"honey," his voice trails off as he watches the young girl destroy his living room at an alarmingly fast pace. is there some sort of olympiad for destruction? he'll have to look it up afterwards.

his hair is messed up and he lost his tie an hour ago. the throw pillows nanami and you bought together are thrown. on the floor. well, that's ironic. he takes a deep breath when your niece decides to tip the plastic cup that had her orange juice in it onto the coffee table rug.

nanami is having a hard time.

"hey lovely girl," he starts, making his way over to her. he avoids stepping on the throw pillows or the orange juice that's seeping into the rug that cost him more than he'd like to admit.

she looks up, dressed in pink denim overalls (nanami didn't even know that denim came in pink) and her hair split into pigtails. despite her cutesy look, a devil lurks beneath. she grins widely, most of her teeth present.

"hi uncle kenny." she holds out a stuffed rat toy for nanami to hold onto which he does albeit confusedly.

"sweetie, you're gonna have to stop playing now," he says, rat in hand and tie still missing. though he thinks he spots the thing a few feet away spilling out of a plastic toy teapot. how did she stuff it in that thing? talented, in all the wrong ways.

she straightens up and stares. gawps even, at his audacity. "why? i don't wanna stop playing!" she shouts but at least it's low enough to not disturb the neighbors. nanami flinches. his eardrums on the other hand... yeah. to put it simply, they were disturbed.

"but honey, you've spilled your juice and i can't clean it up alone," he's not sure where he's going with this, if he's entirely honest.

however, the little demon perks up at his statement. "is it cos you're old?" nanami raises an incredulous eyebrow.

"where'd you get that from, honey?"

"that's what mama says! you're too old for auntie." oh? now nanami is aware your sister didn't approve of him in the start but surely that whole thing blew over. right? he's thinking of how to respond when the orange stain catches his eye again.

"yeah, that's right. i'm too old to clean up by myself. you'll help me out right? cos you pity me?"

your niece looks to the side, her hand stroking her chin like a beard. and then looks to him, smugly.

"well, i s'pose i could help you out." nanami isn't sure if he should consider this a win or a loss.

---

"kento? i'm home! where's my lovely devil spaw—" you cut your sentence abruptly as you spot the two of your favorite people sleeping on the couch. the room is spotless, though you notice nanami's tie coming out of the spout of a plastic teapot. how did that get there?

you turn your attention to the two. they look peaceful, your niece is sprawled on kento's chest, cheek smushed against his body. there's a lax arm thrown over her for safety reasons, and his other arm is tucked underneath his head.

you gently sit down, eye level with your husband, a fragile smile taking place on your face. the rustling must have been a bit too loud because nanami stirs, eyes blinking open until they focus. onto you.

"you're back?" there's a softness to his voice. you feel tender and mushy.

"mhm."

"your sister thinks i'm too old for you." you burst out laughing.

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away. 

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking. 

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signature of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles your skin a little, the effects of it brushing. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how. 

You’d think this a rejection, if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the blush blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could. 

.

.

.

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

.

.

.

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit. 

During the last few leaves of fall, Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You trail behind him slowly, shaking your head affectionately; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5. 

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp exaggeratingly, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see crimson, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.  

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, almost boyish, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie. 

You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Once Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly—your fingertips grazing his palm lightly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, as if he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it. 

His eyes widen briefly, just a bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately. 

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him. 

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms–your own version of his infinity–just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze. 

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.” 

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else. 

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. (You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon). 

.

.

.

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term). 

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. You can’t afford to be crying when the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud, throwing far too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back? 

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky. 

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him. 

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his. 

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge. 

Gojo rolls his eyes, skipping the coverage of his blindfold today. 

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.” 

You hum in response. He does make a point. 

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?” 

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace. 

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too. 

.

.

.

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-Eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder. 

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki. 

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same. 

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed. 

.

.

.

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you like he used to. 

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning. 

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of. 

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you. 

But while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue. 

.

“Are you okay?” 

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. It’s a running joke that rooftops are Gojo’s ‘thing’, but you know he really only comes to places like this to think. You wonder what’s on his mind now, coming here every single night since being unsealed. 

Despite how quiet you try to be, sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his Six Eyes. 

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him, leaving a space larger than you usually do, then shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely. 

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little. 

“Well, maybe I can suggest—” 

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.” 

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading. 

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?” 

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you. 

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care. 

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he breathes everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint. 

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god? 

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way. 

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide. 

“I’m fine,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.” 

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own. 

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it. 

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with an ache in his chest—the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same. 

.

.

.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he refuses to name, he’s never felt so afraid.  

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. The way your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning. 

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way. 

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does. 

.

.

.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room. 

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does show up, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you. 

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. He’s always known you to speak this way. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. More people continue to file out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them, suddenly self-conscious as he clears his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he emphasizes, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.” 

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie in front of you. 

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway, but you intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all. 

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his space; the mini living area still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books. 

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake. 

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why. 

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs. 

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking his index finger up. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk. 

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in. 

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table. 

You break the silence. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly. 

Why has he been avoiding you? It’s a good question, completely valid with how he’s been treating you lately, but he could draw up every answer he has, all one million and one, and still not know what to say.

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way. 

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame? 

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets. 

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively. 

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all mistaken. 

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache. 

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway. 

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.” 

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not. 

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast. 

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now. 

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart. 

“I can’t.” he speaks softly. 

What hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes still hold the sky. 

