I hc that sunday can rap

Even now, your life still revolved around him. You would have it no other way. Even now, when he had no air in his lungs, no rise and fall of the once warm chest you used to lay your head on every night, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat as you listened to his voice prattle on and on about his latest discoveries like a bedtime story… you still heard him in your head.

“Can you imagine it, baby? The shock of the entire medical industry—no, life itself—when we finally crack the code?” You’d hear his excitement in the darkness of your bedroom. His endless blue eyes steeped with unquenchable passion. “Those narrow-minded dimwits on the board might call us crazy now, but we’ll show them, won’t we? Soon, they’ll be singing a different tune.”

“We?”

“Of course, baby.” The glow of the bedside lamp would catch in his eyes. A glint that never failed to mesmerise you. “We. Us. Me and you. It won’t feel as good sticking it to them without you by my side.”

“But this is your life’s work, Toru. I’m just your assistant. I can’t possibly take the same amount of credit.”

“It’s ours,” he’d said firmly, kissing your head as if he was sealing his words in stone. “Everything of mine is yours, if not officially now, then it will be soon. Why do you think I’m marrying you?”

“Because you always forget to eat unless I remind you.”

“That’s because I can’t live without you. I thought we’d established that fact.”

You’d smiled and snuggled into him. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he’d said, wrapping you closer in his arms, his scent. “Because neither am I.”

But he did. He’d gone and died.

And now you would fix him.

This was not ‘The End’.

Gently, you smoothed back the wisps of snowy white hair from his face. Your fingers traced his brows, his temple, along his jaw, brushing the pale, grey lips that used to press against yours not so long ago. Your gaze moved first before your hand, to the fine stitches down his chest, circling his right arm, raised slightly against the skin across the width of his stomach—a perfect split, and a reminder of the state he’d been in before you’d patched him up—

In pieces. 

You smacked the image away. There was nothing left in you to hurl out, but you refused to remember him that way. Your Satoru was too brilliant, too full of light, too alive. He was too beautiful to be fleeting. Too precious to be taken away so brutally.

And he was yours. He still was. 

You heard the staccato beep of an access card tapping in, the door sliding swiftly open. A pair of shoes clacked against the tiles. You didn’t turn around. 

“It’s time, doc.” The voice belonged to Shoko, your former colleague before you inherited the research centre Satoru left you in his will. “They’re waiting for you to do the final checks.”

You nodded once, your gaze still fixed on Satoru. You should be excited. This was it. You were going to revive him. You should move. Get him to the Infinity Chamber immediately.

But your feet stayed rooted to the floor. 

You felt Shoko come up beside you. The room was soundless for a few seconds.

“He looks good, doc. Your suturing is impeccable. It’s lucky his brain wasn’t damaged and all the injuries are neck-down. Cell and nerve therapy was a bitch, but I don’t think we’ll stand a chance if we have to replace brain matter.”

“It has to be his brain,” you said. “He wouldn’t be him if it wasn’t. And I would’ve found a way.”

“Mmm,” was all Shoko replied. You knew what she was thinking. You knew what they all thought but didn’t have the heart to say aloud in front of you. 

That you were delusional. That despite shutting down every research arm except those that benefited your cause, despite stripping the centre down of non-essential staff and resources, and pouring the entire budget into speed funding Satoru’s wildly controversial Theory of Resurrection—his life’s work—the chances of success was next to none.

And if it didn’t work, then that was it. You would have destroyed the Gojo family’s legacy. The board would kick you out and sell the centre. It was a miracle they had agreed to this in the first place. You supposed you had Sukuna to thank for that extra vote, though the man was a cunning bastard, so you were sure his motives were not completely altruistic. 

You’d calculated the odds. There was a six percent chance this would work. Only six. All for today. All for him.

Eh, better than five, Satoru’s voice spoke in your head. You clutched onto the sound, but it was like chasing a ghost. A blink, and it was gone.

A water bottle appeared in your vision.

“Drink,” said Shoko. 

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. You’re also living in hell, and I guarantee you won’t find him there.” She pressed the bottle into your hands. “So you’re going to drink this, and you’re going to wheel him out of this room. You’re going to put him into that chamber, and you’re going to face the fact that it might not work. But I’ll tell you something—staring at his corpse for five more minutes isn’t going to bring him back.”

Your lips pressed into a tight line. “How many?”

“All of them,” confirmed Shoko. “Every board member, not just Sukuna. Arrived some time ago. And ah… Fushiguro Megumi is here too.”

Fuck.

“I see,” you said, keeping your tone steady. “I—give me a moment. I won’t be long.”

