chopped and unc, but he’s still a goat. Sorta.’ The boy had said, whatever that means…

But, alas, the security guard had been stubborn.

And so, the four - Shoko, Geto, Yuki, and Todo (yes, even Todo) - had wanted to make it up to Gojo in a different way. Despite not being able to attend the fanmeet, you still had your upcoming concert in the famous Tokyo Dome.

They’d stayed up all night on the phone trying out every connection they had to somehow get a few extra tickets.

All night.

There had to be something, right?

Until - finally, finally - Yuki managed to get in contact with Gakuganji (yes, their ol’ campus librarian), who managed to get in contact with Yaga (yes, their ol’ high school principal), who managed to get in contact with one of his other friends that knew someone on your staff team. And through a rollercoaster of contacts, they somehow managed to snag a few seats.

Front row.

Gojo had burst into tears the moment he read that pink slip of paper with your name in bold, surrounded by hearts. He’d crushed them all to him, so tight that Shoko wondered whether her bones might break, and whispered. “You guys are definitely invited to my wedding.”

And if her heart melted just a little bit then, well…she didn’t mention it.

Now, however, she’d no sooner be invited to Gojo Satoru’s funeral than his alleged wedding. To their own fortune, Yuki and Todo had been assigned places a few seats down. A weary Geto on the other side of their white-haired friend reaches his hands out towards her. “Cigarette, please.”

Shoko raises a brown brow, “You don’t even smoke?”

“I’m about to start.”

“You guuuuys—” Gojo drags on, as the opening notes of your album start to ring out on the speakers. He shoots his hands out to grab Shoko- and when she ducks, he shoots his hands out to grab Geto- and when he groans, Gojo only sways them in the air. “It’s about to start- she’s about to come on stage- oh my god, oh my god my wife’s about to come on stage-”

“She’ll be your ex-wife if you don’t calm the fuck down.” Geto can’t help but laugh. Shoko looks on in confusion as he moves in synchronization with Gojo to the first few dance moves of your routine. Geto answers her unspoken question, “What? He played it all the time in our dorm, I could recite every lyric and move in my sleep by now.”

“M-me too.” And as your silhouette starts to become projected on the screen behind you, Gojo’s starting to tear up. Large, bulbous tears of emotion.

They were both dancing in unison now. 

Crying (Gojo, at least).

Shoko shakes her head with a chuckle of her own. “Idiots.”

And then you saunter your way onto stage and Shoko (as well as everyone in a five-mile radius) feels their eardrums stop working.

@thestrongestfanboy: I wasn’t just another screaming boy…I challenged her stare down…she saw me. She pointed—twice. And if u think I’m done? Let’s see if the wolf can find his prey again…good luck…(^人<)〜☆

Attached was a video taken from the concert - more girlish screaming (Gojo’s) than music, to be quite honest.

@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy114: I don’t see u at the concert. L |ʘ‿ʘ)╯

@Fushidaddy114 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i dont see me trending on tiktok either

Gojo doesn’t even have the time to block and report Fushidaddy’s 114th account, because he’s too busy shoving his phone into his pocket and joining the screams for your encore that night. The one where you pretend to walk off, then dramatically sigh as you prance back down—

“Ah~” You’re voicing into the mic, looking at the sea of flash-lit faces around you. “Again? You lot are reeeeeally ravenous tonight, aren’t you?”

In unison, they roar. They agree.

With a faux huff, you’re placing your hand on your waist. It’s a pose infamous amongst your fandom, and they already knew what was coming up next- “Who’s got you so worked up, huh? Is it…me?” Roaring. Rumbling. Raging. You gasp, flattered. “It’s really me? Oh, now you’re just kidding—”

A furious shake of heads.

“You’re not? Well…” You smile, and it’s the type of smile that makes a flurry of star-stuck cameras go off. Basking in it, you walk oh-so-closely to the edge of the stage, where hands reach out to merely be in your presence. “That’s cute. But I still think I should arrest someone for being so naughty tonight, getting you all worked up.”

Crowds wave, volunteering themselves up to you.

You reach for your glittering belt and pull out the fluffy pink handcuffs that make them squeal, “And how aboooooout…”

Scanning the stadium.

Looking around.

Your eyes pass over the roaring head until—

“Ah! You there.” You’re pointing, your eye catching on a fluffy head of white hair. A face so handsome. So eager. “How about you? Would you like to be my arrestee tonight—?”

His deep voice sounds out, “Y-yes! Yes please-”

And as you near, the crowd grows even more restless. Like a tumultuous sea, the waves crash into each other, creating a rough tide that almost wanted to pull you in-

You blink.

And suddenly that white-haired man has disappeared.

But you’re by the edge of the stage by now, and you could feel the palms reaching for you as you try to discern just where he might be. “I uh-” You pause. Before the crowd surges forwards, and you’re thinking quickly to point out someone else. “Perhaps he isn’t so eager to be thrown in the slammer tonight-” They laugh, “-so how about you? Brown-haired girl? Would you like to be arrested by me~?”

She nods, and you proceed with your lil’ skit to ‘arrest’ her for being much too naughty.

Teasing and twirling, before you stand up and get on with the rest of your concert-

“And now—who’s ready for an encore~?”

You prance away, leaving a trail of glitter and song- and tears. Fuck, Gojo only claws himself up from the ground just as you finished your little arresting routine. The roll of the crowd had knocked him to the ground, and Shoko looks at her sad lil’ best friend.

She raises the handcuffs on her wrists, “Help me get out of these and you can have them, Satoru-”

“No, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Gojo straightens himself up, and Shoko’s shocked to find that he shakes his head in rejection.

“Satoru, are you okay?” Geto asks, warily.

“Yeah-” He sighs. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Something hollow in his breath. Something hollow in his heart, as he watches you slip away.

One.

More.

Time.

It’s alright.

It’s alright.

@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play Chasing Pavements by Adele

@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: cringe

@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: but you good bro??

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy117: No bro 

@Fushidaddy117 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i feel you bro

@CupidOfficial: White hair. White stars…

That night, while Gojo had tossed and turned himself into a fitful sleep, his phone buzzed with yet another notification. 

One that he had to blink his eyes at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, one that he had to pinch himself at to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

DIRECT MESSAGES for @thestrongestfanboy.

@CupidOfficial: You’re the white-haired boy from tonight, aren’t you?

@CupidOfficial: Sorry if this is forward of me, I’ve just seen you around quite a bit…on my timeline, at the fanmeet…

@CupidOfficial: I just wanted to ask whether you’d want to model for the cover of my upcoming album?

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@pannchoa: Rumors swirl of Cupid’s upcoming album! Dispatch hints and industry whispers - read the full EXCLUSIVE from her producer right here.

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First thing’s first, you had Gojo Satoru sit on the couch of your penthouse accommodation. Talking through the details of your secretive upcoming album, and how the aesthetic you were going for fit his dazzling looks perfectly.

Second thing’s second, you had him seated on your king-sized bed. Still babbling about your album- at least, he was. Though the both of you knew that it was something else entirely on your minds.

Third thing’s third, he was sprawled out on said mattress. You straddlin’ his handsome face like a perch. His puffy, pinkish lips glued to your cunt—

“Mmpf- mmmm…” Gojo’s groaning over the most lecherous squelches that you’ve heard in your entire life. They’re echoing out like one of your sweetest songs, in sloppy staccato with the rovering movements of his tongue.

Gojo Satoru was eating you out like he was ravenous.

Famished.

Grabbing ahold of each side of your ass cheeks, he’s dragging you back down onto his gaping maw each n’ every time you flinched away with a whine, letting his tongue slash deeply into your drivelling orifice. “Mmm- hck!” Gojo’s so sloshed on your syrupy pussy that he’s finding himself hiccuping, eyes rolling all the way to the back of his head once your sap trickles out with a splash! Straight into the back of his throat, “Ohhhhh, my sweet girl-”

“Now now-” With a shiver, one of your hands slithers down to tug on Gojo’s clammy white locks. Almost as if to pull him away- but that only makes him nudge his lips closer to your hole with a keen. “Make sure you remember to- haaah, breathe, Gojo-”

“Sa-Satoru-” He whispers this out directly against your quivering cunt, and the vibrations make your back arch perfectly. Looking up at you through his pale lashes, fluttering. “Please call me, Satoru…”

Just the tip of his tongue that reels back out to fuck back in-

“-ma’am.”

“O-oh—” You’re moaning out at the way that his thick muscle pierces you - not only was Gojo an avid talker, but he had the tongue to back that up, too. So strong. So lengthy. He’s stirrin’ his tongue around and around in circular motions to graze those ridged tastebuds of his into each tiny nook n’ cranny. 

Pulling onto his sweaty bangs and that only seems to make him go even harder- “S’that what you want me to call you?” You’re managing out, looking down at him- and that seems to make him jolt at the sheer intensity. “You want me to call you…”

You teasingly trail off, and Gojo only seems to buck—his hips coming up to make your vast bed creek. Chin spankin’ against the edge of your cunt when he yearns even closer, “Yes? Yes?” 

“Oh? Was I supposed to- hck! finish something?” Pretending to not know exactly what he wanted, and it frankly made you even wetter to see the way that the tips of Gojo’s ears burn bright red at being caught.

“You know what I want baby- you know-” Sputtering out scorching hot breaths against your hole, before you know it- Gojo has one of his hands looped ‘round your thigh. The flat of his right thumb rubbin’ up and down your clit, “You kn-know what I want- and this pretty pussy does, too.”

Just the sultry sensation of him toying with your nub makes you gasp and buck. With your head thrown back, he’s taking every forceful bounce.

With such immense pleasure, Gojo’s letting his entire pretty face get ridden. The seeping hot core of your cunt plasters from the tip of his nose, down, down, down to grind your clit on the point of his chin. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Timing your gyrations just right, Gojo purses his lips and he spits- “She’s just so wet, my light.” Creating a slippery puddle that lets him slither his tongue into you even faster, “Soooo fucking wet. Sooo fuh-fucking loud, might even be louder than you on stage- and she’s honest, too.”

You’re raising a brow in challenge, raising his blushing head from between your legs to simply ask. “And just wh-what is ‘she’ honest about?”

There’s another dangling line of saliva spat on top of your pussylips, and the edge of Gojo’s thumb presses each wad inside. You shiver - and so does your core. “She knows she loves me—she knows she wants to call me ‘Satoru’, doesn’t she?”

Oh.

You simply shiver- you don’t even have an answer, and Gojo doesn’t expect you to have one. With sensual movements, the plush part of his lower lip drag-drag-draaaaags down the front of your cunt.

He’s pulling his tongue back, just lightly tapping it on top of your shaky orifice—“Hey…” You’re grumbling out, when his teasing motions are lingering for just too long. You tug on his hair, and that seems to make him groan in ecstacy - the happiness of being used. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?”

“Why? Does she miss me?” Gojo prattles away - not to you, but to your dripping wet cunt. Almost as if to prove his point, just the spit-covered edge of his tastebuds slither close to your hole. And it makes you clench—

Around nothing, because Gojo’s pulling away in an instant.

He never imagined how fun it would be to tease you.

His pretty, swollen lips turning up into a dirty grin. “Ohhh, don’t you worry, my light.” And the crown of his thumb rolls over your clit a few more times, “I already know that she misses the feeling of my tongue fucking ‘er-” And just as you wanted (because he could never leaving you longing for too long) Gojo’s tongue starts moving in, sinking. “Already know she wants to be f-filled up like no other could, already know every word to your songs- every lyric- every syllable. Already know you’re gonna feel my tongue between your legs- and you’re going to call me—”

You breathe, “Yes?”

And he’s almost pleading. “Your good boy?”

“Well…” You twist your fingers harshly into his silken white hair, and it makes Gojo moan. Slightly shoving him where you wanted him the most- “-then shut the fuck up n’ prove it to me, Satoru.”

And that’s all he wanted.

That’s all he needed. For now.

Until you’re calling him your ‘good boy’ exactly like that dark, carnal part of him wanted you to—Gojo’s grunting at the shock of his first name leaving your pretty lips, in that sing-song voice of yours. 

A sudden lurch that makes him shove his clammy head between your legs once more. He’s glued to the sheeny inner parts of your thighs, roughly gluing his mouth over your glazed pussylips.

“Oh- oh…” Heavy pants leave your mouth, and your chest heaves each time Gojo’s probin’ not only his prolonged tongue inside you- but also his slender fingers. “You’re really trying to prove it t’me-”

They were just so long. The curvaceous tips of his digits deliciously curving into your tenderest spots- he glides them perfectly along your walls. Fitting the ridges of his middle and ring fingers against your g-spot. 

Thoroughly. You could feel the way that Gojo was grinning against your cunt folds as he feels your cute walls clamp down ‘round his touch- “I found that spot, my light. It feels sooooo gooood having my fingers all up in there, hm? Can you feel me right there-”

“Y-yes-” Fuck, he was circlin’ the padded tips of his fingers and that made you fall upon the bed. You clap a hand down on that mahogany headboard of yours and use it to keep yourself moving- “Fuck, it feels so good.”

“Then don’t you think I deserve it…” He’s pouting, plush mouth now pulling back to clamp down your clit, too. And not only was he suckin’ on that nub, he was biting down, too. “M’your number one fan.”

“Mhm—fuh-fuck.” Your head falls back when he’s pressing his lips together and draaaaagging the fleshy top of your clit backwards. Just stretching. Just itching this carnal itch.

When you’re distracted by the white-hot pleasure that bursts behind your lids at the feeling, Gojo’s easily managing to sneak in yet another finger. A third one that pummels your bruising g-spot just as hard. “Can recite your every lyric. Every fanchant.” The hot crevice of his mouth moves rapidly against your core.

Furiously.

He’s drawing out a saucy pattern with his tongue, one that you’re only later realizing are the strokes to spelling out your stage name. 

C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D-C-U-P-I-D.

Gojo’s hot tastebuds salivate right down your front, pressing on your clit until you see sparks behind your eyes. “See- see?” There’s an almost crazed look in Gojo’s peripherals, rolling until they were almost nothing but pure white as you clench down on him roughly - and you start to wonder just what you have released. “See, m’your biggest fan- hck! M’your good boy, and this pretty pussy knows it.” He almost sounds pathetic begging between your legs, drooling, drunken. “And- and that’s not all-”

“Satoru, what do you mean that’s not…” Your sentence slowly dissolves in your throat, and with every push of his slimy tongue, you’re realizing just what he’s talking about.

Because instead of the curving ‘C’ that meant he was spelling out your stage name, Gojo was slashing something out. Long, hard lines that edged you closer towards your bliss—

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

“Mmm, you really are my biggest fuh-fan.” You’re somehow managing out, and the only thing you can do right now is grab ahold of Gojo’s hair and let him lavish you with his mouth. “You really love me, Toru?” And you feel him jolt at that cute nickname- “Or do you love my pussy?”

“Both. Both.” Fingers spearheading you so fast at this point that the skin ‘round his mountainous knuckles turns red. Stinging red. Needy red. Just like the strawberry shade of his overworked lips- 

Plap! after plap! 

And you’re not sure if the sounds are from the way you’re riding his handsome face, or the impact of him banging his fingertips into your deepest insides. “Both both both- fuck, I wanna have you drippin’ down my tongue for forever, my light. Could have you squeezin’ around me like this for ages, mmm, m’fucking obsessed.”

“A reference to my- haaah, to my album?” You question, and you were just so close. You were just so rapidly nudging yourself closer on top of him like this- “But what if you can’t breathe, Toru?”

“I don’t need to-” To which Gojo only grips the side of your ass with his free hand, tugging you down. Jolting you atop him. Manhandling you down further. He scrapes his swabbing fingers even further down your walls, past the spot of your bundle of nerves. “I don’t need to at all. Hah- I don’t need to breathe if I can have you like th-this…”

Your mouth dries of a response, because just then, he’s changing up the pattern of his sizzlin’ tastebuds again. 

Long, luscious strokes.

M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.

Your eyes snap wide open, and you’re gasping at the realization of what exactly he was spelling out. “O-oh…” Chin slathering with a waterfall of your spittle, you’re just holding onto him for dear life at his vulgar kisses. “Satoru, I think m’gonna c-cum—”

And you’ve had voice training before, you’ve been used to keeping your voice steady even in the most pressurized of environments- but just then, your tone cracks as you heave your sultry body forwards and cum.

Hot, glistening waves of bliss.

A heat that takes over your body, from your scalp to your toes.

Again and again.

Slight tears prick behind your eyelids as you let Gojo fuck you through your high with his tongue, “Fuck- fuck, you made me cum-” Somehow pinpointing each peak of your orgasm to stick his fingers in for. Thud, thud, thud. “-and I didn’t even expect it.”

“Mmmm—” And you don’t know who was more gone on the fact that you were cumming like this, you or him. Because Gojo was lappin’ away with his thick tongue, slurping. “Tastes so sweet, my light. S’like sugar on my tongue…”

“Oh, you really are pussydrunk.” You whisper, and let his face move back and forth to elongate your euphoria. “Keep going, Toru—h-hah, keep going.”

“Anything for you, ma’am.”

How he loved the way you soaked yourself just a lil’ wetter at the sound of him saying that particular title. How he loved the way you’d flinch and tremble on top of him when he licked you from the tip of your clit and down to the end of your cunt. How he loved the way your high bated to nothing but mere tingles, and you shivered sensitively when he still kept going.

“My orgasm’s over now, Toru—” You hiccup, your tears starting to spill. “You were such a…good boy.”

And that’s when Gojo jolts, his entire body running with a shockwave that made itself obvious even to you. Curiously, you’re peering behind him- before he’s drawing your attention back to the front with a few more plunging pushes of his tongue. “Mmmm, m’your good boy. Your good boy- your good boy.”

G-O-O-D-B-O-Y.

“Mhm—” And when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to wrench himself away anytime soon, you’re bawling. “Fuck- fuck, Satoru m’so sensitive.”