You think you want to cry. 

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward memory of him watching you bawl in his office chair. 

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, a tingling sensation sweeping across your knees. 

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say, that even if it comes out messy, it’s okay. You want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all anyway. 

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence. 

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor. 

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail. 

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him. 

“How to what?” you whisper, the moment so fragile. 

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love. 

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are. 

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips. 

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others. 

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.” 

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have. 

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time. 

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more. 

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most. 

.

.

.

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink. 

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely. 

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace. 

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day). 

.

.

.

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee. 

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry. 

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?” 

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk. 

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already. 

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar. 

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous. 

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you. 

“Too sweet,” you scrunch your face, swallowing down the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be. 

“Like me, right?” he winks.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise. 

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, sipping and crunching on a few pieces every now and then. 

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open. 

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand covers yours for a moment, the contact still causing gallops in his heartbeat. 

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think. 

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug. 

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he keeps his hand over yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down, preparing to reach for your spoon, but he takes your hand in his, long fingers slotting right between yours, interlacing. 

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together (a recent evolution to your hand-holding), but this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his. 

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are blush red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. And it’s not a competition but he hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you. 

.

.

.

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever. 

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you. 

During the faculty New Year celebration, you overhear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo. You aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response. 

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly. 

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand. 

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick. 

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.  

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him on your phone from many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and his eyelids fall shut, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket). 

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he can’t feel it from how numb his cheeks have become, but he’s doing the same. 

.

.

.

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, having watched this on the sides since you were both 22, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles. 

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite. 

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful. 

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?” 

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking immediately of ways to brush past it. 

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right? 

“If it is?” you whisper, pretending to stir your coffee. 

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s come too far to back out now. He clears his throat, mentally running through what he wants to say, then, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.” 

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long. 

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow, stop motion in his mind. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching. 

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips. 

So you wait. 

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there. 

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

.

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can. 

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pull him in by the hand and linger there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more). 

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch. 

It’s driving you crazy, this tension—the mixed signals of it all. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. 

Now that Gojo thinks about it, he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed? 

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how. 

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same. 

.

It happens during an assignment out of town. Curses aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle. 

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru. 

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different. 

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move. 

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is admittedly pretty good when it’s just him, alone. 

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby locations for other suspicious activity, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork). 

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind. You’re happy for those who’ve found it, but that couldn’t be you, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, an electric current waiting to zap on both ends. 

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head. 

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours. 

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still. 

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it. 

But it doesn’t come. 

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office. 

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his face so gently. 

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little. 

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this. 

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again. 

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tastes it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday. 

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself. 

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer ‘till he does? 

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away. 

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped around your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again. 

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of held breaths. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always. 

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours. 

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose. 

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in any higher being but you must be his prayer come true. 

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips. 

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same. 

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red. 

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door. 

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really. 

The first time, you stir awake with a sudden shudder. The temperature of Kento's room has grown so frigid, and the skin of your arms is covered with goose flesh. You shiver again and huddle into a ball. You have no way of knowing how much time had elapsed, but you get the sense it wasn’t any longer than fifteen minutes.

“Kento?” you call out, rubbing your eyes. His desk appears abandoned, and the lampshade had been turned off. Where was he? The shuffling of slippers grabs your attention, and you crane your head to look for the source. Kento stands in the small kitchenette outside his room, preparing a coffee. The kettle is boiling. His profile is turned slightly, so you could see the gentle frown of concentration on his face while he fiddles with the coffee tin.

He was so beautiful. How had you spent so many months sitting behind him in Ecology, or across from him in the library, without coming to realize just how ethereally alluring he is? You’re so cold, even with the heavy blanket over you. You huddle up and shiver again, your eyes about to drift closed again until you hear a small sound from Kento. He’s humming. It’s so faint that you can barely hear, but the humming grows a little louder as Kento seems to get more comfortable with the tune. You don’t recognize it at all, but his voice is a subtle, lush baritone. Smiling to yourself, you let the sound of Kento’s gentle voice carry you back to sleep.

The second time you wake up from your sleep, your consciousness is muddled; you’d clearly been asleep for much longer this time. You feel a gentle pressure in your palms, and when your eyes flutter open, you’re looking straight at Kento standing beside the bed as he stares at you. He removes his hand from your palm.

He carefully removes a stray hair caught between your lips. “Sorry to wake you,” he says, holding red blanket in his arms. “You’re shivering.”

You groan softly. His hands are a stark contrast to your frigid ones, which almost tingle with the heat radiating from his skin. You’re so cold, and he’s so warm. In your reduced state of consciousness, it’s all you can think about.

“I don't have any spare blankets but Yu does.” Kento says. You don’t object as he places it over you. With his help, you tuck yourself under the covers, too sleepy to care about how weird it the situation was. Altogether, the sheets smelled clean and feel warm.

“What's the time?” you mumble.

“It's 2 in the morning,” he says, and before you could say anything, he interjects, “I’ll sleep under the kotatsu.”

Your eyes still feel heavy, and you can’t keep them open. “You don’t have to; I can make room.”

He stares at you.

“I’m serious.” You grasp for his warm hand and pull it weakly toward you.

He stays quiet.

You’re too tired to say anything; you just scoot your body closer to the wall. Kento debates for a minute before finally giving in. He climbs on the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight, and pulls the covers on top of him. His body heat radiates under the comforter, and you lean closer to him against your better judgment.