A beat, and then Shoko was retreating. You waited for the sliding doors to seal shut before reaching into the pocket of your lab coat. Your gaze hadn’t wavered from Satoru this whole time, and it still didn’t as you let the water bottle fall on the floor with a loud thud.

“Hey baby,” you whispered, taking his hand in yours. Like reflex, you waited for his fingers to curl around yours. For his thumb to brush lightly along your knuckles. And when nothing happened, you stroked his instead. “So, here we are. You could’ve made it easier if you’d sorted out all your files like I told you to. And didn’t I say making my birthday your password was too obvious? Anyone would’ve guessed that and you know it.”

A distant chuckle echoed somewhere in your head. 

“I wish you could see it,” you continued. Paused. “I mean, you will. When you wake up, you’ll see I did everything according to your specifications. No deviations. No variables. It’s all your design, down to the last decimal. It’s all you, Toru. It will be all of you… you’ll be you again.”

You lifted his hand, your other holding the ring you’d been carrying around in your coat pocket for what felt like an eternity, and slipped it onto his fourth finger. A simple platinum band, matching with the one you wore. You’d picked it out together during an extended lunch break a month before the wedding.

You squeezed his hand, and bent down to press your lips against his. 

“I’ll see you soon.”

Thirty three weeks ago…

“Death is a process, not a moment. But you already know that.”

You groaned. “Satoru, it’s two in the morning. The wedding is in fifteen hours. We should get some sleep before checking into the hotel.”

“Just humour me for a bit, baby. I think I’m onto something.” Satoru was already hopping out of bed. He flicked on the lights without warning, temporarily blinding you, and was rolling the whiteboard to the foot of the bed by the time your vision recovered. 

You stared at him, shirtless and in a pair of checkered pyjama pants, as he uncapped the marker pen, his blue eyes wide awake and bright with that unrivalled ambition you envied and loved.

You sighed and shifted to sit up against the pillows. “Alright, make it quick. I don’t want to walk down the aisle with bags under my eyes.”

“I’ll still think you’re the most beautiful person in the world.”

You couldn’t help the skipped beat in your chest, or the smile that appeared on your lips. “You want to keep the compliments coming, or tell me your theory?”

“Baby, you underestimate me. I can do both at the same time, and then some more.” Satoru winked, and began sketching.

You watched as Satoru filled the whiteboard with diagrams, his hand moving like an artist with a brush. Sometimes, you swore you saw equations flying out his head, faster than the average human could comprehend. His mind was a marvel, his face was a dream. He was your dream.

The dream you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your days with. 

"The key isn't preventing death,” Satoru was saying. “It's reversing it. Death is a cascade—cellular processes shutting down in sequence. If we can interrupt that cascade, reset the cells' programmed death response, we can bring them back online."

“Yes, it’s the basis of your entire research,” you said. “Interrupt cell degradation. Reverse. Reconstruct. Rehabilitate. Regenerate. The Four R’s, as you like to remind everyone. It’s why we’re building that machine in the first place—“

“Chamber, darling. Not machine. Sounds better.”

“But why are you repeating this?”

“Because, my gorgeous soon-to-be wife, I just realised we’re missing an important ingredient.” Satoru proceeded to draw a big question mark and circled it. “We can revive a body, but what of the soul?”

You lifted a brow. Since when was he suddenly concerned with the spiritual side of things? “You’re going to have to elaborate, Toru.”

“Think about it, baby. Why am I so madly in love with you?” Satoru grinned. “Why do I look at you now and think I want nothing better than to take your clothes off? Why do I want to fuck no one else but you?”

Heat prickled up your neck. But you said, “It’s the logic your brain comprehends, as unromantic as it sounds.”

“Exactly. It’s brain chemistry.” Satoru flung the marker pen aside and in the next moment, he was climbing on the bed, and on top of you. “The soul is tied to the brain.”

His head lowered, lips brushing against yours.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “Do you like that?”

You melted under his gaze.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Then he was ripping the blanket away. His hands slid underneath the oversized shirt you wore, up and up and peeling it off you, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

“What about this?” His fingers dragged up the middle of your torso, tracing the underside of your breasts. He began drawing slow circles around your nipple.

You arched into his touch. “Yes…”

His mouth caught a nipple, and he began sucking. Flicking. His tongue and teeth playing with you until little moans escaped you. “And what about now, baby?”

“Ngh—get to your point…”

A chuckle. “Consciousness,” Satoru said, as his hand travelled down your stomach, down between your thighs, and with two fingers, began stroking you over your already soaked panties. “Our brains are what shapes our souls. What allows us memory and complex emotions. We can revive a body, but without a soul, without consciousness, the body would be human in appearance but not in essence.”