“M’sorry, my light, I just can’t seem to-” Somehow managing to pant through his thorough pushes, it was honestly a wonder that he could even find the time to breathe at this point- with the way he was glued to your puckered pussy. Mouthing out what felt like the most popular lyrics to your songs at this point- “-can’t even seem to stop. It’s like I’m…almost like I’m-”

You flinch when he spits once more, the wad oozing down your slit.

“-addicted.”

You take a goood, long look at Gojo: puffy eyes, bleary vision, his mouth all puffy and raw around your cunt. Nearly every inch of his face was covered in a sappy layer of your slick, and it dripped down to drench your pillow beneath. Like a puddle. 

Your cup your hand down from his hair n’ to his cheek, and Gojo practically melts at the touch. You had the distinct thought that if he were a cat, he’d be purring. “But Toru-” Jutting your bottom lip out for emphasis, “I want to give you the same, you know what I mean? S’that alright.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you could step on me and I’d thank you.” He says, before wrenching off of your swollen pussylips with a wettened plop!

A loud, dramatic mwah!

It makes your heart race, and something in Gojo’s tightened trousers twitch. Eagerly, you’re shuffling yourself off of him and sitting on one end of the bed.

Earlier, Gojo had simply ripped off your skirt and panties off- and his flooded mouth drops further with every item of clothing you’re taking off. Until you were completely exposed, and you’re directing him with a finger to do the very same.

“Yes, ma’am-” There’s absolutely no hesitation before his t-shirt (with, tastefully, your face on it as part of your merchandise) comes off. And you’re absolutely shocked- because Gojo wasn’t the trim, lanky figure that you’d expected him to be.

Instead, he was built.

Well-chiselled pecs that made you ache to touch them, leading down with a deep valley to the muscles of his washboard abs. Almost like a ladder. They were decorated only with a few beauty spots, and a line of sparse white hair that led down, down, down.

Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he then tugs down on the hemline of his pants and boxers, revealing—oh.

He flushes at the intensity of your stare, “Wh-what?” Almost squirming, he just felt so shy by the way his idol was looking at him like you just wanted to tear him apart. Sensually. “Is something not-”

“You’re just so big, Satoru.” You gasp, your eyes never straying from him. 

Naturally, your hand reaches out to grab the ninth of his loooong inches, thick and hot in your hold. Glistening with need. His tight balls clenching. He was so hard that every pulsation was visible even from here.

A few veins decorated his shaft, and he was so reddened at the tip, n’ dripped down a stream of milky precum just at the feeling of your palm on him.

Slowly - ever-so-slowly - you start to lower your head…

“Oh.” Gojo pants out a scalding breath. “And that is…good?”

“It’s perfect.”

Gojo’s watching you through partly-cracked eyelids, feeling so hypnotized by the sight of you below him. He raises himself slightly on his haunches with a hiss, the hot air from your mouth kissin’ his tip—it almost- it almost reminded him of the way you’d lean in so close with your microphone.

Lips so soft.

Tongue so talented.

Just gently pressing—

And that’s when Gojo chokes back a needy cry and cums- straight down the front of your pretty, pretty face. In a split-second, you have your tongue filthily dangling out to catch the wads of seed that he was pouring out. 

Splat after splat that ended up emptying on your tastebuds.

He’s bucking to let his shaft glissade just further down your tongue- and the mere plush feeling of him only makes his geysering divot spill out more generously. 

“Fuck-” Gojo scrunches his azure eyes, head fighting not to throw back and miss a second of the sinful sight below. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- I can’t believe I’m…this is all your fault, sweetheart, ngh.” And his abs flex as he starts up a lil’ half-rut to fuck himself through his wave of bliss. 

“Mmm—” You’re savoring the salted caramel taste of him, something so sweet about him. Amused, you raise a brow. “I barely even put my mouth on you, and you’re cumming already?”

He’s raising his hands to his blushing face, peeking out through his fingers. “Actually…it’s the second time tonight m’cumming, my light.” As you raise your brows in slight surprise, and flick your eyes to the drenched mess of his boxers. “The haaaah—the first time was when you- you called me your ‘good boy’.”

“Oh.”

Cumming just from eating you out? Now that really made your cunt throb with torturous need, and you’re sliding a hand between your legs to feel for the wetness there.

“Well, then-” A beautiful grin graces your face, and it’s enough to make Gojo’s swollen cock twitch. “-guess you have one more to make up t’me if you’re such a, mm, good boy, huh?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Before you know it, you’re being splayed out with your back against the bed. The mattress slightly dips as Gojo hovers his muscular weight above you, and he’s gently pushin’ apart your legs, sweat beading on his forehead as he takes in your dripping wet core.

You swear you catch his mouth watering at the sight- “No need to be nervous, Toru. Have you ever done this before?”

He shakes his head, “No, it- it was actually my first time eating you out, too.” Peering up at you with teary eyes, “Did I do good?”

Did he do good?

If that was his first time, you didn’t know what would happen with his second, his third, his tenth. And you’re snapping yourself forcefully out of that little reverie, “Yes- fuck, yes you did so good. Was such a good boy for me.” He grunts, something ruined in it. “Now I need you to be a good boy f’me again, okay? C’mon- put my legs on your shoulder—yeeeees, just like that.”

His muscles shifted underneath your heels, he was just so hulking.

“Now bend, Toru-”

“Bend?”

“Bend.”

And Gojo wanted to prove himself to you, just like before. He wanted to do his very best for you, you, you and only you - even if that meant…manhandling his one and only idol, just a little.

With a primal lurch, Gojo then has your knees pushed all the way up to your tits. “Like this?” Your body bent completely in half, like a lawn chair. “Like this?” And his hips slotting between your legs- in this mean mating press, Gojo’s furious cock stuffs juuuuuust inside- “Like- like-”

Before he’s slouching his head forwards and pushing—

“Fuck-” Gojo’s canines try to sink into his lower lip, before he’s realizing that that won’t hold back his gruff noises and he’s simply keening. Carnal. Baritone. 

A thin line of drool starts to splash from the side of his maw, before his entire body bows inwards to yours. Like he was focusing each n’ every ounce of strength into pryin’ aside your swollen folds and squeeeeezing his round, girthy tip inside. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- fuck!” And then you clench and you can hear the exact moment that the sensation pangs through Gojo’s body, “I think m’gonna cum again- fuck, m’gonna cum again just from this.”

“If you do then I want it allll inside-” You say, looking up into his attractive face - so unintentionally sexy. Gojo was flushing. Rabidly slobbering. His dick aching.

He was so hard that you could feel the prominent outline of each vein, scraping your insides as Gojo tries to push past the slight resistance of your entrance and buck and buck- “Don’t- oh.” He could barely even echo out a coherent thought with your wet pussy wrapped ‘round him like this. “Don’t- fuckin’- talk like that- s’only gonna make it, ngh, worse.”

“But I thought you were my good boy?”

“Fuh-fuck.” Gojo hollows out, with a clouded breath that made it seem as though every ounce of sanity was leaving his body along with it. And at that very second, you feel him spurt out just a single pearly white bead of cum.

It splats! down at the back of your pussy, and makes you shiver at the feeling. Meanwhile, Gojo’s forced to lurch up one of his fists and gnaw down on it to control himself. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing t’me.” The blood vessels at his neck and temples pop as he somehow stops his dribbling cock from flooding your insides any further. “Didn’t know how fuck- fucking mean ya are, my light.”

“What can I say?” You hum, your hamstrings all sore with the intrusion that was being lodged in your lower half. “You were the criminal that got away- ngh, at my concert.”

“Mhm—?” Still rutting. Just animalistic half-ruts.

“And I want you to fuck me filthily, Toru.”

Oh…at this confession of yours, he grows even bigger inside of your tight channel. The girth of Gojo’s cock swells up, and his sheer length pushes apart your walls, molding them to him-

“Oh- oh my…” There was still a light sheen of your slick on Gojo’s face that he hadn’t been able to greedily lap away, and it’s then - mid-sentence - that you choose to lean yourself closer to him and get a taste. 

To which Gojo’s hazed blue eyes snap open- and oh, the look in them makes your legs tighten. Makes them fail- he’s snapping them open in a singular fluid motion, uncaring of the way it exhausts your muscles. Uncaring of the snug stretch-stretch-streeeeetch of your cunt once he’s mazing himself inside. “-my light.” Gojo bites out, “I’ll give you anything you need…”

Just then, your ears ring with a sharp clap!

You’re wondering whether it’s your ears.

You’re wondering whether it’s your heartbeat.

You’re left wondering no longer when you register it’s the slamming impact of Gojo’s toned v-line snapping against your lower half. Bottoming out in one motion, he’s deeply probin’ his rotund tip into the back of your treacly pussy.

Bottoming out? Already? 

“And that includes fucking you like the slut you want to be fucked as.”

Oh.

Oh. 

It seems that perhaps you’ve broken him.

Because then Gojo’s pounding his rough, ravenous hips into you all the way until his white happy trail scrapes your clit, and the end of his shaft reaches for the back of your throat. 

“What the fuck…” He stops as he feels the tender end of your pussy - teary eyes widening. And the first thing out of his mouth is, “Is this real?” In utter, feral disbelief. “There’s no way this is…” Before Gojo’s pinching himself.

He bottoms out a few more times, and each time the look in his eyes grows more distant. Jaw dropping further and further with the pure ecstacy of having his painfully-hard erection surrounded by your soft warmth. “Are you- hck! are you holding up, Toru?”

“Holding up? Holding up?” He almost cackles- octaves higher, almost crazed. He turns to you, “Pinch me.” 

“What-”

“Pinch me.”

And so you do - right on the strawberry nubs of his nipples, where he was just so sensitive. Only when the painfully lewd sensation confirms it’s real does he start formulating his sloppy cadence, “Fuck! It doesn’t fucking feel r-real. It can feel like this, sweetheart?” He was rutting his hips impatiently into you like he was trying to fuck the answer out of you. Each n’ every loooong, winding vein glissading down your walls. “N-ngh, she feels like heaven ‘round my cock.”

“Oh yeah—?” Purposefully, you clench. “Like that, Satoru?”

He simply shivers, “Y-yes.” You can feel him thumpin’ away at the goopy back of your pussy, with his circular divot creaming out in pre. “She’s sucking up every inch of me- fuck, huggin’ me so tight. Bet she can feel my veins reeeeeal good, can’t she?” A few slurps as he sloppy fucks his way in, which he takes as an answer. “Mhm, she can.”

And you only clench harder-

“Oh.” He whimpers, “Have mercy.”

“I dunno…” You drag out from the back of your throat, and you have to curl your toes to stop the pleasure from overflowing and interrupting your sentences. “You didn’t have mercy when you ate me out earlier, did you?”

Gojo gasps-

“And when you screamed at my concert, and when you disrupted my fanmeet.” You’re quite enjoying watching him fall apart - head hung, hips stuttering as he struggles to hold himself back. You wonder just what might happen if you made this handsome virgin Gojo…break. “So why should I show you- ngh, mercy?”

“Please- oh, what are you—”

Whatever Gojo was going to say is immediately derailed by the casual way you’re hiking up a hand to your stomach. Pressing dooooown just as his throbbing length was sinking in, “Filthier, Toru.”

And that’s when something in your favorite fanboy - in Gojo Satoru - snaps.

That’s when your positions shift.

His sap dribbles down n’ overflows just like the way your steaming tastebuds do, and your teeth clench after every one of his thrusts. Harder. Faster. Just like you’d said, he was thwacking his aching hot cock into you so hard that the curve of his ballsack was swatting your cunt. Slowly, you’re growing more and more hypnotized by his roverin’ dick stuffing every ounce inside you full. “Just like that- hah-” Arms wobbling, you struggle to reach ‘round Gojo’s shoulders. “Oh- just like that-”

“Just like that?” He asks, oh-so-kindly. And you almost feel a glimmer of hope for your poor body when Gojo gently tugs your arms around his shoulders. Letting you grab onto his deltoids-

“But I don’t think s’filthy enough, my light.”

Oh…so you were mistaken.

“Filthier, you said?” He repeats your words from earlier, fully channeling his energy to swabbin’ every point of your cunt. Gojo feels your legs slipping, and he’s reaching a hand behind his neck to pin your ankles together - locking them in place. “Look-” Other hand thumbing between your puffy pussylips, “Look, she wants it harder- faster, too. She’s practically flooding out and begging for it.”

“Oh my god-” Your pillow is drenched in a layer of your spittle by now, and your back arches. “Keep- keep going.”

“Keep going? But I wanna go even filthier, sweetheart.” That familiar pout of his makes an appearance, though there was something much more…sleazy about it this time.

Your nails dig into the plush mountains of his muscles, shifting underneath your touch each time he’s reeling his body back. Back, back, back. Gojo was putting his entire frame to work - not just his hips - each time he’s shovelling his cock into you. 

And the extra pressure makes the rounded crown of his shaft embed deep into your cervix, leaving a bruise there that acts as the perfect target for the next slam. And the next. And the next. “Please-” You’re gasping out, sobs bubbling in your throat. “Please please please- please, and how are you gonna be even filthier?”

“Like this.” Just to prove his point, his free hand tilts open your chin and spits straight in your mouth. And without wasting a second longer, Gojo spanks that very hand back down on your hips to keep you from running. “Aaaand—”

Instead, he’s using his strength to pliably jerk you back down. Hissing between your parted lips, “Like this.” He’s bubbling up even more saliva- this time, down your slippery slit. That hand of his on your hip reaches over, and with the forefront curve of his thumb, Gojo’s smearin’ the wad of saliva on top of your pussy. Pressing down on your clit- “Because m’just your pathetic fanboy, my light, listening to- ngh, every word you say. So when you say filthy, m’only gonna go filthier.”

You almost don’t want to dare to ask, “And h-how will you make this…even filthier?”

But you knew he wanted you to.

You knew he was just dying to fuck the words out of you.

Gojo’s plastering a sleazy smirk across his face, and it damn near looks downright blasphemous with the layer of syrup on his features. “I h-have an idea or two…”

He’s not telling you what the idea is, he’s showing it to you - with his fingers twisting on top of your clit to spell out some of the very words he’d spelled out with his tongue earlier.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

Furiously, your body thrashes at the mercy of his clutches. Gojo was holding you down ruthlessly, a mean expression taking over his face when he finds out that he can simply pin you down and make that glistening hole of yours take it.

M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O-M-R-S-G-O-J-O.

All those zaps of pleasure that you loved so much, that you were moaning so much at. You’re so cockdrunken by this point that spittle sloshes ‘round inside your mouth- and Gojo only leans over to lick off the drivels of it escaping your mouth.

<3

Just in time to crash his lips into your when you cum.

“C-cumming.” You’re gasping out, almost in disbelief at the sheer strength of the orgasm that was flooding your entire body. Bucking back into his thrusts, “So much- it’s- it’s so much, fuck.”

“Yes-” Gojo growls, slightly breathless at the fact that this was you—and you were cumming ‘round his cock, suctioning every tender ridge on his shaft, fully fucking yourself through the complete waves of your high.

Bliss upon euphoria.

If you thought that your orgasm was incredible earlier, then you weren’t ready for this one. It simply takes over every part of you, until it felt like your nerves were fried with the sensation.

He stops pinning you down any longer, letting you bounce your hips back into his to your heart’s content. “That’s right, use me.” Gojo’s fingers are but a blur on your clit, “Use me to ride your high- fuck, use me as much as sh-she wants. Let me feel every inch of you squeezin’ around me-”

“I can’t be the only one.” Despite the pangs of your bliss, you somehow manage to blink away your tears to gaze up at him. With a hand fisted in Gojo’s perspired hair, you’re pulling him in reeeeal close, “Want you to cum insi- oh, fuck.”

You don’t even have to finish your sentence.

You don’t even have to finish your thought.

Because the moment that Gojo realizes what you’re trying to say to him, the bawling divot at the end of his shaft pours out white-hot cum. Heard throwing back. Chiselled body bowing into yours. Voice straining with a call of your name. 

It’s just the creamiest texture, it polishes a layer of white on your cervix and along your walls until the syrup froths outside.

Gasping, Gojo brushes his thumb between your folds and plugs up your leaking hole. Overspilling. So many webbed layers were seeping out of you, and he was taking the time to push every ounce of it back inside- “Fuck.” He whispers, thickly. “Fucking hell.”

“S’all inside, Satoru.” You mewl, gliding your hand up and down your front. “I can feel it splashin’ around inside-”

“Don’t say that- don’t- fucking say that-” He just barely chokes out- before one of Gojo’s hands lets go of your ankles to actually squeeze that pretty neck of yours, so perfect in his grip. “Don’t say that or m’gonna…”

“Or what?”

“Or m’gonna cum again-”

“Can feel it alllllll up inside.” You continue, despite the lecherous tightening at your throat. And Gojo has to listen on in pure agony as that voice he loves so much continues on—“Honestly- at this rate, you might just get me- ngh, pregnant, Toru.”

And that does it- he’s splurging out his dewy wet wads all over again. It seeps a layer of white into your glossy insides, making every thrust of his slippery.

With a slight whimper, he doesn’t waste time fucking those droplets of cum inside even if it aches him with sensitivity. The reddened tip of his cock twitches, and Gojo’s balls nuzzle the forefront of your cunt, already sucked dry with nothing more to give-

“You kn-know-” When Gojo speaks, it almost sounds like he’s crying- oh. Something hot and wet drips from his eyes, he actually was crying in overstimulation.

The texture of your cunt leaving him red n’ raw, but even then he’s way too addicted to try and bring himself to stop. Moaning, “-I did say something about you st-stepping on me, my light.”

Your brows raise.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

.

.

.

It’s almost a year later when Gojo posts:

@thestrongestfanboy: Siri play I Just Had Sex by The Lonely Island.

@Fushidaddy1008 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: lmfao as if anyone would bang you

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1008: Ahhh, my wife would bang me~! ＼(≧▽≦)／ Also blocked (*≧ω≦*)

@Fushidaddy1009 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: wife?? lmfao i thought Cupid was your wife?? youre saying you banged Cupid??