Ahh, heat. You turn on your side and settle in once more, but not before glancing at Kento. He lays on his back, as close to the edge of the mattress as possible. He’s staring up at the ceiling, his expression somehow neutral and alert at the same time. You feel your synapses shutter and eventually fall asleep.

The third time you wake up, you’re not cold at all anymore. In fact, you’re quite hot.

It doesn’t take long before you realize the source of the heat. Kento is no longer curled up at the opposite edge of the mattress. Instead, he’s pressed up against you now. His arm is draped over your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck.

You whisper his name in surprise, but he doesn’t move. He’s fast asleep, you realize. His skin is sweltering against yours, and although the covers have been cast off during your sleep, you’re now almost too hot. Though not uncomfortably so. You attempt to shift away from under his arm and toward the wall. You want to avoid any awkwardness when he wakes up. But your movement stirs him anyway. He immediately reaches back out for you, his hand grasping your waist. He hugs your body, his whole torso flush against your side.

No. No. You gasp at the sensation of his groin against your backside. You’re definitely awake now. But he’s not. A thin sheen of sweat coats the small of your back. He grips onto your waist like a vice, strong and sure, despite that he’s asleep. You couldn’t move away if you tried.

Kento’s lips part and a breathy sigh escapes him. You’re terrified of waking him up, of the humiliation that would ensue from both parties if he opens his eyes to this. So, you attempt once more to shift your hips away from his.

He grasps you again and brings his pelvis back against yours, clinging to you like you’re his life support. He’s hard, you realize. His sweatpants do nothing to mask it. You can feel all of him pressed between your thighs.      

You exhale shakily. That didn’t work at all. What now?

If you really wanted to move, you still could pry his fingers from your waist and roll away. But the jostling of the bed would surely wake him up.

And you don’t want to move. Kento’s hot breath fanning out over your chest, his body against yours. It’s doing more to your own body than you’re willing to admit. But you can’t admit that. You resolve to push him off and not let this go any farther.

Until he moves again, grinding against you ever so softly. Another low, involuntary moan comes from his throat. At the end of his breath, you hear a simple word from his lips.

“(name)…”

It’s so quiet, you think at first you imagined it. But it happens again. The gentle buck of his hips, followed by your name in a low moan. A tremor of heat overtakes your stomach, right down to your core.

It’s about you.

The idea of his name on your lips like this felt so intimate, so sensual, and paired with the carnal bucking of his hips, his large erection rock-solid between your thighs. Wetness pools at your entrance. Each time he moves, his cock seems to rub against it. There’s a low ache deep inside of you that you haven’t felt in a while.

Fuuuuuck.

Despite your better judgment, you arch your back and press into Kento’s hips – a small movement – just once. He responds with a low growl that you can feel reverberating in his chest against your back. His cock twitches. Your breath rushes in with a sharp inhale. Sweat beads on your forehead. You’ve never felt this hot before in your life. But it’s wrong. You shouldn’t move. You should stop Kento before it goes on any longer. He’s asleep, and he’s your classmate, or friend, or whatever. This shouldn't be happening. Classmates or friends don't dry hump each other.

No, this is real, and it’s happening now.

And if you make him stop, he’ll wake up to find himself grinding against your ass. There’s no way you could pretend to have slept through it. He’ll be humiliated. And things will never be the same again.

You gasp again when Kento thrusts against you harder this time. The bulge in his pants literally pulsing and radiating a moist heat. Your body screams at you to press harder against him, aching for friction. But your mind screams at you not to move a muscle. You are so frustrated in so many different ways that you sigh out a high-pitched moan. He seems to hear it in his unconscious state.

Kento groans. It feels strange to not say anything back, but you have to be quiet. Every contact point between your body and his feels like an explosion of desire and tension. Your shirt has ridden up your waist, revealing a small sliver of skin. His fingers find it and dig into the softness of your belly, seeming to try to pull you even closer. Your own fingers yearn to move as well, to travel down your tummy and under the hem of your pajama pants.

No. Do not go there.

Kento’s ministrations seem to intensify. His breaths become shallow and rapid, a low moan on nearly every exhale. His hips thrust deeper and longer. You have absolutely no idea what to do. As much as your body betrays you, your mind is on high alert. What’s going to happen when Kento finally wakes himself up from this wet dream, his crotch inevitably sticky?

It can’t happen. You have to wake him up.

Kento buries his face in the nook between your neck and your shoulder. A shuddering moan comes from his throat. You need to wake him up now. You pinch the skin of his forearm – hard.

Kento gasps a huge intake of air, his body jolting awake. You lie motionless and close your eyes, feigning sleep. He props himself up to a sitting position, panting. The sudden loss of body heat, replaced by a rush of cool air against your sweaty skin, is jarring and miserable.

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses between gasps. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s uncomfortably, undeniably aroused.

As are you.

You were standing in your bedroom, bodies turned towards the huge mirror on your closet. You watched your hands disappear unter your boyfriends loose shirt.

Your warm breath fanned over Gojo’s neck before you placed gentle kisses on his flushed skin.

“Please…” his whisper broke the silence.

Gojo wasn’t one to loose his composure easily, but whenever you talked to him in that sultry voice, soft hands touching him all over, it made him absolutely weak.

“You’ve been such a brat all day. You really think I’m going to give you what you want now? Bad boys need to be punished, you know” you cooed, hands wandering lower and lower, tracing the outline of his muscles until you reached his hips. So close until where he wanted you most right now.