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @Fushidaddy1009: Exactly~! Blocked (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

@thestrongestfanboy: I would let her step on me (and HAVEEEEE) <(￣︶￣)>

@thestrongestfanboy: Does anyone have that meme of the guy shooting a basketball from the moon and actually making the basket???

@thestrongestfanboy: I’M IN LOVE.

@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro do you gen need your meds or…

@Shokomedical replying to @DigiGeto: I’ve prescribed all he needs, idk how but it’s gotten worse since that concert last year.

@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Happy for you Gojo-senpai ^.^

@thestrongestfanboy: MY BEAUTIFUL WIIIIIIFE~! ٩(♡ε♡)۶

And then came the disaster, perhaps. Because he’d meant to attach a completely innocent picture of you from your last show, he’d meant to post something that would have been inconspicuous with everything else that your fansites were posting.

But this is Gojo - and that’s obviously not what happened.

Attached to that aforementioned tweet was a picture of none other than Gojo Satou and you. Not from a concert. Not from afar. In the flesh, in nothing but a soft blanket covering your most intimate parts, clearly bitten all over and sex-hazed.

You were raising a digital camera up, your smile peaking through its edge as if you were taking a picture of a picture. And Gojo himself was in the corner - bitten, marked, a dopey smile and just as ruined, as sex-rumpled as you were, shirtless.

The first night.

How damning.

In the split-second that the photo had been up, it spread across stan Twitter like wildfire. And all of Gojo’s subsequent tweets had upwards of 1M+ views just because of it.

@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT

@thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DIVA DOWN DIVA DOWN

@thestrongestfanboy: I DIDN’T MEAN TO POST THAT PLEASE FORGET ABOUT IT.

@pinkillit replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Bro actually….did it? The fanboy actually did what every delulu stan hopes to do??

@gggggnarly replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU HOOKED UP WITH QUEEN CUPID?!

@hearts2hurts replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I fear I, again, can’t send hate because this is impressive ngl.

@utahimeslefttoe replying to @thestrongestfanboy: i know this is a marketing stunt i just cant prove it (uta give me a chance pls)

@lovelicky replying to @thestrongestfanboy: PARASOCIALISM WORKED??

@yuuthebaddie replying to @thestrongestfanboy: YOU GOT THE HUZZ??

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @yuuthebaddie: I GOT THE HUZZ!! („ಡωಡ„)

@thestrongestfanboy replying to @thestrongestfanboy: WAIT DELETE-

@DigiGeto replying to @thestrongestfanboy: Satoru what the fuck

@Shokomedical replying to @thestrongestfanboy: SATORU WHAT THE FUCK

@HiByeRawr replying to @thestrongestfanboy: I always knew the day would come!! Congratulations, Gojo-senpai ^.^

@urmomstype replying to @thestrongestfanboy: What did I miss?? Do I need to make a new thread??

@Fushidaddy2067 replying to @thestrongestfanboy: thats it siri play chasing pavements.

And that’s when it spreads outside of your fandom, first to the celebrity news outlets, and then everyone else. Soon enough, BuzzFeed, TMZ, Pannchoa were all tripping over themselves to be the first to report and interview on the subject. Personally, you knew that Dispatch was foaming at the mouth to drop the annual bombshell with all the sordid details.

TRENDING ON TWITTER:

#CUPIDPICTURE

#CUPIDDATING

#THESTRONGESTFANBOY

#DELULUISTHETRULULU

#HEGOTTHEHUZZ??

#LFORFUSHIDADDY

@CupidManagement: As a company, we do not interfere in the private lives of our artists and we kindly ask everyone to stop spreading any malicious rumors. We wish all the best to Cupid, and her relationship going forward.

And you?

@CupidOfficial: Ahhh might be as great a time as ever to announce that my new album, Stargirl, will be out on all platforms November 28th!! Here’s the cover art, hope you love it (and a special thank you to the special boy that made it happen) <33

On the cover, a picture of Gojo.

Not as you’d seen him in the bedroom, of course. It’d been exciting work to get to the studio, to don him in the most ethereal flowy whites, to place him in the midst of a blank background and stud his hair with roses, to bathe him in a dreamy light. It was almost hazy. In the picture, his face was turned away but he was staring into the camera- and…perhaps past it.

Right where you’d been, directing him.

With such a loving glimmering in his eyes that it made one almost shy to directly at it.

Your vision had some to life.

It quickly racks up a comfortable million plus views on Twitter, and you quietly shut off your phone as the notifications keep beeping. Instead, snuggling up to Gojo right back in your penthouse, right beside you (not before you give him a lecture on double-checking the pictures he posts, of course.)

And there was only one left wondering…

[email protected]: (RE: All of…this)

Hello,

What the fuck.

Regards.

A/N. Disclaimer not to be like him irl but like for him?? Anything.

choso had dropped out to focus on his band, 'exorcize'—gojo on vocals, geto on guitar, toji on bass, and him on drums.

the band had taken off, and after being personally invited to one of their gigs, a small introduction from choso had suguru immediately hooked.

that had been the moment everything shifted.

quiet nights of spectated drum practice while you studied or long meaningful conversations were gone, replaced by surprise visits from geto and sleepless evenings that left choso restless and uneasy.

deep down, in that hazy, stoned part of his mind, he knew he felt something for you. something raw, unacknowledged, and unrelenting.

“god, sugu—i seriously can’t! —oh my god!”

he heard your cries, felt his stomach twist with a mix of disgust, anger, and jealousy. he couldn’t endure another sober second of listening to you plead.

his hand found a pre-rolled blunt in his dresser, lighting it with a red lighter you'd gifted him months ago, the smoke curling around him like a protective shield.

“c’mon, you can do it, just a few more—fuck!—seconds!”

he hated him. but more than that, he hated the way suguru spoke to you.

the subtle degradation, the possessive control masked by perfect composure. choso knew you noticed it too. the way your fingers curled around anything you could grab when suguru got too close, too possessive. the way you'd shy away from him rather than leaning into him lovingly. and yet, you stayed.

it tore something inside choso, some raw, unpolished piece of himself that had never stopped wanting you.

“just a little longer, y/n, fuck—you can do that for me, can’t you?”

he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the only thing that could dull the constant back-and-forth inside his head when it came to you. the only thing that dulled the voice in his head, from when you used to talk to him like he was the only man in the world. his addiction, his only vice.

~

morning

the brunette boy sat slumped on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other stretched across the coffee table. sunlight crept through the blinds, painting uneven lines across his face. his hoodie hung half-off his shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a blunt tucked behind his ear like muscle memory.

he looked fucking wrecked.

you padded out from the hallway, wrapped in a big t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. it hung too low on your thighs, smelled faintly like suguru’s cologne, and that made something twist in your stomach when you noticed choso glance at it once, then away with a twitch of his eye.

“good morning, cho” you said, trying to sound casual, cheerful, like nothing weird had happened last night.

he didn’t look at you right away. his thumb was tapping against the armrest, slow and rhythmic. “yo.”

you bit your lip, moving to the kitchen counter. the silence pressed between you like humidity. it felt different now, awkward, thick.

you’d never had awkward silence with him before.

“uh, you sleep okay?” you tried again, voice soft, careful.

he finally turned to look at you. dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his tone came out flat. “where’s geto?”

your stomach dropped. “huh?”

“suguru,” he said again, leaning back into the couch. “where’d he go?”

you blinked, your throat suddenly dry. “oh. um. he—uh—left early, he doesn't really stay the night...he sorta just comes at night whenever he wants and leaves when we're done.”

choso didn’t say anything, just nodded slowly, eyes still half-lidded. but you knew that look—his patience hanging by a thread, the faint twitch of his jaw, that lazy exterior covering something sharper underneath.

“choso,” you said quietly, walking over a bit. “did you… uhm— hear us?”

his eyes flicked up to yours. “mhm.”

the word hit heavier than it should’ve. you looked down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “oh my god. i thought you were asleep. i didn’t mean for you to—”

“s’alright,” he said, cutting you off, voice rough. “walls are thin, y’know, i get it.”

you winced. “was it—was it bad?”

he let out a low, humorless chuckle, the memory of his band mates grunts and your pretty gasps still fresh in his mind. “mhm. heard it all.”

you felt heat crawl up your neck, mortified. “shit, choso, i’m so sorry. i really didn’t think—”

“don’t worry 'bout it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “i’ll just sleep the morning away, got the gig tonight anyway, so it should be fine.”

you hesitated, wanting to say something to make it better, to make him better, but his tone was a closed door.

so you offered the only thing that came to mind. “let me make you breakfast? as an apology?”

he looked up, studying you for a second before nodding. “right... sure.”

you exhaled in quiet relief and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing eggs and bread from the fridge.

you weren’t sure what he liked this early. he usually slept until noon, leaving trails of smoke and half-empty cereal bowls behind, but it felt right to do something. the clinking of pans filled the silence.

behind you, choso leaned his head back on the couch, eyes half open, watching the light catch in your hair as you moved. he wanted to stay annoyed, to keep that boundary up. but the sight of you—bare legs, hair messy, humming softly under your breath while cooking in the kitchen—hit him in that dull, sore spot inside his chest.

“you should come to the gig tonight, if geto didn't already invite ya',” he said suddenly, voice low.

you glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “yeah, you want me to come?”

“i do.” he stretched, reaching for the blunt on the table but not lighting it yet. “you haven’t seen us play in a while.”

you smiled a little, flipping a piece of toast. “yeah, sure. i’ll come.”

he grunted something like approval, pretending not to notice how your eyes softened when you said it, the way your face lit up as you moved your hands.

you’d seen clips online—crowds packed tight in dark venues, neon lights washing over exorcize as they played.

they weren’t just another college band anymore. they were it. the band everyone wanted to fuck, to be, to orbit around.

gojo with his wild white hair and stupidly perfect grin, toji’s quiet menace on bass, suguru’s calm confidence, and choso behind the drums, silent but magnetic, his hair sticking to his face, eyes half-lidded, lost in rhythm.

they all had that look, that raw, sexy allure that made people crave them like meth.

and you’d been there at the start of it. before the crowds, before the smoke machines and the afterparties. when it was just choso, hunched over a kit in the living room, half stoned, tapping out rhythms while you studied on the couch.

the smell of butter and coffee filled the apartment. you plated up the food—scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado—and brought it over to him.

“here,” you said softly, setting the plate in front of him. “a really shitty peace offering.”

he gave a small smile, lazy but real. “yum.”

you sat down next to him, tucking your legs under you. the couch dipped between you, and the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp this time. he picked at his food for a while, eating slow.

“seriously though, cho,” you said after a minute, eyes on your plate, “i’m really sorry about last night.”

he shrugged, chewing. “told you, s' fine.”

“it’s not fine,” you insisted, voice quiet. “that must’ve been… weird for you. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

choso let out a low snort, setting his fork down. “y/n. you were horny. you got dicked down. shit happens.”

you froze, staring at him with wide eyes, face flushing deep. “ew,”

he smirked a little, leaning back. “what? just sayin’. it's no big deal.”

“yuck, don't talk to me like i'm one of your little junkie friends!”

“why not? we're not friends now?” he asked, in a tone that was so laid back and careless it made you anger, “what are we then? don’t get all shy now, i'm tryna lighten the shitty mood.”

you swatted his hand away, embarrassed but smiling despite yourself. “stop it, we're just friends... it's just— just shut up.”

“yeah,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “heard that before.”

you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. for a moment, it felt like old times again.

easy, unspoken comfort settling back between you. but under it all, he felt that same ache still there, low and constant.

the thought of geto touching you, of your voice on the other side of the wall, it looped in his head like a bad song he couldn’t skip.

he finished his plate, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“thanks for breakfast, it was real good, y/n. you'd make a good housewife y'know,” he said.

“god just shut up,” you said with an all too dramatic eyeroll.

the quiet lingered again, softer this time.

~

the studio reeked of ash and stale beer. gojo was already shirtless, sprawled across the leather couch, strumming suguru’s guitar with no real purpose.

“bro, put that down before you break a string,” suguru said, tone bored but edged.

“relax, i’m blessing it,” gojo said, flashing him a grin.

toji sat off to the side, bass in hand, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the day. he didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to, his presence was enough to keep the room balanced.

gojo noticed the slight tire in getos purple eyes and decided to pry. “so,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “you look fucked, man. late night?”

suguru stretched his arms overhead, dark hair falling into his face. he smirked like he couldn’t help it. “mmm, something like that.”

“oh, come on,” gojo said, grinning. “you can’t just say ‘something like that.’ i need details, you fuck some chick, or?"

toji gave a quiet snort but didn’t look up from his tuning. “you gossip more than a fucking teenager, huh?”

“yeah, keeps me in shape.” gojo’s grin widened. “so? do tell.”

suguru’s smirk deepened, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “you know, just y/n.”

“shit,” gojo said, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “again? chosos little roommate? thought she was too sweet for you or whatever shitty excuse you made last time you slept with her and dipped.”

suguru shrugged. “sweet doesn’t mean boring.” he spoke like he was discussing a setlist, casual, detached. “can't stop going over to her place man. she's a great fuck, obedient, y'know? and tight as hell.”

gojo laughed under his breath. “oh yeah? she's sexy, sure, but i didn't know she had all of that going for her. you mind if i..."

“yeah, i do,” suguru said, unbothered. he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “she's only sucking my cock right now and i wanna keep it that way.”

gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “fair enough. so does she know about all the other pussy you get or?..." he teases.

"no. and she's not gonna. thinks i'm some fucking saint."

the way he said it made the air go strange—like they were both too comfortable talking about someone so badly who wasn’t even there.

toji glanced at them, expression flat.

“so what’s the deal then?” gojo asked, voice dropping just slightly. “you two dating?”

suguru’s tone turned dry. “not exactly. it’s just casual, a bit messy.”

“that mean she thinks you are and you don’t?”

little did the guys know, choso was standing in the hallway outside the studio, leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, hoodie drawn over his head. the door was slightly ajar.

at first he just wanted to pass, maybe pop in later when they started playing. but then he heard it—

“she’s a little too attached. wants to talk about everything. i don’t do clingy bitches,” suguru said, voice casual, almost bored.

choso froze.

“it’s fine. she knows what this is, if she gets hurt, that’s not on me.”

choso’s jaw tightened under the hoodie. his hands curled into fists, then unclenched. the smoke haze that usually clouded his head felt sharper now, stinging like cold air.

"does choso care? i mean, he's pretty much always high off his face so i doubt he'd even notice, but still. you can't be quite even if you tried." gojo added.

"nah, choso doesn't give a fuck about anything, i'm sure he doesn't care."

gojo just rolled his eyes and nodded along, clearly geto didn't know shit about his supposed friend.

choso was classical stoned, sure, but he was a deep thinker. although the never really voiced his opinions doesn't mean he doesn't have any. and the assumption that he doesn't care about you, the one girl he can actually feel himself around, feel comfortable with? it's a punch to the gut.

“plus, maybe he’s some sick cuck, maybe i’m doing him a favor fucking y/n loud enough for him to hear,” suguru said next, the words like a punchline to the room.

gojo laughed, oblivious, egging him on. toji’s bass sat idle, a quiet observer.

choso’s stomach twisted, sour and heavy, but his face stayed blank. he’d heard enough. everything he’d felt last night—the jealousy, the heat, the ache—coiled into a tighter knot in his chest.

and yet. he didn’t react. didn’t slam the door open or yell, he was too level headed for that. he just let the words hang there, let the laughter roll over him. the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat became his anchor.

then, like he always did, he slipped into his usual mask. the hoodie covered his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt.

he pushed the door open, just enough to enter, and let his presence announce him.

“’bout time,” gojo said, lounging back on the couch, grinning like nothing was off, like he wasn't just talking questionably about him. “thought you were skipping rehearsal.”

“nah,” choso said, voice low, clipped, casual. “traffic was slow.”

suguru glanced up, immediately switching to his usual calm, lazy composure. “afternoon,” he said evenly.

choso gave a small nod, dropped his bag, and moved to the drum kit, adjusting cymbals without looking at anyone else.

but under the surface, the coiled anger, hurt, and frustration hummed. every tap of the drumsticks later would carry some of that weight, silent, restrained, but there.

gojo, pretending to be oblivious, grinned at him. “you good, man? look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“didn’t,” choso said, tone clipped.

gojo whistled, dragging the notion. “what, neighbor’s dog barking again?”

“something like that.” choso gave suguru a quick side glance before settling in further.

suguru’s hand stilled for a second on the fretboard. he didn’t look up, but he could feel choso’s eyes flick toward him.

toji caught the tension first, his gaze shifting between them. “you two done?” he asked dryly. “we practicing or what?”

choso exhaled, sitting down behind the kit. “yeah. let’s get it.”

the first few hits were slow, a warm-up rhythm, but every strike landed with more force than usual. the echo bounced around the room, sharp and deliberate, filling the silence that had started to suffocate the space.

gojo laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “guess that’s a yes.” he adjusted his mic stand. “alright boys, from the top.”

the noise erupted again, guitar, bass, drums, the controlled chaos of sound. it filled every corner of the studio, pushing back whatever words had hung there before.

suguru played clean, precise, every note in place, but his mind wasn’t entirely in it. he could feel the weight of choso’s rhythm behind him, each beat heavy, almost personal.

choso kept his head down, sticks moving fast, steady. he wasn’t thinking about the music. he was thinking about voices in thin-walled apartments, about laughter that sounded just like this. about how easily people could talk about something that still sat raw in his chest.

gojo sang through the chorus, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed. toji’s bass lines held everything together. and choso, he hit the drums like he was trying to keep from saying something out loud.

when the song ended, there was a moment of quiet, the kind that comes right after noise when everyone’s heart is still beating too fast.

“tight,” gojo said, wiping sweat off his face. “we’re gonna kill it tonight.”

“yeah,” toji said simply, setting his bass down.

choso nodded once, not looking at anyone.

suguru adjusted his guitar strap, clearing his throat. “we’ll meet back here at eight,” he said, tone easy. “venue’s expecting us by nine.”

choso started packing up his sticks. the others were still talking, voices fading into background noise. he kept his head low, eyes on the drum kit.

“yo, cho,” gojo said suddenly. “you bringing anyone tonight?”

choso hesitated. “y/n said she'd show.”

“ahh, she better,” gojo grinned. “need a familiar face in the crowd.”

suguru’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his strap.

choso zipped his bag and stood. “mhm. see you later.”

no one stopped him. the door shut quietly behind him, the sound echoing longer than it should have.

for a second, the three of them just stood there. gojo hummed, breaking the silence. “yeah, i think he heard you, and he definitely does care.”

suguru didn’t answer. he just stared at the door for a long moment before setting his guitar down, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.

toji rolled his shoulders and muttered, “doesn’t matter now. just shut up and focus on tonight's gig."

~

choso pushes the door to your apartment at around 7.p.m, his skateboard bumping against the wall as he toes his sneakers off. he decided to hit the skate park after the studio, and was just getting back now.

the apartment’s dark. not quiet-dark —off dark. no soft indie playlist humming from your room, no yellow light spilling down the hallway, no half-finished tea on the counter. just the faint hum of the fridge and the lingering scent of your coconut shampoo that always hangs in the air.

he squints toward the living room. nothing.

“yo, y/n?” his voice echoes a little. it sounds lazy, but underneath it’s got that edge, confused, half-worried. “you home, babe?”

nothing.

he pauses, drumming his fingers against his thigh. normally he wouldn’t think much of it, you liked to take long showers, disappear for coffee runs, but the place feels weird tonight. the kind of quiet that sits heavy.

“yo, for real, where the fuck are you?” he calls again, walking toward the kitchen, his hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from washing it after practice. the smell of weed clings to him, mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of cologne he must’ve borrowed from gojo.

he flicks on the hallway light, flinches a little at how harsh it is. the walls glow pale and flat. still no answer.

“y/n,” he mutters, a little louder now, “don’t fuckin’ do this horror movie shit.”

he checks the balcony. empty. checks the bathroom, light off, door cracked. nothing. his chest tightens even though he keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, that you’re probably fine, that he’s overreacting like some clingy idiot.

then he hears faint music. a muffled bassline leaking through your bedroom door.

he exhales, tension leaving his shoulders all at once, muttering, “jesus, fuckin’—you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

he knocks lightly, then pushes the door open without waiting.

and freezes.

you’re standing in front of your mirror, airpods in, the faint shimmer of your lip gloss catching the lamplight. you’re half-dressed, black skirt, sheer tights, tiny top, and your hair sits perfectly like you didn’t even try. your room smells like warmth and perfume and clean skin.

for a second, choso forgets how to breathe.

“shit,” he says under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

you pull an airpod out and turn toward him, surprised. “oh my god, you scared me.”

he blinks slowly, eyes dragging up from your legs to your mouth, then back down again. “yeah, uh—my bad. place was dark. thought you got kidnapped or somethin’.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “kidnapped? really?”

he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “could happen. you never know. world’s fucked.”

you roll your eyes but smile. “well, i’m fine. just getting ready for the gig.”

“yeah, i can see that.” his voice dips lower without meaning to. “you look…” he pauses, tongue running over his teeth, trying to sound casual but it comes out rough. “fuck, you look hot as hell.”

you blink, heat crawling up your neck. “you think so?”

he nods, still rubbing his neck, eyes locked on you. “yeah. like, real talk, y/n, you’re gonna make it hard to focus tonight. literally everyone’s gonna be staring.”

you laugh, a little flustered. “you’re just saying that.”

“nah,” he says, finally walking into your room. “not just sayin’. like—you look fuckin’ insane. good insane.”

you smile, glancing back at your reflection, fixing your earring. “thanks, cho.”

he drops down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “you mind if i chill here? watch the whole… transformation process?”

“be my guest,” you say, turning back to your mirror.

he leans back on his hands, watching you move. your drawers open, mascara wand twirling between your fingers, your skirt swishing when you shift. the music in your airpods leaks just enough for him to catch the rhythm.

he tries to stay cool, keeps that lazy look on his face, but his heart’s still pounding from the moment he saw you. his head’s full of too many things, practice, suguru’s voice, your laugh, the sound of his name coming from you.

after a minute, he says, “we gotta leave in, like, an hour. gojo’s picking up suguru and toji, you wanna ride with me or get there yourself?”

you turn around, surprised. “oh, i can come with you?”

“course,” he says, shrugging. “beats paying for parking. you'll be abit early is all.”

you grin. “then yeah, i’ll come with you, doesn't matter to me, cho.”

“aight,” he says, stretching his legs out, smirking just a little. “sweet.”

he’s quiet for a while after that. you keep getting ready, music still faintly playing, the smell of your perfume thick in the air. he fiddles with the ring on his thumb, his mind replaying suguru’s words like static.

she’s a great fuck, obedient and tight as hell.

she thinks i’m some fuckin’ saint.

maybe he’s some sick cuck.

the words crawl under his skin. he can’t stop hearing them, can’t stop imagining the look on your face if you knew.

he shifts, sits up straighter. “hey,” he says suddenly.

you hum in response, focused on your eyeliner.

“can i ask you somethin’?”

“sure.”

“what’s the deal with you and geto?”

you pause mid-stroke. “what do you mean?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “just… what are you two, exactly? like, are you dating or is it just some hookup thing?”

you blink at his reflection in the mirror, half-smiling. “why, you gonna make fun of me again for last night?”

he shakes his head. “nah. i’m serious.”

something about his tone makes you turn fully, leaning against your dresser. “oh. um…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i don’t know. i mean, i like him a lot. we hang out, we… yeah. i guess we’re dating? hes never actually said it, but it sure feels like it.”

he stares at you for a long moment, his chest tightening.

“you guess?”

“yeah.” you laugh softly, awkward. “he’s not, like, big on labels, i think. but we spend time together. he’s nice to me. i like being with him.”

choso nods slowly, but his face doesn’t change. “right. 'nice to you.'”

you frown, studying him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he looks away, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. “nothin’. just… didn’t figure him for the relationship type.”

“why not?” you ask, voice soft but curious.

he shrugs again, lazy like always, though his voice is heavier now. “he’s just… not the kinda guy who stays still, y’know? always got somethin’ else goin’ on. kinda hard to picture him with one person.”

you tilt your head. “you sound like you know him better than i do.”

“maybe i do,” he mutters.

“then tell me,” you say quietly. “should i be worried?”

his jaw tightens. he doesn’t answer right away. he wants to tell you, wants to let it spill out, the whole disgusting thing he heard at practice, the way suguru laughed about you like you were nothing but a story to pass around. it’s right there, sitting heavy on his tongue.

but when he looks at you, soft eyes, hopeful little smile, the way you look at him like he’s safe, he feels sick.

you’re too good for it. too sweet. too fucking naive to see how much he’s playing you, and he can’t stand the idea of being the one to shatter it.

“cho?” you ask gently.

he blinks. “yeah.”

“what were you gonna say?”

he opens his mouth, ready to just do it—to tell you everything, to ruin whatever fantasy you’ve built around suguru—but then your phone lights up on the dresser.

suguru calling.

you both look at it.

your heart jumps a little, that reflexive smile pulling at your lips. you grab the phone, swiping to answer. “hey.”

choso watches you, expression unreadable. your voice softens instantly, your tone sweet and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.

“yeah, i’m just getting ready,” you say, turning slightly away from him. “mhm… yeah, i’ll see you there, choso's driving me.”

his fingers drum against his knee. your voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. he can’t hear the words, only the tone—light, careful, like you’re trying not to say the wrong thing.

you laugh at something he says, that little laugh that used to be his favorite sound in the world.

and something in choso deflates.

he stands slowly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. your perfume still hangs in the air, heavy and warm.

“hey,” you say, glancing at him mid-call, mouthing, one sec, before turning back.

he nods, grabbing his keys from your desk where he’d dropped them.

you’re still talking, giggling now, saying something about how you’ll be there soon. he heads for the door.

“yeah,” you murmur into the phone. “love you too.”

his steps falter for half a second, then keep going.

the door clicks shut behind him, quiet.

you love him? god, how could he tell you after hearing that...

~

the venue’s already packed when you and choso pull up. neon bleeds across the cracked pavement, the sound of bass leaking through the concrete.

you can feel the pull of the crazy fans even from the street. drunk laughter, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke, someone yelling over someone else.

choso kills the engine and leans back in the driver’s seat for a second, watching people shuffle in through the side door. the light outside hits his face in flashes. pale, pink, blue, he’s fading between moods.

“you ready?” he asks, voice low, lazy, but you can hear something else under it.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your skirt, checking your lip gloss in the visor mirror.

he glances over, eyes flicking briefly down your legs before turning away again. “lookin’ like that, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ riot, man.”

you laugh softly. “you said that earlier.”

“yeah, and i meant it both times.”

you shake your head, smilin despite yourself.

inside, it’s chaos. the place smells like sweat and beer, lights flashing in dizzy loops, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. gojo’s voice echoes somewhere backstage, already hyping people up. you follow choso through the narrow hallway, your hand brushing his arm as someone shoves past. since when was he so muscular?

“sorry,” you say automatically.

he glances back. “nah, you’re good.”

he holds the side door open, letting you through first.

the band’s gear is scattered everywhere. amps, cables, beer cans, half-empty water bottles. suguru’s there, tuning his guitar, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

when he looks up and sees you, his expression softens into that easy smile that always used to make your stomach twist.

“hey, pretty thing,” he says, walking over.

choso looks away, jaw tight.

“hey,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him. his hand slips to your waist, the kiss short but a little too public, a little too look-at-me.

“you made it,” he murmurs.

“told you i would.”

behind you, gojo’s laugh cuts through the noise. “yo, choso, you finally dragged n/n outta her cave!”

choso smirks. “yeah, figured she could use a little culture.”

“culture, huh?” gojo grins at you. “hope you’re ready for noise complaints and groupies.”

“i’ll manage,” you say, smiling.

toji doesn’t look up from his bass, just gives a small nod in greeting. the whole room buzzes with the kind of pre-show tension you can feel in your teeth.

everyone’s running on nerves and caffeine and whatever else they’ve put in their systems.

choso tosses his hoodie onto a crate, rolling up his sleeves. he looks good like that—focused, hair half-tied, a strand falling over his cheek. he’s calm but sharp now, a different kind of energy from the stoned version of him you’re used to. the one who drifts through mornings in smoke.

“five minutes,” someone calls out from the stage manager’s booth.

you hover near the wall, watching them all get into place. gojo bounces on his heels, suguru spins his pick between his fingers, toji stays silent. choso’s behind his kit, tapping his sticks against the snare like he’s talking to it.

the crowd roars as the lights dim.

you press closer to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating through your shoes.

gojo’s voice hits the mic, smooth and arrogant. “we’re exorcize. don’t fucking blink.”

the first chord screams through the room, and everything shifts.

the sound is huge. overwhelming. suguru’s guitar cuts clean through the noise, toji’s bass a low pulse under it all, and then choso—he owns the rhythm. every hit lands deep, every movement controlled but raw, like he’s drumming out something that’s been living under his skin for years.

you can’t take your eyes off him.

he’s sweat-slick already, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. the lights flash white, then red, then blue across his face. every motion is deliberate, steady, like he’s trying to stay anchored in something only he can hear.

and even though the crowd’s losing their minds, it feels like it’s just him and the sound.

you glance at suguru. he looks good too—cool, collected, confident. but next to choso, he feels staged. rehearsed.

your chest tightens. you look back at choso.

there’s something different in the way he plays tonight. sharper. more aggressive. like he’s exorcising something, no pun intended. every strike on the snare is heavier, almost angry. you wonder if it’s just adrenaline or if something happened earlier.

when the first song ends, the crowd screams. gojo throws his head back, grinning, shouting into the mic. “holy shit! you guys showed up tonight!”

choso stays quiet, twirling his sticks, taking a long drink of water. his eyes flick toward the side of the stage, toward you.

you smile.

he doesn’t. just nods once, small, subtle, before looking away. the next song starts before you can think about it too long.

you dance a little, lost in it, letting the music carry you. but somewhere in the back of your head, you can feel his stare again. quick glances between beats, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks back down.

and for the first time, you realize you’re not sure which one of you it’s harder for.

by the time the set ends, you’re breathless from the noise, your voice hoarse from shouting. the band leaves the stage to cheers, sweat-soaked and buzzing. gojo’s the first to collapse backstage, laughing.

“we killed that shit,” he says, half-yelling.

“yeah, not bad,” toji mutters, towel over his head.

suguru grins, walking straight toward you. “told you we’d put on a good show.”

you nod, heart still racing. “you were amazing.”

he leans in to kiss you again, and you let him, even though your eyes flick over his shoulder for a second—to choso. he’s wiping sweat from his forehead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.

suguru pulls back, arm still around your waist. “so, you coming to the afterparty?”

you hesitate. “uh, yeah, i think so.”

“good.” he kisses your temple, then turns toward gojo to talk about something.

you stand there for a second, unsure of what to do with your hands. the noise of the room fills the space between you and choso. he finally looks up, trying to push aside the guilt he still felt for not being able to man up and tell you about suguru.

you smile, small and tired. “you were insane up there.”

he laughs, strong yet humorless, the phrase 'love you too' still haunting his every thought. “yeah? thanks.”

“no, really. i couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “yeah, well… guess i did my job.”

you step closer, voice soft. “you okay?”

he nods, eyes flicking briefly toward suguru, then back at you. “yeah. just… beat.”

you nod too, not sure what else to say. gojo yells something about shots, suguru laughs, and the night keeps moving around you.

but in the middle of all of it, you and choso stand there for a second, caught between the noise and the silence. like the whole night’s holding its breath, waiting to see which one of you breaks first.

~

the afterparty’s at some half-finished warehouse space two blocks from the venue, the kind of place that smells like spilled beer, sweat, and old amps. led lights are strung along exposed pipes, blinking unevenly. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out.

you walk in first, suguru’s hand laced with yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. you look good under the dim light—like you belong there, like you’re glowing even in the noise and haze.

choso follows behind, slower, his hoodie unzipped and hair sticking slightly to his forehead. he already smells of weed; he’d lit up the second they left the venue.

people yell greetings, offer shots, hugs, congratulations. gojo’s already got his arm around two people he definitely doesn’t know, yelling about how they fucking killed it tonight. toji’s slouched near a speaker, scrolling through his phone like none of this matters.

suguru doesn’t let go of you. not once. he keeps you close, leaning down every so often to murmur something in your ear that makes you laugh. he’s magnetic in these settings. composed, charming, eyes sharp enough to make anyone feel seen.

choso sits on a couch near the edge of the room, elbow draped over the back, watching through half-lidded eyes.

you look happy.

and for a minute, that’s enough.

he takes a drag, holds it, exhales slow. watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. you’re laughing at something suguru said, your head tipped back, eyes bright.

he can almost convince himself it’s fine.

you’re happy. maybe that’s all that matters.

but he can’t stop remembering the way suguru talked earlier at the studio, voice low, that half-smirk twisting his mouth as he said your name like it was something to toss away. you lean up and kiss suguru’s cheek, whisper something. he nods, still holding your waist.

“gonna go fix my makeup,” you say, smiling. “don’t move.”

he smirks. “not going anywhere, princess.”

you squeeze his hand and disappear down the hallway. choso takes another drag. exhales through his nose, slow. for a few seconds, suguru just stands there. then, like someone flipped a switch, his attention shifts.

choso notices it instantly, the way suguru’s gaze catches on someone across the room. tall girl. dark hair. red lipstick. she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some guy with a drink in her hand.

choso knows her. everyone does. she used to hang around the studio all the time. suguru’s old fling. the one he’d bragged about, laughed about, talked about like she was a good story, just like you. his shoulders tense.

suguru drifts over. slowly. easy. one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for a drink as he greets her.

she smiles like she’s been waiting.

he says something that makes her laugh, that same half-grin sliding across his face, the same one he used when he looked at you five minutes ago. choso stares at them, heartbeat starting to pick up, jaw tightening around the joint.

he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. he can read the body language, the subtle lean-in, the flirtatious tilt of her head, suguru’s slow smile.

the same old act.

he feels something stir in his chest, something dark and heavy. he looks toward the hallway, half expecting you to come back. you don’t.

he looks at suguru again, and his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

“yo.”

his voice cuts through the music, quiet but sharp.

suguru glances over his shoulder. “hmm?”

choso’s still on the couch, but his tone’s different—lower, edged. “you maybe wanna get your shit in order before she gets back?”

the girl blinks, looks between them, then takes a step back.

suguru raises an eyebrow. “huh?”

choso leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his fingers. “you heard me.”

the room feels quieter even though the music’s still playing.

suguru laughs once, soft, incredulous. “you serious right now?”

“deadass.”

he looks away for a second, shakes his head like he’s amused. “you’re high, choso.”

“not that high.” choso stands up, slow and deliberate. “i just don’t like watching you act like a fuckin’ idiot when she’s not even gone five minutes.”

suguru’s jaw tightens, that calm exterior starting to crack just a little. “what’s it to you?”

“what’s it to me?” choso echoes, stepping closer. “she’s my roommate, dumbass. i actually give a shit if she gets hurt.”

“roommate,” suguru repeats, his smirk returning. “that what we’re calling it?”

“yeah,” choso says flatly. “that’s what we’re calling it.”

suguru laughs again, but it’s sharper this time. “come on, man. don’t tell me you’re getting protective. that’s cute.”

choso doesn’t smile. doesn’t blink. “just don’t be the asshole i know you can be, yeah?”

for a second, something flickers behind suguru’s eyes. annoyance, maybe. guilt. or nothing at all. he looks away, taking a sip of his drink. “you don’t know what you think you know, choso.”

“nah,” choso says quietly. “i know exactly what i heard.”

suguru’s gaze snaps back to him. “what?”