Your hands cupping the obvious bulge in his pants, Gojo let out a groan.

Your other hand moved towards his face, fingers reaching towards his blindfold and pulling it down.

His eyes met yours in the mirror and he swallowed.

“Look at you, getting all worked up over this.. I haven’t even done anything yet” you spoke, yet Gojo wouldn’t look at himself in the mirror, too proud to see his confident persona leave him slowly.

“I said look” you grabbed his chin, and he finally met his eyes in the mirror. His face was flushed, mouth slightly parted to let out small gasps as you continued teasing his erection. He looked so… vulnerable.

Gojo whimpered, leaning more into your touch.

You finally pushed his pants down along with his underwear, smirking when he hissed at the cold air enveloping his cock.

Gojo moaned when your hand wrapped around his length, setting a slow pace, drawing the most adorable moans out of the male. His begging to make you go faster did not bother you, though.

Every staggered plead made you go even slower until he eventually started to thrust into your hand.

“H-ahn-! Fuck.. fuck” he fucked into your hand in desperation, chasing his needed release.

As his moans grew louder and his breathing became unsteady, you pulled your hand away, smirking at the way he almost threw his head back.

“Come on…” he looked at you in the mirror with the most annoyed expression he could muster in the moment, but you could read him like an open book.

You could tell he craved for your touch.

“My my aren’t we desperate” you shook your head. “I’m gonna need some satisfaction first.” You sat on the bed.

He spun around, ready to touch you and dive between your legs, but your heel on his forehead stopped him.

“No touching. You’re gonna watch me like a good boy”

Watching as you spread your legs apart, Gojo licked his lips when your damp panties came into view. Your fingers teased your folds before you pulled your panties down, letting them dangle on your feet.

Your fingers traced over your wet folds before disappearing into your hole. Your scent alone could make Gojo go crazy.

High pitched moans filled the room as you pleasured yourself, your boyfriend watching your every move as his dick twitched.

Oh he really needed you right now.

“Mhmm… so good~” you teased, looking deep into your boyfriends striking blue eyes.

You noticed his hand grabbing his erection, moving up and down his cock rapidly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Who said you could touch yourself?” You gasped, but you were too out of it to stop him at the moment, your orgasm was drawing close, but you made a mental note to punish him later.

You came with a loud moan of his name, and that tipped him over the edge as well, mouth hanging open, repeating your name over and over like a mantra.

Warm cum covered his hands as he came down from his high, breathing heavily.

“Fuck… (Y/N)-“

Your hands gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at you.

Gojo swallowed, hard, as he realized his mistake.

“On all fours, now”

He did as he was told this time, bending over so his ass was in the air, flushed face almost pressed against the mirror.

Gojo heard you rummaging through drawers before you let out a satisfied hum, walking back over to where he was waiting for you.

He saw the lube in your hands, and he could already tell what was coming. Gojo had been here before, he shivered in excitement just thinking about it.

You applied a good amount of lube onto your strap before grabbing your boyfriends ass.

“You don’t cum unless I tell you to,got it?”

Gojo only nodded, wincing when you slapped his ass, raising your eyebrows.

“Y-yes! I’ll be good this time”

Pleased by his answer, you started pushing the toy inside, he gripped the carpet hard, knuckles turning white.

No matter how often you had sex, he would never get used to getting filled like this. Inch after inch, the dildo disappeared in his ass, stretching him out thoroughly.

Your fingers combed through his hair while he adjusted, filled to the brim with your favorite toy.

His pained groans turned into pleasured whimpers as you started moving, starting of slow, but Gojo was quick to get used to the feeling, begging you to go faster after a short while.

You set a rough pace, ramming into his hole with no mery, and Gojo was soon screaming in pleasure.

Eyes rolling back, he let out moan after moan, completely drowning in the overwhelming pleasure.

You grabbed his shoulders and made him sit up, the new angle making Gojo see stars.

“Gojo..” you spoke, grabbing his hand and moving his towards his abdomen.

He gasped loudly when he felt his belly bulge whenever you thrusted inside of him.

The sight of it made you bite your lip.

Oh he looked so unbelievably good.

“Hah- hah- I- close! So close!”

You wrapped your hand around his cock while shaking your head.

“Remember. I tell you when your allowed to cum”

He nodded, tears building in his eyes from holding back. Your thrusting only became faster, deeper- he felt like he was going to go insane.

“5…”

You kissed his neck.

“4…”

His breathing hitched, sweat dripping down his face.

“3…”

Your groans became heavier.

“2…”

His eyes met yours in the mirror as he moaned your name.

“1…”

You released his cock, ready to watch him unravel.

Oh and he did, Gojo came with the most erotic moan you heard from him, painting the mirror infront of you in white, riding out his orgasm on your strap.

Sweat dripping down his chest, back arched and moaning your name. Wet hair sticking to his flushed fave, teary eyes looking at you with adoration.

It was moments like this you could never forget.

"Isn't this supposed to be a double date?" You whispered to Sero with confusion. He shrugged in confusion and continued to watch your dates flirt with each other while you two stood there.

You two had been going on Tinder dates for the past few weeks and after a decent amount of bad dates, you two had eventually found people that came off at least reasonable. You had proposed the idea of a double date at a new club that had opened up so that you all could get to know each other better. Unfortunately, your idea had worked a little too well.