“the studio,” choso says, voice steady. “you should watch what you say when you think nobody’s listening to you talk shit.”

suguru freezes, for a long moment, neither of them move.

then suguru laughs again—soft, controlled. “you think you know what that was about.”

“don’t need to think,” choso says. “you said it clear as day.”

“she’s a big girl,” suguru says after a pause, voice low. “she can handle herself.”

choso’s eyes narrow. “you mean she trusts you. that’s not the same thing.” suguru doesn’t respond.

choso takes another step forward, close enough now that the smell of smoke and alcohol mixes between them. “if you don’t give a fuck about her, fine. just don’t stand here pretending you do.”

suguru finally looks up, eyes darker now. “you done?”

choso lets out a dry laugh. “mm. guess i am.”

he steps back, drops the joint into an empty cup, and turns toward the hallway, he almost bumps into you.

you’re back, smiling, oblivious, still glowing from the night. “hey, what’d i miss?”

both men go still.

suguru’s mask snaps back on instantly, smile smooth and easy. “nothing, babe. just talking band shit.” you nod, glancing between them. choso’s eyes are hard to read. too calm, too quiet. you loop your arm through suguru’s. “oh! okay. drinks?”

“yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “let’s get you one.” he leads you toward the kitchen, the two of you slipping back into the party’s pulse.

choso stays where he is, arms crossed, jaw tight. from across the room, he watches as suguru hands you a drink, laughs at something you say, leans in close like nothing happened.

and for the first time in a long time, choso feels the kind of anger that doesn’t burn out, it just settles. slow, deep, and quiet.

he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his lighter, flicks it once, twice. the flame dances for a second before he shuts it off.

he takes a breath.

then another.

the music swells again, the noise swallowing everything.

and still, all he can hear is suguru’s laugh and the echo of his own restraint cracking, one hairline fracture at a time.

.

a few hours later

choso doesn’t mean to, really.

but the tight, burning knot in his chest, the one suguru’s smirk planted there, the one that grew watching him flirt with that old girl, the one that pulsed every time he saw your smile linger on suguru instead of him. fuck, it’s unbearable.

he’s been quiet, slow, keeping that lazy, half-asleep stoner mask on, puffing on his joint like everything’s fine. but it isn’t. it never has been.

he promised. always promised. no pills, no hardcore shit. just weed. the band worried enough about him already, addiction has always been a shadow he could never quite shake, and they knew if he went deeper, it’d swallow him.

but now, standing in the pulsing warehouse light, the noise vibrating up through his shoes, the alcohol and smoke thick in the air, he’s feeling something foreign. anger. jealousy. raw heat that makes his chest ache and stomach twist.

“yo, kamo,” he hears a guy drop down next to him, some old friend from college, he's leaning in. “nice to see you man. it's been ages."

choso just nods along, letting the guy talk about whatever he thinks is so important, his ears only really peeking up when the guy says, "you look like you need somethin’ a lil stronger.”

choso looks at him, slow. “mm, like what.”

the guy holds out a small baggie. pills, little white caps. “just some party shit. everyone here's doing it."

choso stares. his promise to the band, to you, floats somewhere in the back of his head , only weed, nothing heavier.

you'd all told him how addictive he could get, how dipping his feet into any sort of hardcore drugs wouldn't turn out great for him.

he takes the bag anyway. too pissed if to give a shit about anything other than numbing what he's feeling. "yeah, alright.”

“sweet,” the guy says, handing him a drink to wash it down.

the high hit him slow at first, a gentle fog wrapping itself around his chest, legs, fingers. choso felt the kind of calm that usually made him drift through a morning on the couch, hoodie loose, blunt tucked behind his ear.

but tonight, it was different. it hit like a wave he couldn’t ride without tumbling. and the warehouse, sticky, crowded, glowing in neon and sweat, was the perfect storm for it.

he wandered through the party, each step lazy, like he was moving through molasses, yet every sense screamed sharper than usual. the bassline rattled his chest, people’s voices blurred into a constant hum, the smell of booze, perfume, and sweat mixing into a heady cloud.

he took another long drag from his joint, holding the smoke, letting it curl around him, thinking it might shield him from the gnawing coil in his stomach, but it didn’t. not really.

“hey, choso,” a familiar voice broke through the haze. a fan, a girl maybe nineteen or twenty, pressed forward with wide eyes and a camera phone. “can we… like, take a pic? i love your band, dude, you’re insane on drums..

choso blinked slowly, the effects of the drug tangling with his words. “ahh, yeah… fuckin’ yeah, for sure.” he motioned lazily to the spot, half-smile tugging at his mouth. he let the girl snap a few pictures, asked her dumb little questions, about the band, gigs, where they got the idea for that last song—and he answered, voice drawling and thick, slurring words just slightly.

every few minutes, though, his gaze flicked back to you. and every time, there you were. pressed against suguru, who had that impossible grin plastered on his face, thumb brushing your hip while making conversation with someone else. choso’s stomach twisted. you weren’t tense. you laughed at something suguru said, head tilted back—but his jaw clenched.

and then he noticed it. suguru’s eyes, dark and dirty, sweeping across the room, lingering on every passing girl with a flash of that smug, possessive look. choso felt something sour bloom inside him, anger. jealousy. something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something sharp and alien.

he sucked in a long drag of his joint, letting it burn down slowly, but the warmth didn’t soothe him. the high pressed against the raw edges of his chest, amplifying the foreign heat that bubbled with every glance suguru threw.

the way his lips curved slightly at you, and yet his eyes traveled over the figure of every passer by, made choso’s fingers itch to smash something, anything.

and then it happened. a girl, tall, laughing, hair loose over her shoulders, crossed the warehouse floor, and suguru’s gaze latched onto her, heavier than he had been doing.

just like that, he leaned down slightly to you, whispered something, and before choso could register it, suguru excused himself.

"gonna step out for a bit,” he said smoothly, voice low, eyes catching choso’s once before he disappeared through the side door.

you watched him go, smiling like it was nothing. like you didn’t notice the tension he left behind.

choso’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time tonight, he felt some clarity in the chaos—the haze, the crowd, the thrum of the bass—all of it funneled into one magnetic point: you.

he made his way through the crowd, knees a little wobbly, mind thick and messy with high thoughts, each step pulling him closer to you.

when he reached you, he leaned against the wall beside the couch, blinking slowly, trying to anchor himself despite his brain telling him to just spout nonsense.

“yo,” he said, voice low, a lazy drawl that was already fraying at the edges. “hey… hey you- you look… fuck, you look like— like somethin’ really fuckin’ hot. like, goddamn, don’t even—don’t even talk, just stand there, yeah?”

you looked at him, frowning slightly. his eyes were glassy, unfocused, but they held a sharp, almost wild intensity.

“cho… did you..? what did you take?” you asked carefully, voice low, hands resting lightly on the couch back. “you’re really high right now, aren’t you?”

he blinked slowly, shaking his head, hair falling into his face. “nah… nah, it’s… just… the whole place… it’s like—fuck, it’s like the world’s spinning.”

he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to you, then back toward the doorway where suguru had disappeared. “man, I swear, every time I look… he’s lookin’… like—fuck, like he’s owning somethin’ that’s mine. not yours, mine.”

you frowned, stepping closer. “cho… slow down. breathe. you’re not making sense.”

“sense? ha!” he laughed, sharp and hoarse. “fuck sense, you’re… you’re standin’ there, and I’m… I’m—shit, I’m like, all these fuckin’ feelings,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you, voice cracking a little with the intensity.

“cho,” you said softly, moving to grab his arm, trying to steady him. “look at me. what did you take?”

he shook his head violently, sitting down on the edge of the couch, hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “nah… nah, can’t… fuck, can’t tell. you'll be mad at me. but you… you’re like… god, you’re fuckin’ everywhere in my head.”

you bit your lip, exhaling through your nose, letting a faint groan of frustration escape. “hey… listen to me. you’re too high. you’re spiraling. it’s not healthy. come on… we’re going home.”

he blinked up at you, expression softening slightly, but the haze still clouded his gaze. “home?” he muttered, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “fuck… home. yeah, yeah, you… you’re home.”

you knelt beside him, voice gentle but firm. “yeah. c’mon, we’re leaving, you're fucking soaring.”

he blinked at you, then laughed softly, a little shaky. “you… you’re fuckin’ bossy, y’know that? like… goddamn, bossy as hell… I fuckin' like it. I like it a lot.”

you shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “yeah, well, bossy is gonna save your ass tonight. now get up.” you extended a hand. he took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, gripping tightly for a moment.

as you led him through the crowd, you leaned slightly toward gojo, speaking over your shoulder. “hey, tell geto I’m leaving for the night. also tell him not to come over later.”

gojo’s grin faltered slightly, but he raised a hand in mock salute. “yeah, yeah. whatever.”

you didn’t answer, just kept walking, guiding choso toward the side door. the night air hit him like a splash, sharp and cold, clearing some of the fog from his mind. he shivered, pulling the hoodie tighter around himself, looking at you with wide, almost pleading eyes.

“fuck, it’s… it’s cold out here,” he muttered, voice rough. “but… yeah, fuck… you smell, like… everything good.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling, tugging gently on his arm. “c'mon, get in the car you big baby.”

he followed, shuffling along beside you, shoulders hunched, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. he let you guide him into the passenger seat of his sleek black mercedes, heat and regret and longing pressing together as you let go of his arm.

“yo… you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough, “I… I like you. fuckin’… like… goddamn, like really, really… yeah.”

you glanced at him, surprised, hand resting lightly on his arm. “cho… you don't know what you're saying,” you said softly, voice steady. “now let’s just get you home before you do anything stupid.”

he grinned, shaky but wide, and leaned slightly into you as you guided him along the sidewalk. “yeah… yeah, okay… home… yeah… but fuck, I swear… I swear, I’m like… all my feelings… all of ‘em… you’re fuckin’… yeah, you’re it.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. you were starting to get really anxious. he's ever like this, never so open, never so talkative. “you're high. i don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, okay?”

~

you open the door to your apartment with a slightly more sober choso trailing behind you. normally, it was warm here, soft, your little refuge from the chaos of the outside world. tonight it was cold, unfamiliar, as if every object, the counter, the fridge, the chipped mug in the sink, was holding its breath.

choso was already inside, leaning against the kitchen bench, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.

normally, even high, he was lazy, drifting. tonight he was… heavier. darker. like every beat of his pulse carried some of the tension from the warehouse, every breath filled with something raw, sharp, desperate.

“cho?” your voice was soft, tentative, as you stepped closer. the door clicked shut behind you and the sound seemed louder than it should have been. he didn’t answer at first, just watched you, eyes glassy but unblinking, half-shadowed in the dim light.

then he moved. suddenly, decisively. one long step forward, and he was close enough that you felt the heat from him, smelled the faint mix of weed, sweat, and his cologne. before you could react, he caught your wrist and guided you toward the counter, pressing you lightly against it.

“hey,” he murmured, low, rough, voice shaking just slightly. “don’t… don’t move. just… just listen.”

you froze, pulse jumping. normally he was lazy, teasing, stoner-lazy. not like this—not intense, not… commanding in that way that made your lower stomach tighten.

“choso—” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance, his eyes flicking up to yours, desperate, pleading.

“i… i’ve been keeping something from you,” he said, voice tight. “something stupid. something i should’ve… fuck, should’ve told you about a long time ago.”

you swallowed, your heart picking up. “hmm?… what is it?”

he exhaled slowly, hands brushing against the edge of the counter near your hips, close but not overbearing, just there enough that you felt trapped in the tension he carried.

“it’s… it’s about… suguru,” he said, jaw tightening. his voice caught in his throat for a second, then he pushed through. “about all the… shit he’s said. about you, y/n.”

your stomach dropped. what the hell was he talking about? he was clearly fucked out of his mind, slurring his words as his jaw twitched. you wanted to put him to sleep, tell him to calm down, but he looked too controlling, like he'd explode if he didn't get this out.

“suguru, he… he talks about you like you’re nothing,” choso continued, hands tightening around the edge of the counter as if he needed the anchor. “like… like he’s the only one with a right to… to even fucking look at you. he… he laughed, y/n. we were at the studio, and... he said—he said such shitty things about you."

your breath caught as he leaned in closer. "l-like what?..."

"shit... he said that he likes you because you’re obedient, you're 'tight as hell', a good fuck, like you’re… like you’re just… I don’t even know, a thing for him to screw. and then—”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, dark eyes flicking to yours. “—then, tonight, while you were in the bathroom, doing your makeup, he went straight to his old fling, the girl he used to bang and brag about, just… just to… to prove something. he looked me dead in the eye. like he was… like he’s proud of it.”

you felt your throat tighten. your hands gripped the counter instinctively. “oh choso... i'm sorry you had to hear all of that… i—”

“no, no,” he cut you off, urgency flashing. “don’t you fucking start apologizing. don’t. you didn’t do anything. it’s all him. it’s… it’s just… i hate him. i fucking hate him, y/n.”

his voice was raw, breaking a little on the last word.

the smoke curling around him made him look sharper somehow, the dim light accentuating the edges of his face, the dark lines under his eyes. you’d never seen him like this. vulnerable, angry, but also… unflinchingly honest.

“choso... he's your band mate, i know what he did to me was shitty, but don't let that ruin your relationship with him... cmon…” your voice was quiet, unsure. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to comfort him or run. your chest hurt at the honesty in his voice.

“no. i don't care, y/n... and that’s not the worst part,” he said, leaning just a little closer, hands still on the counter, gaze locked on yours.

“the worst part is… i can’t—i can’t stop thinking about it. about him touching you, talking about you, laughing at the way he’s—fuck, i don’t even know. it makes me… it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind. like my chest is… i don’t know, ripping in two.”

your lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. his usual lazy, stoner-laden grin was gone. this was… desperate. needy. almost like he couldn’t stand not saying it out loud.

he was slurring his words, looking frantic.

“and i… i want to—” he paused, swallowed, voice rough, low. “i want to tell you… that i’d never… i’d never do that. not to you. not like him. not even close. you… you’re too good, too… i don’t… fuck. you’re not like that. and i… i like you, y/n.”

the words hit harder than you expected. you’d thought he was joking before, rambling high, maybe even teasing. but this… this was different. he was standing close, breathing uneven, heart thudding in his chest, eyes pleading, and you realised, he meant it.

“choso…” you whispered. you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tight. “you… you mean that?”

“yeah,” he said, a harsh exhale of smoke escaping his lips. “i mean it. i’ve liked you for so long, and i… fuck, i just… kept it buried. kept it lazy, kept it… i don’t know, hidden. i didn’t wanna make it weird, or fuck things up. but tonight… tonight i saw everything. you with him. and i couldn’t hold it anymore.”

he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his hand lingered, trembling slightly. “you're... you're really special to me, y’know? not like… possessive or some shit. just… like… i need you. i need you to know i don’t want anyone else doing what he did. talking about you like that. looking at you like that. not ever."

you bit your lip, heart racing, conflicted. the intensity of his confession, the anger at suguru, the neediness, it was… a lot.

you didn’t know how to feel. your body was leaning slightly into him, the pull of him against you magnetic, but your mind was spinning. suguru. choso. confusion and lust and relief all knotted together.

"why are you just telling me this now...?" you ask, shyly as he inches closer, grabbing your jaw and holding it loose.

"because i'm off my fucking face, y/n."

it was sudden, and you even giggled. because he was right. sober choso, stoned choso, he'd never been this open, never this vulnerable.

"... i don't know what to say, this is all so— fuck— it's so sudden. what am i supposed to do about suguru..." you ask, he closes his eyes and responds with his forehead pressed to yours.

"if i had it my way... you'd block his ass, never speak to the mother fucker again, and spend your nights wrapped up in my bed, instead of his. letting me take care of things, keeping you close so you'd know i was yours, asking you out like a proper fucking guy. not using you like some sort of pocket pussy."

that hit. because that's all you'd ever really wanted from someone. companionship, love, the kind of respect you just didn't feel from suguru no matter how many times you'd try make yourself think you did.

he finally let go of your face and stepped back, rubbing his hands down his own thighs like he needed the grounding. “c’mon,” he muttered, voice rough, low. “bed. i… i just wanna… be near you. just… lie down, okay?”

you nodded, still unsure, heart pounding, but the pull was magnetic. his bed was just down the hall, soft, slightly messy, with a blanket he probably hadn’t folded in days.

normally he was too stoner-lazy to care about anything resembling organization, but tonight the bed felt like a sanctuary. he moved ahead of you, swaying a little, still fumbling with his hoodie, and you followed, careful not to trip over the rug in the hallway.

once inside, he lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan that was half frustration, half relief. he patted the space beside him, a small, awkward gesture but charged with meaning. “get in here,” he said, voice soft now, almost pleading. “just… be here. with me.”

you perched at the edge for a moment, looking down at him. he looked vulnerable in the way you hadn’t seen before—high and open, yet completely raw. then, slowly, you slid in beside him.

he shifted slightly, making room, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. your head rested lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heat of his skin beneath your cheek.

“fuck… you feel good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “like… like everything i’ve been waiting for, all at once. i… i don’t want to move,"

you exhaled softly, heart hammering. “i’m here,” you whispered. “i won’t go anywhere.”

he pressed his face into your hair, a quiet groan escaping him, not sexual, not demanding, just… relief. he was holding onto you like no one's business, like proximity to you was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“i… i fucked up tonight,” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “i know… i was all over the place. off my face. but… you gotta know… i meant everything i said. every word. you’re the only one i want to be… like… close to. like this.”

you shifted a little, looking up at him. the sharp, high tension in his face had softened, replaced by a mixture of haze, exhaustion, and longing. “cho… i get it,” you murmured. “you don’t have to explain anymore. just… be here.”

you let yourself sink against him, chest pressed to his, but your mind was a storm. part of you was still sharp, aching with betrayal. the thought of suguru’s words, his casual cruelty, it stung, too fresh to be jumping into anything emotionally taxing as of now.

it left a sour taste, a tight knot in your stomach. you hated that you’d ever tried to make excuses for him, that you’d tried to convince yourself his calm exterior meant anything other than manipulation.

and yet, lying here with choso, pressed close to him, his warmth and his raw honesty wrapping around you, it felt like a shield. the tension, the anger, the hurt—they softened at the edges, dulled by the simple fact that he was here. that he wasn’t pretending. he wasn’t playing games. he didn’t want to own you—he just wanted you near, wanted to take care of you in the quietest, simplest way.

your chest warmed despite the lingering anger, the betrayal still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. and yet, in this space, tangled together, pressed close in the dim glow of his bedroom, you could let yourself be content. content with the one person who’d always been honest with you, who’d finally shown you exactly how much he cared.

for now, that was all you needed.

~

the weeks had slipped past since you’d messaged geto to fuck off. you hadn’t spoken to him since that curt text, and honestly, it was quieter than you’d expected. no drama, no confrontations, just the dull ache of his absence.

the apartment felt calmer for it, too. you and choso hadn’t talked about that night, about the confession, the intensity, the things he’d admitted, but it hovered in the space between you like a low hum, unspoken but insistent.

and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm emerged. mornings were quiet, coffee mugs and peeling toast and sleepy smiles. afternoons slipped by on the couch, half-watching a show, half-dozing, your knees brushing against his.

evenings smelled like takeout and weed, music humming in the background as he sprawled lazily on the carpet, drumsticks idly tapping against his legs.

there were moments where it almost tipped, where the electricity between you made your fingers tremble and your stomach twist. a brush of hands in the kitchen, a shared laugh over something dumb on your phone, and for a heartbeat it felt like you could collapse into each other right then and there.

but choso was careful. patient. giving you space to breathe, letting the sting of geto fade, even as his gaze lingered longer than it probably should. he still wanted you close, but he held himself back, letting you set the pace. only on your own terms would he get close, letting you slip into his bed when you got lonely, letting him rub your back when things got stressful. the little things.

the band had its own tension.

practices had become sharper, more pointed, the edges of old frustrations showing. suguru’s sulking was more obvious these days, jaw tight, fingers always on his guitar strings like he was ready to snap at any moment.

he hadn’t forgiven you, or himself, for the way you’d just ended things. toji sighed more than usual, muttering about drama infecting the rhythm of the band.

gojo, predictably, had made it his life’s mission to tease both suguru and choso mercilessly. apparently, choso had spilled every detail from that night to him, and gojo’s sharp, smug grin had never left since.

“yo, cho,” gojo called during a rehearsal break, plopping onto the bass amp with a lazy flop. “have you swooped her up yet? any new updates on your little scheme to make her your play thing?"

choso’s eyes flicked up from the drumkit, one stick lazily twirling in his fingers. “shut the fuck up, gojo. that's not what i'm doing,” he said, voice flat but amused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

he was back to his usual rhythm now. easy, teasing, present, but the underlying tension in the studio hung there anyway, like the air before a storm.

suguru scowled from the corner, tuning his guitar obsessively. “idiots,” he muttered, voice sharp. “both of you.”

toji snorted. “cho’s chillin’, you're the only one sulkin' man.”

the drums hit again, slow and steady, choso’s stick tapping a rhythm into the carpeted floor.

back at the apartment, it was quieter. the city hummed outside the windows while you and choso settled into something gentle, unspoken, almost tender.

one night, he was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, and you were perched at the edge, flipping through a magazine. your hands brushed, his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary as he gazed into your eyes like a man starved, the pull was undeniable.

“choso… we shouldn't just…ignore it.” you started, heart hammering.

he cut you off with a soft hum, eyes still hidden beneath the hood. “i know. but i’m… i’m trying… letting you breathe. letting you… heal first.”

your chest tightened. “it’s… it’s still weird. still raw. geto… he—”

“fuck geto,” he interrupted softly, voice low but firm. “he’s out. he’s done. i’m… here. for you. not asking for more than you can give.”

and that was enough. the rest of the night passed in quiet, soft laughter over dumb shows, slow music, the faint drumbeat from his sticks echoing against the walls.

no confessions, no admissions, just presence and the weight of his calm, steady warmth.

practices were intense now. the band had a gig coming up, the biggest they’d ever do. every session was longer, every riff tighter, every cymbal crash deliberate.

choso’s drumming drove the rhythm, his usual lazy charisma replaced by a quiet focus, punctuated by moments of laziness where he’d just lean into the kick drum and let the beat flow through him.

and through it all, you were there with choso. kitchen chats between sessions, lounging on the couch while he absentmindedly tapped his sticks on your coffee table, brushing against your knees when you passed by.

the apartment was your sanctuary and your battlefield, tension and warmth coexisting, your bodies close but boundaries carefully observed as you'd talk about everything.

"so, will i see you at the gig?"

"duh. i'll be front row screaming your name."

god, he wishes you would scream his.

~

the venue pulsed with energy. bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.

you could feel the bass thumping through the soles of your boots before the band even came on. a low chant started somewhere in the crowd—ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize—and spread fast, a heartbeat made of strangers.

you were front and center, caught in the current of people, hands gripping the barricade. your chest was tight, a knot of nerves and excitement wound together. this was their biggest gig yet—bigger venue, bigger crowd, the kind of show that could push them up a tier.

the lights went low. a hush fell. and then gojo’s voice hit the mic, clear and cocky, dripping with that smug grin you knew even without seeing it.

“alright, alright, you sexy motherfuckers,” he drawled, drawing out every syllable. “we’re exorcize, and we came to make your night filthy.”

the crowd erupted. lights flashed red, then white, smoke rolling over the stage. suguru stepped up first, guitar slung low, hair slicked back, jaw set tight.

toji followed, head down, fingers flexing around the neck of his bass.

choso came last, sliding onto the stool behind his drumkit, sticks already spinning between his fingers. the moment he sat, everything in the room seemed to lock into rhythm.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

the set kicked off hard; gojo’s voice raw and teasing, suguru’s guitar slicing through the noise, toji’s bass thick and grounding. but choso… god, choso was something else entirely.

his body moved with the rhythm like he was the rhythm. sweat already glistened at his temples, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned into each beat. his arms flexed with every strike, the muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his tee, drumsticks flashing in the lights.

it was hypnotic. enticing. you felt it low in your stomach, that steady pulse syncing with his.

geto was there, of course. you’d spotted him near the sound booth, head low, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. the sight of him twisted something sharp in you at first, but it faded fast, burned away by the heat rising from the stage.

because when choso hit that first solo, nothing else mattered. not the press of bodies, not the alcohol hiring your tounge, and definitely not suguru geto.

he tilted his head back slightly, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hands blurred.

you’d seen him play before, countless times —but this was different. this was him, stripped down, alive. raw talent and rhythm and restraint all breaking loose in front of a crowd that screamed his name.

and you were screaming it too.

every cymbal crash sent a jolt through you. every roll of his shoulders, every flick of his wrist made your breath hitch. your fingers gripped the barricade harder as heat coiled low in your belly. you couldn’t stop watching him. didn’t want to.

gojo grinned into the mic between songs, sweat dripping down his jaw. “give it up for the best damn drummer in tokyo—my guy choso!”

the crowd roared, and you swore you saw choso’s mouth twitch into the faintest, shyest grin. his gaze swept across the crowd for a fleeting second, and when it landed on you, your stomach dropped. he saw you. he felt you.

the rest of the set blurred together, grinding guitars, crashing percussion, gojo’s voice splitting the air like lightning. when they closed out with exile mind, their heaviest song, the crowd went feral.

choso drove the final beat like he was trying to break through the floor, and when the last note hit, he threw his sticks high into the crowd. one disappeared into the sea of hands; the other bounced off the barricade and landed right in front of you.

you picked it up, clutching it tight.

the lights faded. the crowd’s roar slowly dissolved into chatter and laughter, the sound of the night spilling back into the open air. the band vanished backstage, swallowed by cables.

you slipped through the press of bodies, heart still pounding, the drumstick warm in your hand. a couple of drinks from the merch table had loosened your nerves, and you could feel a confident heat rolling low in your belly, pressing against the restraint you’d been holding onto all night.

when you found him outside—behind the venue, near the alley where the smoke from the back door curled upward—he was leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, head tipped back, still catching his breath.

“you were…” your voice caught, breath slightly slurred and warm from the drinks, “holy shit, choso, you were incredible.”

his lips quirked, soft and tired. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, deliberately letting your hand linger a second longer on his chest. “i couldn’t look away. like… i don’t even have words. you sounded—” you lowered your voice, letting the warmth of the drinks give you boldness, “you sounded so good. so fucking good.”

his gaze flicked to yours, something dark and quiet sparking in it. the pull between you was immediate, electric, and you let your fingers brush his hoodie again, teasing, deliberate.

“you think so?” he asked softly, voice rougher, more ragged than usual.

you nodded, stepping closer until your body nearly pressed against his. “yeah. you made me feel it. every beat.” your lips curved into a half-smile, half-grin, letting the alcohol fuel a boldness you usually didn’t give yourself.

after weeks of pretending like there was nothing going on between you, this was definitely the breaking point.

"i couldn’t stop thinking about you, how i'm so lucky to have such a talented friend.”

he swallowed, shoulders rising, that lazy grin cracking just slightly as he stepped a fraction closer.

for a second, the air felt so thick you could barely breathe.

the back door swung open then, and gojo’s voice cut through the air.

“yo, you two!” he shouted, grinning under the streetlights. “afterparty at mine. everyone’s invited. you better show up, cho—you owe me a joint and a round of beer for that call out, man.”

choso didn’t even glance back. his gaze stayed on you, dark and intense.

you tilted your head, voice soft but teasing, letting the boldness roll over your words. “maybe skip it,” you said, hand still lightly resting against his chest. “the last afterparty didn’t go so well for you, remember?”

his laugh was low, slightly hungry, genuine. “yeah,” he murmured. “fair point.”

“come home,” you said, your body brushing against his side as you spoke, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “come home. with me.”

he hesitated a heartbeat, then exhaled, eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah. home sounds really good.”

.

as soon as the door clicked shut, the air between you ignited. his hand found the small of your back before you could even react, pulling you flush against him. your body pressed to his chest, heart hammering, pulse racing, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“fuck,” he breathed, forehead leaning to yours, voice low and rough, vibrating in your chest. “i can't take this anymore. i can't keep ignoring this.”

you swallowed, breath hitching, hands braced against his shoulders. “cho—”

he cut you off with a growl, lips brushing against your jaw as his hands slid down to grip your hips firmly, anchoring you to him. “no. fuck that. i mean it. i… i’ve been holding back everything. every word, every look, every feeling.”

your stomach fluttered, heat pooling between your thighs, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down your spine. he tilted your chin up, eyes dark, heavy with desire and something softer, something raw and unguarded. “i can’t… can’t stand it anymore, y/n. that night, everything i said… everything i’ve wanted… i need you so badly.”

“choso…” your voice was breathless, half warning, half pleading, but your body betrayed you, leaning in closer, the tension unbearable.

he laughed, low, rough, almost a growl. “jesus, look at you. you're so fucking beautiful… i want you all to myself, all of the time. i don't know how i control myself most of the time, y/n.” his hands roamed lower, teasing the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft line of your hips.

“i need you. i’ve wanted you… every lazy, fucking long day i’ve spent here in your vicinity, it's like i can't breathe properly without you.”

your chest tightened, mind spinning, everything he’d said that night pooling back into focus—his confession, the anger at suguru, the raw truth. you’d thought it was a high, a ramble, but now… seeing him, feeling him, you knew it was real.

“ i—” you started, voice trembling, then cut yourself off as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours.

the kiss hit first soft, lips delicately meeting for the first time, then it grew demanding. a low growl vibrating from his chest, hands gripping your hips tighter, rolling you against him like it was the only natural motion in the universe.

you gasped, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, feeling the press of his hardness against you, the undeniable weight of him. your body arched instinctively, pressed to his, heart hammering, chest rising and falling in sync.

“tell me,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, low. “tell me you want me… all of this… me.”

your eyes fluttered open, heart in your throat, and you met his gaze. you looked him up and down and pulled him in tight, letting your lips do the talking.

"does that answer your question?"

he groaned, a sharp, feral sound that made your stomach clench, and pressed harder, pinning you against the door like it was his god-given right. “good,” he breathed, tilting his head as his lips sought yours again, slower now, tasting, teasing, claiming. “i need to… i need to ask, too.”

“ask?” you whispered, breathless.

he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. “be… mine, y/n. completely. no games, no half-assed shit. i want you. all of you.”

your chest tightened, eyes swimming with heat, desire, and relief. “yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, letting everything spill out.

that was all he needed. his grin cracked wide, teeth grazing your lips, and he dove back into your mouth, hands wandering over every inch he could reach, lips and tongue claiming, teeth grazing just enough to draw gasps from you.

you pressed into him, hands clawing at his back, hips grinding, the friction of his body against yours setting you alight. each kiss was sharper, heavier, demanding, full of need and want and something that had been simmering for years.

he backed you into the hallway, every step making the tension coil tighter, until finally he spun you gently, but with no less force, toward the bedroom. the air was thick, your breaths ragged, hands clutching at each other’s clothing, trying to close the distance you both had held back for too long.

“god, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you shivered violently. “i’ve needed this… wanted you… for so long.”

you couldn’t hold back anymore. “me too, cho. so badly.”

he groaned, a deep, rough sound vibrating through your chest, hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer as you crossed the threshold into the bedroom. the door shut behind you with a definitive click, muffling the city outside, leaving only the sound of your hearts, your breaths, and the magnetic pull between your bodies.

and then… he kissed you again, slow and searing, full of hunger and want and heat, pressing you onto the bed as your legs tangled together, bodies seeking, finding, consuming.

he’s all teeth and tongue, biting, sucking, nipping at your neck, shoulder, jaw, dragging low, urgent groans from deep in his chest that make you ache and melt at the same time.

your nails rake down his back, pulling him closer, and he leans in, grinding, pressing, heat and hunger radiating from him in waves that make your knees weak.

“fuck, choso—” you gasp, but he swats your hands away gently, lips still devouring yours, teeth grazing, tongue probing, tugging, tasting.

every touch, every snap of his hips as he grinds his clothed cock against you, makes your clit pulse with anticipation.

his fingers slip under your shirt, pressing and pinching at your hardened nipples, trailing down your sides slowly, dragging heat across your skin.

your hands clutch at him, tugging his hoodie off of his body, anything to get more of him, more contact, more friction. he responds with a low, guttural growl, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips snapping hard, testing, teasing, driving you insane with want as he tears off his shirt.

you catch a glimpse of the body you'd see on the daily, a perfect chiseled masterpiece, only this time, it was all yours.

he doesn’t just kiss you, he devours you. hands roaming over your pretty body, he slips your skirt off next, and slides his big, veiny hand down, down, until the thick pads of his fingers tease and prod at your wet bundle of nerves. you hiss in reply.

"fuck! choso— that feels— so good!"

he smirks at your confession and slowly pushes his thick digits inside, scissoring them back and forth, driving you up the wall as you let out pretty, breathless moans.

"ch-choso!"

his mouth drifts lower, teasing the swell of your breasts, biting just enough to make you arch and cry out.

after working you open, he kisses your lips tenderly before pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. his rock hard cock springs free, and, wow. just wow.

"th-that's not gonna fit..."

"we'll make it fit, baby."

and fit it did. he slowly pushed his fat tip past your puffy lips, whispering reassuring praise as you squeezed your eyes shut from the streeeetch.

"aww— you can do it, ma. you're doing so good for me. that's it, just keep breathing baby."

his hips jerked forward, letting the last few inches fully stretch you out, earning a porn star worthy moan rip from your throat.

"holy fuck— holly shit! choso, you're so big!"

he groaned in satisfaction, your cunt swallowing him whole as he slapped his hips back and forth over and over again, cursing and moaning deeply into your ear.

his pace turns brutal, like all of his emotions were being poured into fucking you nice and deep, the way you deserved.

he dips his face down impossibly close to your face to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. he smirks against your skin, letting lewd comments tumble out of his smirking lips.

"you moan so prettily for me baby— shit— nothing— hah— gets me harder than hearing you whine like a slut while i fuck you fast."

you arch, grinding against him without thinking, letting the friction and his raw heat take over, body trembling beneath him. he groans into your neck, claws digging into your thighs, holding you open, guiding, punishing, claiming.

he’s insatiable. every roll of his hips, every snap, every deep press of him against you makes your body combust, trembling, gasping, aching for more. your moans, ragged and loud, fuel him, and he leans in, tongue and teeth and lips all at once, relentless, like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.

you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything but ride the fire, hips rolling into him, chest pressing into his, skin slick and shivering. he drives you higher, deeper, grinding with unrelenting intensity, low growls vibrating through his chest, vibrating through you.

"fuck! baby— gonna cum— gonna fill y' up, shit!"

you locked your legs around his torso as his thrusts become more and more feverish, the sheer pace making your face squeeze tight in ecstasy.

he's breathing heavy, holding your hips against him so hard you're sure his hands will leave bruises, your cunt being relentlessly pounded as he finally lets go.

"fuck— y/n! fuck i love you, i love you so much!"

you gasp at his words and blurt out a response like it was muscle memory, like it was the most perfect irrevocable truth.

"i love you too, choso— hah!—,"

when he finally drives the both of you over the edge, it’s explosive. he pants and collapses immediately, groaning into your chest as he caresses your hair, speaking soft praise into your ear.

"god, that was so good. you did so well f'me... holy shit, y/n. you're so perfect, so good... you took me like a fucking champ."

you were too busy coming down to fully comprehend, but you cradled his head against your chest all the same.

he doesn’t pull away. just holds you, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your forehead, arms tight around you, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling, pulse still wild. the tension hasn’t left, it’s just simmering now, a coiled heat between you two that promises this is only the beginning.

you’re still gasping, shivering, trembling in the aftermath, but it’s… thrilling, dark, messy, and perfect. he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once more, teeth grazing, murmuring something low and rough that makes your stomach knot again.