Example being that your dates were getting very intimate in a booth while the two of you had left for shots. You felt a little humiliated at this crash and burn of a date and how you must have ruined this date for Sero as well. The guilt increased as you saw a small grimace appear on his admittedly gorgeous face.

To be perfectly honest, you weren't really butt-hurt at the idea of your date not liking you. You truly wanted to go on this date only so you could be close to Sero and maybe make him a little jealous. You didn't at all expect your night to turn out like this.

"Well, this was anticlimactic, huh Y/N?" Hanta chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans with a small huff of disappointment.

"No kidding...I'm sorry about this, it was my plan after all." You muttered softly, looking down at your feet. Every second you spent watching them, you felt the weight of guilt on your shoulders even more.

"I don't know about you but I'd prefer not to watch our dates make out. Let's ditch this joint, I know somewhere much better." He offered, holding a hand out for you to hold. You looked at him bewildered at first but there was something in the way he looked at you with that dazzling smile of his that made you take his hand, letting him lead you away.

And currently, after all that, you're both at a gas station, devouring freezer ice cream while sitting on the hood of his car. What a night.

"I am so sorry about all of this. You would have probably still been with them if it wasn't for my stupid suggestion."

You felt a warm hand grab yours and squeeze it tightly in reassurance. Looking up at him, you couldn't help mirroring the small smile he gave you.

"Honestly don't worry about it. I wasn't that into them anyways. Plus I like hanging out with you alone." He hummed, taking a bite from his ice cream. Your nose wrinkled at that and you shot him a playful glare. He laughed loudly at your face, knowing all too well how you hated whenever he bit into anything cold.

"You look great by the way. Can't believe your date missed out on all that..." He remarked, eyes raking up and down your outfit. Your cheeks burned at his comment and a chuckle shook through your body as you looked him up and down as well.

"Not too bad yourself Cellophane~"

A heavy blush set on his cheeks and a nervous hand scratched his neck causing you to giggle softly at his reaction.

"You're not making this easy for me..." He muttered under his breath, throwing his head back to look up at a starless night sky. You know he hadn't meant for you to hear him but curiosity bit at your chest and the words came flying out before you could stop them.

"I'm not making...what easy for you?"

His eyes flickered down at you, an emotion in them that you couldn't quite place.

"I can not answer that question, you just got sidelined by your date." He sighed, his hand reaching to mess with this hair, a habit he picked up from a young age. Instinctively, you reached out and grabbed his hand to stop him.

"I wasn't really into them either so just say it."

"But you-"

"Sero Hanta, if you do not spit it out I will leave right now."

A bark of laughter bubbled up from his chest at your persistence. A warm feeling spread through your chest at the sound and it appeared as if he was more relaxed.

"You're very persistent you know."

"It's one of my finer qualities, now come on, talk to me."

He bit his lip at those words, trying to find the right words to say. Finally, a heavy sigh passed through his body and he turned to face you fully.

"I'll be completely honest with you. I never wanted to date that person in the first place. I never had any romantic feelings towards them even when we met. I...I honestly just wanted to be close to you. Seeing you dating others made me so jealous and while I wanted to confess to you, you just seemed so determined to find us both partners that I had no opportunity. I just want you to be happy and if that means stepping aside...I'll do it."

Complete silence followed after his confession and your heart rattled in your chest a mile a minute. He...liked you. He liked you. Sero Hanta liked you. You must have looked like a fish out of the water with how wide you were gawking at him. Even he looked a little concerned at your state.

"Um Y/N? You okay-"

"No! I mean yes! I mean I like you too!" You said, fumbling over your words with a dopey grin, which now you noticed that Sero was mirroring widely.

"Really? Well that's... that's great! Awesome even! Uh does this mean we're dating now?"

You snickered at his flustered state, commiting the sight to memory.

"Take me on a proper date first. Deal?" You offered, hopping off the hood of his car and turning to face him. He slid off too and stood in front of you with an excited grin.

"Deal.'

-> ITADORI was chilling on the couch, legs tucked up under his giant blanket-jacket mashup as he scrolled through his phone, completely oblivious to you staring at him from the chair you sat in, adjacent to his spot on the couch. huffing a bit, you make your way over to him, darting down as you pull his jacket over your head, poking your head through the top as you stretched out in his lap “hey yu” “hey y/n” he says nonchalantly, eyes never straying from his phone as he presses a kiss to your cheek, arms wrapping around your waist, one hand resting on your thigh as he rubs light circles with the pad of his thumb “whatchya need babe?” “mhm nothing, just wanted to be close to you” you can’t see it but dudes redder than a tomato

 -> INUMAKI says nothing as he watches you climb into his lap, sticking your head underneath his sweatshirt as he continues to type away at his computer, completely undisturbed by your presence- only looking away when he feels you begin to slump against him, peaking his head under his shirt to look at you, shaking his head all the while. you look absolutely adorable, cheek squished against his chest, legs wrapped around his waist as your arms dangled limply at your sides- the sight causing inumaki to blush, a red glow settling on the tips of his ears. sighing, he takes a hand from his keyboard, resting it against your arm, thumb rubbing soft strokes up and down as he rests his head against the top of yours, giving you a small kiss before getting back to work

[a/n: head empty, only itadori owning a ‘comfy’] masterlist requests open join taglist here <-

Another air filled sigh left the larger man, “Fuck, these papers are like- never ending.” He shuffles through them yet again. Jotaro was a busy man, you knew that. He never knew when to stop working and take a break.