"i love you, y/n. you're mine. i don't fuck and dip, this is a forever thing now, okay? i promise, i'm never letting you get away from me."

the world outside is gone. it’s just the two of you, tangled, fevered, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.

you reply through breathless speech, looking deep into his beautiful, tired eyes.

"i know, cho. and that's all i've ever really needed."

m.list !

you hum softly, fingers threaded through the ratted strands of his hair; soaked from sweat and your slick, dark ribbons clumped where you’ve been tugging. “you like it messy, no?” you tease, but your voice cracks halfway, betraying you in the same breath.

“mhm,” he grunts, dragging his tongue up from your entrance to the tender hood in one long greedy lick, and then again slower, letting the flat of his tongue drag with heavy weight until you gasp. “can’t—hm—can’t help it. ‘s too pretty.”

he looks up, his cheeks hollow from the suction around your clit, lips puffed red and swollen. the desperation is naked, raw in his gaze, and you’re suddenly very aware of how hard he’s rutting against the mattress between your parted legs. his hips twitch forward each time you whimper. it’s shameless.

the bed is already squeaking faintly from his rocking. each drag of his cock against the sheets lines his briefs with a dark patch, leaking, spreading wider. you glance down, can’t help it, can’t stop staring at how the tent throbs with his little ruts. “cho…”

he knows that tone. he groans low in his throat, muffled against your pussy, before sucking hard enough on your clit to make your thighs jolt. “just… lemme—” another lick, another spatter of spit dripping down your slit, “—lemme eat, baby. please.”

his hands clutch harder at your thighs, broad thumbs pressing bruises into the soft inner flesh, holding you open as if he thinks you might try to shut him out. but you don’t. you never could. not when he’s staring up at you like that, hair matted, lips shining, looking like you hung the moon and then spread your legs just to let him worship.

“good boy,” you breathe, tugging him closer, and his body reacts—hips jerking sharply into the mattress, a grunt cut off in his chest, his whole face burning red. (you say it so easy, like you don’t realize how it ruins him).

“don't you start—” he tries, but his lips betray him, mouth already back on your clit, sucking, slobbering, whimpering against you with his breath ragged and needy.

your hand cups the back of his head, pressing him closer. his nose digs against your mound, smearing slick all over his scarred bridge, coating his skin shiny. he’s moaning louder now, like he’s the one being touched, voice muffled into your cunt, vibrating straight through your core until your thighs twitch tight around his ears.

“choso—fuck, slow down,” you gasp, but he doesn’t. he never does once he starts. you feel him drooling more, swallowing thick between licks, babbling against you like he can’t stop himself—

“but... so sweet, god—taste like—fuck—” he’s barely audible, his words broken up by wet smacks and your own shaky whines.

you arch, fists clutching the sheets. he’s unrelenting, messy slurps echoing in the room, saliva dripping down his chin, your slick running in messy rivulets down his jaw. it’s obscene, the way he eats you like this. you’re trembling, stomach tight, legs twitching, your breath catching ragged in your throat.

and he’s rutting. again and again, helpless against the bed, his cock dragging wetly against the mattress while he whines into your folds. his hips are frantic, shaking the frame, the squeak of old wood underscoring the sloppy chorus of spit and slick below your waist.

“baby, look at me—” you gasp, your own voice hoarse, and he does, eyes flicking up instantly, pupils wide, lips wrapped tight around your nub as if he’ll die if he lets go. the sight makes your breath stutter, and you can’t help it—you grind into his mouth, shoving your hips forward, chasing the friction.

he moans. moans like you’re suffocating him, like the pressure of your cunt against his lips is holy. his cock twitches, a wet spurt leaking into his briefs, and you realize with a jolt—he’s going to cum like this. untouched. just from the taste of you.

your body seizes up, mouth dropping open, and the coil in your belly threatens to snap.

you can’t even think straight, not when he’s moaning into your cunt like that, not when he’s drooling so much it’s dripping off his chin onto the sheets below. your stomach’s fluttering, legs still trembling, your thighs caging his head as you whimper.

“gonna— ‘m gonna—” the words fall apart on your tongue, strangled around the edge of a cry, and it makes his whole body spasm.

he pulls back just enough to pant against your pussy, and you swear you can still feel the shape of his tongue. “please—lemme—wanna feel you cum on my tongue—fuck, please—” he sounds frantic, like begging is instinct, and you almost do, almost fall apart right there against his mouth.

but then you tug at his hair, a sharp little pull, and he looks up at you with those wide, ruined eyes. cheeks flushed, mouth glossy, a strand of saliva slipping down to his chin. “no,” you pant, trying to catch a real breath through the haze, “need—need you inside.”

the noise he makes—god. like you just tore the breath out of his chest. a broken whimper, hips jerking hard against the mattress again, cock grinding so wet it makes a lewd squelch.

“inside?” his voice cracks, desperate, and you nod quick, tugging him upward. he drags himself up your body, lips still parting for shaky little kisses against your skin—your belly, your ribs, your chest—until he’s hovering above you, panting ragged, his cock pressed stiff against your thigh.

you glance down and—fuck—he’s soaked through. his briefs are plastered dark, his cockhead leaking so much it’s glistening right through the fabric.

“poor thing…” you whisper, hand slipping down between you to palm him through the mess. the way he shudders, gasps—

“hahhh, d-don’t—ngh—talk to me like that,” his voice breaks, his forehead dropping to yours, damp bangs tickling your skin. “fuck—okay, maybe... been—been leakin’ for so long, baby, please, please—”

your other hand slides his waistband down and he lifts his hips just enough, helping, fumbling. his cock springs free heavy and wet, slapping against your stomach with a sticky little smack. and he groans, deep in his chest, watching it twitch against you, thick and flushed, smeared with precum.

you wrap your hand around it and he whines, his whole body jolting. “oh my god—” his voice is a wreck, every word trembling.

“shhh, c'mon, don't forget about the neighbors,” you murmur, guiding his length down, dragging the blunt head through your folds. both of you moan at once when it smears slick against your clit. poor neighbors.

he’s shaking, arms trembling where they cage you in, watching the way his cockhead disappears between your swollen lips with every drag. “sorry—p-please, need it, need inside—”

you nod, you reach between your bodies, the knuckles of your hand bumping his soft stomach as you guide him to you, tip catching and slipping and catching again before he presses past that tight first ring and your eyes roll up, lips parting around a sigh that’s more like a laugh—relief, ache, heat. his hands (which had been fisted uselessly in the sheets) fly to your hips and freeze there, like he’s scared to do anything but hold on.

“ahhh—” your mouth drops open as he sinks in slow, his length stretching you inch by inch.

his jaw hangs slack, lips parted, a sheen of drool gathering again at the corner of his mouth as he stares down where you’re swallowing him. “s-shit—so—no because why is it so tight—hahhh—”

he bottoms out with a heavy groan, hips pressing flush to yours, cock buried deep, thick veins throbbing against your walls.

your nails scratch his back and he gasps, trembling above you, chest heaving. “feels like ‘m gonna cum already, ohmygod—”

you clench around him and he yelps, eyes screwing shut, forehead pressing to your collarbone as his hips twitch.

“cho, look at me,” you breathe, and he forces his eyes open, lashes wet, lips quivering. “move. need you to move.”

“yeah, yeah—” he babbles, hips rocking back a shallow inch before pushing in again, and the both of you moan, voices tangling.

the bed creaks under the rhythm, sharp little squeals of wood punctuating the slick, wet drag of his cock through your walls.

“fuuuuck—so warm, so warm—” he chants it like prayer, thrusting slow, sloppy, hips stuttering each time you squeeze him tighter.

your thighs hook around his waist, dragging him deeper, and he sobs, hips slamming forward harder.

“yes, yes, baby, just like that, feels s’good, feels—hannhh—like ‘m—fuck, like you’re milkin’ me already—” his voice cracks high, humiliated and raw, but he doesn’t stop. his hips snap faster, balls smacking wet against your ass, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

drool drips from his open mouth onto your chest and he doesn’t even notice, too lost in the way your pussy clamps down around him with every thrust. because if there's one thing choso could look at for hours, it's the way your pussy swallow him.

you change the angle—small scoot of your thighs, tilt of your pelvis, the kind of micro-adjustment your body learned after nights like this—until his breath stutters on every second stroke, until his eyes glaze and his voice climbs, high, higher, as if he can’t decide whether to cry or come. the headboard taps-taps-taps the wall; somewhere a neighbor bangs in protest and you grin, lazy and vicious, and bounce harder.

“my girl,” he chokes, blush flooding all the way to his ears. “my—ngh—girl, that’s right, take it—hng—”

you love when he says it like that, rough with pride, and your body answers with a needy clench; he feels it and yelps again—not pain, something else—something very close to panic. you set your palms to his soft cheeks and lean him down to kiss him while he moves, deep and hot and messy, your lips open, his whines spilling directly into your mouth.

“yes—fuck—keep goin’, just like that,” you moan, tugging his hair, and he keens, hips jackhammering into you now, sloppy and needy.

your head tilts back, mouth falling open around ragged breaths, the sounds of your bodies loud in the air—squelches, creaks, the smack of skin on skin.

he’s babbling, ruined, voice spilling over itself: “s-sorry—so wet, feels too good—baby, oh fuck, ohfuck—don’t wanna stop, don’t—don’t—”

and when you whisper “good boy” again because why not be evil, his hips slam so hard the headboard cracks against the wall, and he wails against your throat, cock twitching deep inside you.

"i said don't call me like that," he groans, his teeth gently scraping your collarbone.

the way he’s fucking you is already desperate, like he doesn’t know if he can last another second, and yet somehow he keeps going, keeps grinding into you with that sloppy rhythm that makes the bed whine under his weight.

your arms are wrapped around him tight, nails scratching patterns into his back, and he just keeps whimpering in your ear, broken pieces of words.

“baby, can't.. i think I'm dying,” his voice is high, almost a sob, his hips jerking with a life of their own.

each thrust drags his cock through you with a wet burn that makes your face heat. he’s soaked, you’re soaked, the sheets underneath you both a sticky mess, and still he wants more.

he pulls back just enough to look down and groans at the sight: his cock shining, glazed, disappearing into your cunt with every desperate snap of his hips. he’s drooling again, a little line of spit clinging to his lip before he wipes it with the back of his hand.

“look—fuck, look at it,” he babbles, eyes wide, pupils blown. “goes so deep, baby, all the way—hahhh, feel it in your tummy?”

you nod, dizzy, and guide one of his big hands down. “feel.”

he swallows thickly, palm pressing against your lower stomach where his cockhead drags against your walls from the inside. his whole face goes red, lips parting in a hoarse cry. “ohhh f-fuck—i feel it, i feel me inside—”

his hips slam harder, frenzied, and you gasp, thighs shaking around him.

“slow down,” you plead, voice breaking, and he sobs into your neck, trying but failing, his body too wound-up, too needy.

“can’t— you’re squeezin’ me—s-so fuckin’ good—”

his thrusts grow messier, hips stuttering, cock twitching inside you. his mouth latches onto your throat, sucking, teeth scraping, muffling his pathetic little whines.

you can tell he’s close, his whole body tense, balls tightening against you with each slap of his hips.

so you clench down on him deliberately, and he yelps, head snapping back with his eyes wide.

“ahhh—d-don’t—baby, fuck—‘m gonna—”

“don’t you dare,” you pant, squeezing harder, your nails digging into his arms. “not yet. hold it.”

his voice cracks, high and broken. “but i need to cum so bad—”

but you shake your head, kissing the corner of his wet mouth. “hold it for me. good boy.” he wails, an ugly sob of a sound, hips trembling as he tries to stop himself.

"stop. saying. that." the headboard rattles with the force of him shoving deep and then holding still, cock throbbing inside you, so close he can taste it.

his mouth hangs open, saliva dripping onto your cheek as he whimpers, chest heaving. “you’re mean,” he pants, voice trembling, “teasin’ me—ohhh god—”

you just smile, stroking his sweaty hair back, whispering sweet nonsense against his ear until his hips calm. but he doesn’t stay calm for long. you roll your hips up into him and he screeches, whole body lurching forward.

“hnghh—f-fuck, if you want me to last, don’t move—please, i’ll cum, i’ll—”

“shhh. you can take it.”

you move again, slow but deliberate, and he collapses against you, forehead pressed to your collarbone, moaning so loud it rattles your ribs.

“hahhh—no no no—nngh, baby—s-stop,” his body twitches, his cock drooling more precum inside you, and you know he’s fighting it with everything he has.

he’s trembling, drenched in sweat, and you can’t help it—you drag your nails down his spine, lower, tracing over the dip above his ass.

his breath catches, a sharp little gasp against your throat.

you do it again, slower this time, your fingertips dancing over the curve of his tailbone, and his hips stutter, cock twitching hard inside you.

“wh-what’re you—” he tries, voice breaking on the words.

“nothing,” you hum, nails scratching lightly over the top of his ass.

his breath hitches. his hips grind forward unconsciously, a shudder ripping through him.

you press your palm flat against his lower back, pushing him deeper inside you, and your thumb brushes low—lower.

he jerks like you electrocuted him, a little yelp caught in his throat. “ahhh—w-wait don’t—”

but his cock twitches violently, spurting a little more, and you smirk against his neck.

“don’t what?” you whisper, stroking him deeper with your cunt while your hand drifts lower, teasing the dip of his ass.

he’s panting like a dog, face buried against you, ears burning red. “n-not there,” he whines, voice almost a cry. “why would you touch—”

and yet—his hips buck. hard. because his body betrayed him, grinding forward with a broken moan.

you keep your touch feather-light, circling low, and he shudders so hard his thighs quake.

“choso,” you murmur, licking sweat from his temple, “you like this?”

his face goes crimson. he shakes his head fast, messy strands of hair sticking to his cheeks. “n-no!”

but then your fingertip dips just a little lower, grazing sensitive skin, and he yelps, high-pitched, cock throbbing violently inside you. you squeeze him at the same time and he sobs, trembling, whole body pressed tight to yours.

“don’t… don’t like it,” he whimpers, voice raw, “n-not into that—”

but his cock pulses, leaking so much it dribbles down between your thighs. you smile, kissing his open mouth, tasting the spit that drips down his chin.

“then why’s your cock so hard?”

he groans, hiding his face against your neck, hips grinding helplessly even as he mutters, “sh-shut up.”

you keep teasing, feathering your fingertips low over the curve of his ass until his thighs are quaking with each shallow thrust. his voice is nothing but babble now—broken syllables, slurred whines.

“n-nooo—don’t—don’t touch me there—” but his cock jerks when you do, drooling slick warmth inside you, throbbing so hard you swear you feel the veins pulse against your walls.

he’s trembling over you, his hair dripping sweat onto your cheek, lips parted and wet as he pants ragged against your skin. his hands clutch the sheets by your head like he needs something to anchor him, knuckles white.

you drag your nail slow over the seam of his ass and he yelps, sharp and high, hips slamming forward without his consent.

“I hate you—hahhh—” he’s gasping, eyes squeezed shut, ears glowing red, but his cock twitches violently deep inside you, leaking more, spilling down your thighs.

“you’re so sensitive here,” you murmur, kissing his jaw as your fingertip presses lower.

“baby—n-nooo, not there, not there—” his voice climbs, almost a whine, but his hips rock forward again, chasing the thrust.

you press—just enough for the pad of your finger to slip against that tight ring of muscle, not inside yet, just circling.

he screeches. his whole body seizes, arms giving out so he collapses onto you, chest shoving your lungs full with his weight, cock buried deep as it throbs hard against your walls.

“ohmygod—don’t, don’t—” his voice shatters, muffled against your neck, and yet his ass tilts unconsciously back toward your touch, betraying him.

you kiss his temple, whispering soft. “i’ll take care of you.”

his whole body locks. you freeze with him. consent is a living thing, and you watch his face, his breath, the flicker of uncertainty, the trust that follows. his throat works.

“i don’t—” he starts, and the sentence breaks into a whimper. “i—i trust you.”

“say stop if you really want me to stop.”

he groans, guttural, his forehead digging into your collarbone, body jerking as if every nerve is firing. “okay,”

and then, slowly, you press your finger in.

his breath catches, breaks. his eyes fly wide, mouth dropping open in a silent scream before a wrecked moan finally rips out of him, high-pitched, humiliating.

“fuuuck,” his whole body thrashes, thighs clenching, cock jerking violently inside you as if he’s cumming, though no release comes yet, just a heavy pulse, precum flooding.

“h-hey—i—oh,” he says, because the moment you nudge inside, just the bare tip of your finger, his body yelps before he can, a full-body flinch that punches the air out of him.

you still. “too much?”

his answer is a choked, high, “d-don’t move,” that sounds like panic until you realize his cock just twitched violently inside you, his heartbeat thudding against your walls.

you breathe against his shoulder. “breathe, baby.”

he does. slowly. his hips soften under your hands again; you feel him decide he can handle it. you press a little deeper, just to the first knuckle, the ring clenching around you like a startled kiss, and he makes a sound so embarrassed and sweet you want to cry—half yelp, half mewl, instantly followed by a mortified, “d-don’t laugh.” his ears are red, his cheeks are red, his eyes are glassing over.

“not laughing,” you whisper, and you’re not; you’re gone. you curl your finger the smallest bit while you roll your hips and it’s like flipping a hidden switch—his breath snaps, his hands fly to your hips in a bruising hold, and he moans, long and broken, as if the sound was knocked out of his lungs.

“ohfuckohfuck—w-what is that—what—oh my god—”

“there,” you murmur, gentle, awed. “found it.”

you feel him squeeze around your finger so tight it’s almost painful, his muscles fluttering, spasming. his face is buried against your throat, muffling his broken sobs.