It was getting to the point where he’d go home just to go back to work in his office, only interactions being dinner delivered to his office and his stoic ‘Goodnight.’ before turning off the bedside light.

You huffed, entering the office, your entrance just being ignored by your lover. You were fed up with being neglected. "Jo?" you called out, "Hm?"

His eyes didn't drop from his paper, 'Asshole.' You thought as you hesitantly crawled over, hands moving from his shoulder, to his thighs— still, no reaction.

Fine, no reaction? no discouragement.

You continued, palming his thigh to his crotch, finally he rewards you with a grunt.

"Damn. You're needy." He muttered, pulling your smaller frame onto his lap. 'Finally, something.' You were happy, getting some attention from your fiancé at last.

"Just, let me work." He sighed, voice filled with tiredness.

"Don't worry! It'll be like I'm not even here." You cooed, smiling as he ignored you. Great, back to square one it feels.

Not for long, you had different plans. Sorry Jotaro, you can't forget about your fiancé and expect her to not do anything about it.

You start slow, grinding your ass ever so slightly against his crotch— no reaction. 'Not for long.' Your movements picking up fairly quick. You sigh, feeling his tenting boner nicely rub against your aching clit, "Fuck-" He mumbled under his breath.

Jotaro's breathing catched up, his body betraying his focus as he bucked his hips into yours. "God- you gonna keep teasin' or are ya' gonna finish whatcha started?" he finally spoke, you knew it— he needed this just as much as you did.

Lifting yourself up briefly just to poorly undressed him, eagerly pulling down his bottoms, cock bouncing against your back.

Fuck, you almost forgotten how big Jotaro was, staring down to face your fiancé's leaking pink cock. You grabbed his shaft, moving his cock in between your drenched folds to indicate how wet you are for him.

"Stop."

His stern order making you seemingly more aroused, you obeyed, positioning his fat head to your entrance, holding in your breath as his tip stretched you open, every centimeter of him slowly entering your insides.

You whimper— 'It hurts, 's too much.' Breathing in once, as you attempt to slide more of him inside of your tight cunt; stopping half way.

"Fuck- I know you can take more." He grunts, thrusting himself into you as you finally bottom out his whole length inside of your hole, you cry.

The tip of his cock effortlessly kissed the entrance of your womb, you sweat as your toes curled into itself. He finally gave you a break, stilling himself inside of you.

"'s so big, Jotaro!" You moan, his cock twitched as your walls inadvertently pulasted around him.

"Don't move." coarse whisper making your spine shudder, his hands grapple onto your waist, "Be a good girl for me and let me work."

“y-yeah,” you gasp. the more you squirm, the more friction you create against yuuji’s tongue, which is now tracing patterns against your panties. your mind feels totally addled- he said he’d never given head before, so how the fuck is he so- so good?

you’re nearly sobbing by the time he drags off your panties. the fabric’s embarrassingly wet- even more humiliating is the way yuuji sniffs your underwear and stows it away in his pocket.

“you c-can’t do that,” you hiccup. “give it back.”

yuuji props his head up on his palm, looks up at you with a bored expression.

“oh, okay,” he says. “too bad. i should just leave-,”

“wha- no! you’re being mean, yuu! and i thought you said you wanted to learn...,”

“ahhh, okay.” yuuji nods his head, and you’re starting to see the sarcasm in his demeanor. “you’re supposed to be teaching me. so tell me. what should i do next?”

“um- just- lick it, i guess.”

his brow quirks up. “your instructions aren’t very clear. i want you to tell me exactly what i should do.”

“i told you! put your... mouth on it, and use your tongue.”

he’s still waiting expectantly, casually tapping his fingers on your thigh. white-hot humiliation is rising up inside your chest; you hate this, why is he trying to embarrass you, he’s supposed to be your sweet, wholesome friend-

“i want you to fuck my cunt with your tongue,” you finally whimper. “kiss my clit a-and... make me feel good.”

yuuji’s lips slowly curl into a grin.

“with pleasure.”

and he delves into your folds, absolutely no hesitation as he crudely laps at your sweet juices, traps your puffy clit between his lips and gently suckles at it. your back violently arches off the bed; the unintelligible moans coming out of you are downright pathetic. if you were dripping before he removed your panties you’re absolutely soaked now.

yuuji’s thick tongue inches through your gummy walls, squelching against the mess of your cunt. when he gently bites your pussy lips, chocolate eyes fixed on your face, a new jolt of arousal spikes through your core.

“aww.” yuuji looks up at you, and the sight of his cocky smirk, glossy lips dripping in your slick, almost sends you over the edge. “baby, i thought i was like a little brother to you. but you’re gushing all over my tongue.”

“you’re such a liar,” you gasp, face heating up. “you’ve totally done this before.”

“maybe. i’m not a wholesome boy after all, yeah?”

something snaps inside yuuji when he sees your flustered expression, a dazed mix of humiliation and irritation and raw desire. he almost goes feral as he buries his head between your legs again, slurping and swallowing as two of his thick fingers slide into you.

any semblance of shame you had is gone. you’re whining the most embarrassing things- slurred praises of oh fuck, yuuji, don’ stop and you’re so good, ‘m never teasin’ you again. fog begins to fill your mind as his digits thrust into you, stretch you out while his tongue laps at your clit.

your thighs tremble wildly around his head; yuuji forces them down to the bed with ease, biceps flexing as he holds you down while his tongue still works at your cunt.

“taste so delicious,” he growls. “dreamed about this forever.”

when you finally come it’s messy, breathy wails and clear liquid squirting from your pussy. it’s mortifying, god, you can’t even look him in the eye; you clap your hands on top of your face, cheeks burning as you try to twist away from him.

but then a pair of muscular arms pin your wrists to the bed, completely baring yourself to yuuji’s deep brown eyes. he hungrily takes in your teary eyes, your disheveled hair, your nipples poking through your thin cami.

“i wanna fuck you so bad, princess,” he murmurs, lowering his face to yours. your face heats up even more; the yuuji you know would never say princess, never call you baby or tell you he wanted to fuck you. he was supposed to be your nice guy friend; instead he’s utterly defiling you.

“hey.” yuuji’s grip on your wrists eases up. he’s staring down at you in concern, gaze worriedly searching your face. “are you okay? you don’t have to- i’m sorry if i made you feel uncomfortable.”

you snap out of your daze. “no,” you mumble, gripping his shirt. “i... i wanna...,”

“yeah?”

your hands tentatively cup his cheeks, eyes searching his. he’s anxious- you can tell by the way his lips twitch up in a nervous smile, the familiar way his brows are furrowed. he gets the same look on his face when he’s watching a 4th quarter football game, hand clutching your arm as the ball spirals across the field. or when he’s perfecting the pan of fried rice- browning it just the way you like it.

the tension slowly eases from your body. a soft grin spreads across your face.

“come here, dummy,” you laugh, and capture his lips with yours.

you’ve always teased yuuji for his stupidly athletic body, the defined muscles that contrast so heavily with his adorable personality. but it’s different when his veiny forearms are pushing your knees back to your ears, when his broad chest presses against your pillowy breasts.

a choked gasp tears from your throat as his swollen cockhead presses through your entrance, painfully stretching out your gummy walls.

“shh, shh, just relax for me, baby,” he whispers, peppering kisses over your cheeks. “you’re taking me so well.”

“i h-hate you,” you whine. “you’re so big, you- stupid, dumb baby.”

a throaty laugh rumbles in his throat; gradually, he pushes the rest of his thick, girthy length into your cunt, until he’s nestled against your insides. the burn begins to subside- the only thing filling your mind is how utterly full you feel, his pubic hair rubbing against your skin.

“are you ready?” yuuji whispers.

“yeah.”

sheer pleasure floods your body as he plows you into the sheets, hitting you deep with every thrust. you swear you can feel him in your stomach, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth as you mindlessly blubber yuuji’s name.

heavy balls slap against your ass with every snap of his hips; your legs are burning with the way he’s contorting your body but it’s worth it from the way he’s angling into the soft spots of your pussy, the way every scrape of his cock against your velvet walls sends waves of pleasure crashing over you.

“god, you’re so tight,” yuuji swears, hair sweaty and tousled. “suckin’ me in like you were made for me- oh, princess, you can’t ever tease me again.”

“‘m not gonna,” you hiccup. “won’t call you names, promise. fuck, yuuji, i- ah!”

he’s adjusted your position, hooking one of your legs behind his shoulder as he spreads you even wider. god, he feels so good- where the fuck did he learn to do this, innocent, silly yuuji, your dorky friend who’d respond to questions with your mom. it’s all so overwhelming and when he maneuvers a hand down to rub your clit you’re a goner.

a soundless cry seizes you as your body arches against his, utter euphoria washing out your senses. you can tell the sensation of your walls tightly clenching around yuuji’s length has pushed him so close to release- you dazedly grasp his hand, entwine your fingers between his.

“c’mon, yuu. come for me,” you breathe as he desperately fucks into you.

he takes one look at your soft, watery doe eyes, your blissed-out expression, and cums on the spot. a low groan leaves his lips as he hastily pulls out and spurts pearly-white all over your pussy. your sticky juices mix with his release in a sloppy, lewd mess. semen drips down over your swollen cunt; for a moment you’re entranced by the sight, spreading your legs to watch it pool over your slit.

yuuji’s hypnotized, too. even as he flops down on the bed next to you, his gaze is glued to the crude sight of his release trickling into you.

“i’m gonna cover you in my cum,” he rasps. “fuck you so many times you forget everything but my name.”

you look up at him, too exhausted to even react to his vulgar words. he smirks down at you.

“ah, am i still like a cute little brother to you?”

—

if you liked this, you'll also like high school sweetheart!yuuji and football player!yuuji (part 1)

LISTEN. I AM ON A QUEST TO MAKE ALL OF YOU SEXUALLY ATTRACTED TO YUUJI ITADORI. HE IS THE IDEAL MAN!!!! GOOD NIGHT

lmk if u wanna join my general taglist WEEEE:

your stomach drops, and you stare at your lap. it had been your idea to see his mother, a light nudge for a meal and a conversation since you hadn’t met her yet. what if we invite her to the wedding were your exact words. she’s still your mom. i think she deserves to know.

tetsurō had been skeptical, because he isn’t friendly with his mother. they’re civil; they see each other occasionally and send cards and small gifts for celebrations, but your boyfriend—fiancé—says that they’re all empty gestures. his mom left when he was young, and he and his sister were raised by their dad and grandparents. if she really cared, if she really wanted to be part of the celebrations, she wouldn’t have disappeared.

it might be a juvenile way of thinking, because relationships fail all the time, but tetsurō maintains it. she could’ve left, sure, but she still had children; she could have visited, called, something. he’d said that he only started having dinner with her when he had to move closer to university, nearer to her house. at first he hadn’t wanted to, but he was a broke college student who appreciated a free meal every now and again.