“f-feels—yeah—oh god, feels—” he can’t even finish, his voice a wreck.

your finger strokes inside him in tiny, coaxing presses, your thumb petting the soft skin behind his balls as if to apologize for making him come apart this way. your fingertip brushes the underside of his prostate again, and he jerks so hard your breath punches out of you, and then he’s babbling, the kind of panicked honesty that only gets let out when your brain is erased by pleasure. 

his hips slamming forward hard enough the headboard bangs against the wall, his cock hitting so deep inside you that your vision sparks. he’s panting like he’s drowning, spit leaking down his chin, mixing with the sweat dripping onto your chest. his body won’t stop moving, hips rutting forward while his ass unconsciously tilts back, chasing both sensations at once.

“so sensitive,” you coo, pressing kisses along his temple while your finger works slow inside him. “look at you, babe. you’re shaking.”

“shut up—n-no, i‘m not—” his protest dies in a moan when your finger slides deeper. his cock twitches violently, pumping more slick into you.

his face is scarlet, lips trembling. “d-don’t like it—hahhh, swear i—hahhh—don’t—”

but his hips keep jerking, fucking into you harder, chasing every curl of your finger with pathetic, frantic whines.

“uh-huh,” you say, smiling into your shoulder. “you don’t like it.”

he whines, a raw sound, eyes wet, forehead pressed to your neck now like he needs to hide. “i don’t,” he insists, and then you curl your finger just right while you squeeze down on his cock at the same time and he wails, body jolting, the loudest noise, a desperate, cracked “ah—!” that shivers into a sob. “i—i—i—oh god—”

he shakes his head as if he can deny physics itself, as if he can hold back the boil of everything you’re doing to him. then his thighs seize, his stomach knots, his cock swells inside you, and he breaks—no warning, just a flood—his hips jerking down, deep, helpless, your name in a shocked cry as he spills into you.

the pulse of it sets your own nerves on fire, your finger still stroking that sweet spot until he’s sobbing and clutching you, not pain—too much—too good—your own orgasm tearing through you like you’ve been waiting for this exact kind of ruin.

it’s messy and human and gorgeous. you gush around him with a strangled, “oh—oh—fuck,” your body clenching hard, milking him while you shiver, the back of your head falling to the pillow, breath tearing. his cum fills you, slick, warm, plentiful, and the filthy overflow slithers down around where you’re joined, his thighs sticky, his knees trembling as the last spasm wrings through both of you.

his cum floods you in thick, hot waves, spilling past where you’re joined, dripping down your ass to stain the sheets. he won’t stop twitching, spasming, his dick jerking helplessly with each clench of your cunt around him.

all while your finger stays inside him, pressed snug, making his body jolt and twitch with every aftershock.

he’s sobbing, humiliated, trembling mess on top of you. “no, 'm not...'”

but his ass clenches tighter, his cock spurting weakly again, another pulse of cum leaking out of him.

you kiss his damp cheek, your voice soft. “so cute when you fall apart.”

he whimpers, broken. “w-why would you do that...”

but his body says otherwise.

he’s still leaking inside you when he finally collapses, chest pressed heavy to yours, hair plastered wet against his forehead. his breath is wrecked—shaky gasps, little hiccups in between like he’s on the edge of crying.

you kiss his temple, soothing, and he just groans, face burrowed against your collarbone to hide the furious blush creeping down his cheeks.

“you did so good,” you whisper, stroking his sweat-damp hair. you laugh softly, tugging him closer. “but you came so hard, cho. you soaked me.”

you stop your finger first, easing out with care; he flinches and groans and collapses backward, dragging you with him, both of you half-laughing because your balance is wrecked, your legs don’t work and the bed is a battlefield of sweat and spit and everything else. you stay seated on him, still, pulsing, because the ache is nice and you’re greedy, because you want him to feel every aftershudder.

he covers his face with his forearm and makes a mortified noise into his bicep. “d-don’t,” he says, voice tiny, “don’t say anything.”

you press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “okay.”

five seconds. ten. he peeks at you. you’re smiling, soft. he groans and throws his forearm back over his face like a dramatic maiden.

“i didn’t like that,” he announces from under his arm in the flattest voice a man nearly in tears can manage. “not at all.”

“mm,” you agree, fighting laughter. “for sure. that’s why your soul left your body.”

he makes a strangled sound and tries to roll you off; you slap his hip lightly, kissing the pout of is lips. “no laughing at me.”

“who’s laughing?” you ask, innocent. you clench around him once in lazy apology; he hisses and then glares at you with wobbly dignity. you kiss his mouth before he can scold you. he kisses back like a man being given oxygen.

you feel him soften inside you, the ache in your thighs hitting all at once. you ease off with a small, mutual gasp; when he slips free the warmth spills and you make a soft mess on both of you. he watches it with a look that’s half feral pride, half ruined shyness, his lower lip caught in his teeth until you thumb it free.

“bathroom?” you suggest.

“can’t move,” he says, throat raw. “legs… don’t work.”

“mine neither.” you grin and slide down the bed, find a pack of wipes in the nightstand because you are both the kind of people who learned the value of preparation, and clean him gently like you’re apologizing with each swipe—between his thighs, carefully along his softening cock, kiss to the crease of his hip, another to his knee. he keeps catching your wrist like he wants to say something and then letting it go like he’s too shy for human words.

“hey,” you prompt, quieter, kneeling between his knees and propping your chin on the mattress edge so you can look up at him. “how’s your body?”

he swallows. “weird,” he admits, sheepish. “good weird. my… um.” he clears his throat. “my…everything’s buzzing.”

“do you want cuddles? water? both?”

“both,” he says immediately, then adds in a smaller voice, “…and you.”

you bring the water bottle to his mouth and tip it while he drinks slowly, little gulps, a drip escaping the corner to track down his jaw. you kiss the droplet away and climb into the curve of his arm; he drags you close with an arm that’s already regaining strength, his other hand fidgeting, hesitant, until it lands on your lower back like it lives there. you feel him breathe out, the shuddery end of adrenaline.

you press your smile against his shoulder. “you were so good for me.”

for a breath, the world is just the sound of both your heartbeats and the faint hum of the old lamp. then he blinks up at you, and the blush—still there, god bless—darkens as his brain catches up to the thing that happened.

you, full of the worst intentions and softest love, smile slow. “you okay?” you ask, letting honest care wrap the words because this is the part that matters.

he swallows. “yeah.” a beat. then, defensively: “that was… different.”

you pet his jaw with your thumb. “different good?”

his mouth clicks shut like he’s refusing to be bullied by adjectives. he pulls his face into a scowl that would be more effective if he weren’t still pink and wrecked, condom-wilted inside you, damp lashes and blown pupils giving him away like neon signs. “i’m not into… that,” he declares.

“oh?” you say lightly, biting your lip to contain your grin. “you yelped.”

“did not.”

“you did... like twice. very cute, like a startled cat.”

he glares, appalled. “take it back.”

“no.”

“the yelping,” he insists, petulant. “take that back.”

you kiss his nose. “make me.”

he huffs with a quiet side eye, which in choso is equivalent to throwing a tantrum. “we’re not—” he says, gesturing weakly toward your hand like it had done unspeakable crimes, “—doing it again.”

“never again,” you agree immediately, nodding with ruthless sincerity. “absolutely never. i will never in my life do the thing you liked so much you saw god.”

he groans and covers his face. “stop,” he says into his palms. it’s muffled. “i’m serious.”

“me too,” you chirp.

he peeks between his fingers like a kid. “you’re laughing.”

“i’m not,” you lie flagrantly, and he mutters something about brat that sounds like a problem he’s into.

you slide away from him, legs shaky as you finally crawl off the bed. he watches you through his lashes like a cat zeroed in on an overconfident bird. when you come back with warm blankets for both of you, he catches your wrist, tugging you back into his lap. there’s a moment—soft, wordless—where his forehead rests against yours and you feel the big, grateful exhale leave him. it smells like sweat and sex and the faint mint of his soap. your chest hurts; you’re so fond you could burst.

“thank you,” he says, voice small and private.

“for what?”

he considers, then shrugs like he’s embarrassed. “for being gentle.”

you kiss him because if you speak you might say something unhinged, like i love you so much please fold me again, which, terrifying. he kisses back, sweet, the grumpiness cooling into the mellow glow he always has after. then he ruins it by straightening and mustering his dignity.

“anyway,” he says, hands firm on your waist like he can anchor the statement. “like i said, i’m not into anal.”

“of course,” you say, grave. “obviously.”

he narrows his eyes. “you don’t believe me.”

“not even a little.”

he opens his mouth to argue, but a yawn ambushes him, treacherous and adorable. his hand slides from your waist to your lower back, thumb rubbing absent-mindedly at the line of your spine. you’re both suddenly sapped, that gentle post-fuck heaviness pulling at your joints like gravity doubled.

“shower?” you ask, because you're pretty sure he's strong enough and his legs are back to life.

he makes a face, haunted by the memory of earlier trauma. “will the cat fight me?”

“i’ll protect you.”

he thinks about it, then nods, solemn. “okay.”

the hot water makes you both silly. he teases the shampoo into your hair with ridiculously careful fingers, the steam painting the mirror. you soap his shoulders, thumbs catching in the divots above his collarbone, and he sighs like a man who just paid off all his debt. there’s no pressure to be slick with words here, just quiet noises and the easy shuffle of two people whose bodies already know how to fit.

at one point, when you’re rinsing him, the suds tickle just behind him. he jolts, instantly pink. you smile to yourself and don’t mention it, because you are merciful.

still, the second you’re back in bed after changing the messy sheets, warm and clean, he remembers he has a point to make. he lies on his side, arm draped over your waist, face an inch from yours, dead serious.

“for the record,” he says, “i’m not into anal.”

you blink guileless up at him. “who said you were?”

“you,” he accuses, savage.

“me? never.”

he narrows his eyes again, then—because he can’t help himself—leans forward to kiss you slow, as if the skepticism lives in your mouth and he can erase it. you make a pleased noise into it and he smiles, caught. when he pulls back, he’s less scowly, more soft-focus.

“was it okay?” he asks finally, tentative. “really?”

you press your palm to his cheek. “really really. you were perfect.”

he accepts this with a tiny nod that melts you. “okay.” then, too casual: “did you—um. do you. i mean.”

“hmm?” you’re enjoying watching him implode.

“is there a… reason you wanted to… do that?” he can’t even say finger, like the syllables would bite him.

“there are many nerve endings there,” you say primly, and he groans, burying his face in your neck. you continue, saintly, “and i wanted to see you feel good. also,” you add, mischievous, “i like when you make noises.”

he makes one now, muffled into your skin, indignant. “i don’t make noises.”

“you literally wailed.”

“i—” his head comes up, scandalized. “that was not a—” he cuts himself off, eyes dropping, and you follow his line of sight to where your thigh hitched over his hip reveals… evidence. body’s treacherous honesty. his cock gives a weak little twitch, as if called to testify. the blush hits so hard you could warm your hands on it.

you say absolutely nothing. you let the silence do the work. he glares, then exhales like a man accepting defeat in a war he enjoyed losing. the arm around you tightens.

“hypothetically,” he says, voice careful, “if someone did like it… i’m not saying me… what would that mean?”

“it would mean they had a good time and their partner is a genius,” you say immediately, trying to hold your smile.

“hm.” he takes this under advisement. the air conditioner hums. he fiddles with a loose thread on your shirt and pretends he’s not gearing up for bravery. “and hypothetically… if they wanted to try it again… not that—they don’t—” he clears his throat. “but just in case.”

your grin is sweet as sin. “i’d get more lube.”

he groans into the pillow. “i hate you.”

“you love me.”

silence. then, so quiet you almost miss it, “yeah.”

your heart short-circuits. you interrupt your own panic by leaning in and hugging him, slow and reverent, tight enough that your worries stop tap-dancing. he sighs into it like a yes. when you pull back, his lashes are half-lowered, the corner of his mouth tilted up.

“one day,” he says, trying on a drawl that does not fit him even a little, “i’m gonna put my finger in your—”

“bold of you to assume you’ll ever get your hand back after.”

he smirks, tiny and deadly. “try me.”

later, when he’s mostly asleep, you feel him shift behind you, spoon-tight, his breath warm in your hair. his palm is splayed low on your stomach, thumb rubbing absent circles. you’re right on the edge of dreaming when his voice threads into the dark, soft as a secret.

“it was good,” he says, like he’s telling the ceiling because telling you is too loud. “what you did.”

you keep your voice the exact weight of the dark. “yeah?”

a beat. “yeah.”

“wanna hear something crazy?” you murmur, teasing chip of a smile against the pillowcase.

“what.”

“we can do it again,” you say, scandalized whisper. “if you… ever wanted.”

absolute silence. you think maybe sleep stole him mid-conversation, and then—barely there—his hips press forward, the laziest little roll, like muscle memory answering a question his mouth won’t yet. your grin goes feral in the dark. you do not say a word.

the universe, angel that she is, gives you your moment sooner than you deserve.

three days later, you’re making out in your kitchen because the pasta water took too long to boil and you’re both a lost cause. he has you on the counter, spoon abandoned, sauce simmering, and you’re split open on his tongue and fingers before you can cry about the potential for burnt garlic. he’s good like that—focused, greedy, patient where it counts, ruthless where it works. you come so hard you almost kick the drying rack off the sink.

it should end there, satisfied and smug. it doesn’t.

he kisses up your belly, tasting, and licks his lips like it’s politeness. then he stands, eyes dark and soft, hands finding your waist. he hesitates like a man at a door, and you see the exact second he decides to knock.

“can we…?” he looks away, cheeks coloring, then back at you with that stubbornness you adore. “what we did.”

you blink slowly, go very innocent. “which part?”

he shoots you a look that you feel below your bellybutton. “you know which part.”

“hmm.” you tap your lip. “the part where i bought you dinner and you barely said thank you?”

he points at you. “i said thank you.”

“you said ‘thanks, sauce good,’ like a caveman.”

he leans in until his mouth is a breath from your ear. “please,” he says, careful, like a word he’s borrowed. “is that… better?”

the heat that rockets through you could fuel a small town. you exhale like you were underwater. “get the lube,” you say, surrendering. “bottom drawer.”

he moves fast, bangs into the drawer (some things never change), returns with the bottle and a blush so sweet you consider bottling it. you kiss him to soften the nerves and he kisses you like acceptance, like yes again.

“same rules,” you murmur. “you tell me stop and we stop.”

“okay.”

“and if you yelp,” you add, kind, “i reserve the right to coo.”

he grumbles magnificently and then—because he is both brave and greedy—turns, bracing his hands on the counter beside your hips, presenting himself without making a fuss. you could pass out from the trust alone. you smooth your hand down his back, soothing, and he shivers through it.

this time the bottle cap pops with intent. you warm the lube in your palm so it’s not a shock, and when you touch him, you hear the half-sigh he does when the relief hits. you stroke gentle circles, pressure featherlight until his breath evens. you keep kissing the corner of his mouth as your finger teases, because you can, because he leans into your affection like a plant toward sun.

when you slip in, he does not yelp. he inhales through his nose and shudders, then says, very quietly, “yes.” pride blooms in your chest like a ridiculous flower. you ease deeper, the slickness helping, and he pushes back, impatient.

“greedy,” you tell him, delighted.

“learning from you,” he shoots back, breathless.

you curl. he groans, low and filthy, and his hand slams flat on the counter, spoon clattering somewhere to the floor. the sauce pops on the stove in agreement. he rocks on you, chasing, and you work him exactly how he likes, thumb stroking the edge of the spot as your finger nudges it. he’s a mess immediately, gasping, mumbling god and your name and then nonsense, beautiful nonsense.

you want to be good; you also want to ruin him just a little. so you slide your other hand down his front, wrap him, stroke slow. he jolts like you plugged him in. his hips can’t decide—forward into your fist, back onto your finger—so they stutter in this greedy little loop that makes you light-headed by empathy alone.

“you’re so pretty when you take it,” you murmur, which is mean, which he loves.

“shut up,” he moans, desperate, and then, unable to help himself, “don’t stop.”

you don’t. he crumples, comes hard, thighs shaking, noise bitten into his shoulder. you watch, worship, work him through it like he’s the most precious thing you own. when he sags back against you, boneless, you press your cheek to his spine and breathe with him until his shivers turn to afterglow.

he turns around slowly, dazed, hair sticking to his forehead and eyes ridiculous. “i—” he starts, then gives up and kisses you like an apology for ever pretending he wasn’t into this.

when he finds words again, he leans his forehead to yours, a rueful little smile bending his mouth. “for the record,” he says, and you brace for the joke, “i might be into it.”

you put a shocked hand to your chest. “no. who could have guessed.”

he rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “you’re unbearable.”

“and yet.” you nudge his hip with your knee. “you keep coming back.”

he hums, and his hand finds your waist like a magnet. “yeah,” he says, hopeless. “i do.”

you kiss him once, chaste and stupidly tender, and then ruin it by patting his butt. “wash your hands, baby. pasta’s done.”

later, when you’re both twined up on the couch, bowls licked clean, he tucks your feet under his thighs to warm them and stares at the empty tv screen like a man concealing a secret. you wait him out. he’s awful at silence when he’s thinking.

“if you tell anyone,” he says, solemn, “i’ll deny it.”

“tell anyone what?” you widen your eyes.

he gestures vaguely, mortified. “you know.”

“oh, that my sweet, grumpy man yelped twice and then begged for me to finger h—”

he covers your face with his palm. “enough.”

you kiss his hand, peel it away. “don’t worry,” you say, grin going soft. “it’s just for us.”

he studies you for a heartbeat—the kind of look that makes you want to fix your hair even if you look fine, that sees too much and loves more anyway. then he kisses your forehead and pulls you into his chest like he plans to keep you there.

“just for us,” he agrees.

he’ll still scowl tomorrow when your fingers curl meaningfully near his butt. he’ll still claim he’s “not into anal” with a straight face that only trembles a little. but his pupils will blow when your knuckles brush the lube bottle; he’ll lick his lips without realizing; he’ll lean back into your touch before he can help it.