but you’d insisted on the dinner, and tetsu set it up at your pleas. you’d thanked him profusely, assuring his constant warnings, bought your favorite bottle of champagne, and dressed your best to make a fabulous impression. it was a naïve thought to have, but you’d thought that maybe if you made a good first impression, she’d like you, and tetsu and his mom would start talking again. have a relationship.

but the woman was shrewd—critical, haughty, and downright mean. she’d turned her nose at your champagne, gave your dress a scrutinizing once over, and—worst of all—openly spoke of how tetsurō could do so much better, tetsu, she had a business partner who’s daughter was absolutely beautiful. a graduate of tokyo university, too! if he knew what was good for him, he should leave you.

it was like a slap to the face to not only not have the woman’s approval, but to also be told to your face that there were options waiting for tetsurō if he so much as asked. it was one thing to speculate that your mother-in-law-to-be didn’t like you; it was another thing entirely to be told that you were replaceable by the woman herself. 

your heart felt like it shattered into a million hopeless pieces, and you weakly excused yourself from the table, not even bothering to listen to tetsurō calling out for you. you simply marched out of that wretched woman’s house and to your fiancé’s car, and he’d probably unlocked the door before you got there because the handle had some give.

and now you find yourself here.

your sniffling has died down, but kuroo is still livid. he’s glaring at the dashboard like it killed his dog. “she had no right—she had no right,” he spits gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white.

you remain silent.

“she—she fucking—,” he lets go of the wheel and roughly cards his fingers through his hair. he takes a deep breath and turns to you. “she shouldn’t have said any of those things to you.”

and as much as you want to agree, you can’t. because you’ve always thought that way. tetsurō was an amazing guy, and it was hard to think that you deserved all the happiness he gave you everyday. you know you’re difficult to deal with sometimes, and you’re not that pretty, or that smart. you’re average. and tetsurō was not.

“she shouldn’t have—argh!” he slams at the wheel and the harsh horn makes you jump. “she had no fucking right!

“she wasn’t there when i got fucking fired from my first god damn job, she wasn’t there when my cat fucking died, she wasn’t there when my sister got pregnant, or when i had to look for a different apartment when the landlord got foreclosed on, or when i worked myself to the bone and got myself hospitalized for dehydration. she wasn’t there, for years, and she think she knows what’s good for me?” 

you stare at your lap.

“you know who was there?” he continues angrily. “you! you were by my side when i was broke as shit, when i felt like a complete idiot for not being able to hold a job for more than two weeks, when my fifteen-year-old cat died. you helped me find a new apartment, took care of me when i got sick, and you even fucking helped me get a god damn job. she doesn’t know shit, doesn’t know half of how much you love me, how much you take care of me, and she fucking tells me that i should leave you?

“how dare she talk to you the way she did tonight!” he roars. “fuck her! fucking—fuck! her!”

his breath comes in pants once his rant is over, and it feels like it takes hours before he calms down. he leans his head on the top of his steering wheel. “fuck.”

“i’m sorry,” you squeak apologetically. “you tried to warn me.”

“you just...” he lets out a sigh. “i get it. she’s my mom, and we’re getting married, it’s just... god. i fucking hate it when people talk shit about you.” he slides his hands down the sides of the wheel and reaches to grab one of yours over the handbrake. 

“don’t listen to her, okay? ” he practically begs you, brow furrowed and eyes squeezed shut as he presses your hand against his lips. “i love you. i’ll only ever love you. you have—you have no idea." he looks up at you with pleading eyes. “please. please don’t ever leave me. i don’t—i don’t know what i’d do without you. i’ll do my best to make you happy for the rest of my life. i promise. 

“just, please,” he begs, “please don’t leave me.”

you can’t lie and say that you aren’t devastated that your husband-to-be’s mother thinks you’re not worth his while, but you’ve known kuroo for years. you love him. you know him.

you trust him.

“i’ll never leave you,” you whisper. he lets out a grateful breath.

☾ SAKUSA another one who will absolutely take a lot of convincing but he loves you and wants to see you happy. wont go into the middle of the dancefloor because it can get a little busy and he’s not big on crowds, but he appreciates that you’re still happy to dance with him away from the crowd. he loves spinning you, always has the softest look on his face when he does it too he’s totally gazing at you. he gets a little flustered when you insist on spinning him too, watching him fumble under your own arm with a huff but he loves pulling you in for a slow dance and placing gentle kisses to your forehead.

☾ SUNA you try to convince him but he literally flat out refuses, until you pout and decide you’ll just dance alone before going onto the dance floor. it’s only seconds later you feel a pair of hands take your own before he spins you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you close to his chest “happy now, brat? you can stop pouting now.” ends up with loads of super cute videos of you dancing and he always smiles when he watches them back, one of your family members took a really nice candid shot of him spinning you and he’s smiling so big, he got a little blushy when the older women point out that that’s how you smile when you’re in love.

☾ BOKUTO hes the one dragging you up to dance, he’s grabbing your hand and pulling you straight into the middle of the dancefloor. he’s the biggest hype man ever, he loves spinning you but literally everytime he needs to tell you how amazing you look. all the older woman in your family love him because he spins them too. he also ends up dancing with the kids because theyre all flocking around him because mans has so much energy, they want in. he always insists on being by your side though, no matter what he’s always got your hand in his or you held close to his chest. he always tries to get you to do complicated lifts but he legit won’t drop you.