Your moans grew louder when his fingers slipped underneath your panties, sliding right up the middle of all your aching wetness. Your legs parted wide to give him more access.

“Pleasure…” Satoru murmured, his mouth and tongue working up the curve of your neck as his fingers caught your clit, and pinched it.

“Ahn! Toru—take it off…”

His tongue had reached its way along the shell of your ear, but his fingers remained, holding your clit hostage.

“Patience, baby. I’m not yet done with my demonstration,” he teased, then did the most wicked thing, and began rolling your tight little nub between his fingers. Slowly. So, so slowly.

“Oh my…” Your head tipped back against the pillows. You tried to grab hold of Satoru, but he only pinned down your wrists above your head with his free hand. 

“God,” he finished what you couldn’t, “why do I always go crazy for you like this? Why are you enjoying what I’m doing as much as you do now? Tell me, baby.”

“Because—nghh! Because it’s you… because I only want you, Toru…”

“And I, you, my love,” he said against your lips, in a tone so tender and reassuring there was no room for doubt, before finally plunging two fingers inside you, pumping deep. “Which brings me back to my point. You love it when I fuck you like this because it’s me. Because of all the memories you have of me. Because of what you feel for me. This is what your brain has decided, and because the brain is connected to the soul, one cannot be brought back without the other.”

Somewhere in between, he’d added another finger, making it nearly impossible for you to concentrate on what he was saying. In this moment, with him rocking inside you, hitting you over and over again in that terribly sensitive spot, driving you insane, Satoru could’ve been reciting the ABCs and you still wouldn’t have understood much.

“T-toru…please—“

“Almost, baby. Did you forget about my cock?” His fingers ceased its sweet torture, slipping out. The sudden lack of him jarred you, but you could only whimper out a plea.

In one easy motion, Satoru flipped you around and was yanking off your panties. Warm, solid hands palmed your ass, lifted your hips high, exposing all the slick evidence dripping down your inner thighs. 

Satoru swore under his breath. “Fuck, look at you. If this is the last thing I see before I die, then I’ll die happy.”

Your thoughts shattered as you felt the warm press of his tongue. Satoru licked you clean. Licked up all that wetness leaking down your thighs. Then he licked you there—a single stroke, deep and slow, up your melting core, before narrowing on your dangerously sensitive clit, flicking and sucking and making you lose your mind. 

Satoru let you come like this first—on his tongue. With your face buried in the pillows and his buried in your pussy. Your legs were still trembling when you felt his impressive length, rock hard, rubbing against your folds, making you go wet all over again. 

“Yes or no, baby?” he asked, though it was pointless. He already knew what your answer would be.

You mumbled something unintelligent, but wiggled your hips for emphasis. Then felt his tip nudge at your entrance. 

“Which brings us back to the missing ingredient,” Satoru said, and a loud moan escaped you as he sheathed the full length of him inside you. He was so impossibly hard and thick, you were struggling to even clench around him. “We’ve only taken four R’s into consideration, when there’s actually a fifth… Resurrection.”

He pulled out, almost to the tip, and slammed back into you. Hard. Fast. Then he did it again, and again, and again. And each time he did it, you felt like you’d died and came back to life. 

“Because a soul can’t be regenerated,” Satoru continued as his pace increased rapidly, ruining your mind and your insides at the same time. “So, in essence, our theory is not about reversing death. It’s about resurrecting the whole self. All the intangibles that make us—fuck, baby, you’re so tight. You’re choking my cock.”

“S-Satoru…”

“Mm?”

“More… Harder…”

“God, I can’t believe I get to have you like this forever.” Satoru did as you asked, fucking you until your cries drowned out the erratic thumping of the bedhead against the wall. Until you could no longer close your mouth. Until nothing existed save the feel of him pumping deep inside you…

The way he filled you so completely, so perfectly… it was everything.

He was everything.

Stars exploded in your vision. Your climax came in swift, escalating waves, overwhelming you.

You cried out his name, and it was only then that Satoru finally gave in, driving right over the edge along with you. You felt him—all of him—spilling into you. Heard his deep, unrestrained groan as he spent himself inside you before falling on the bed, half his body still draped on top of you. 

Satoru’s mouth found yours, his tongue sweeping in and pampering you with gentle strokes while his fingers danced slow, playful circles down your spine. He grinned against your lips. “How was that, baby?”

You were still out of breath. “I think you know the answer.”

“But I want to hear you say it.”

You peered up at your fiancé. At the man who was to become your husband in less than a day. A part of you still couldn’t believe it—that someone as brilliant as him wanted you as much as you did him. That you, who had dedicated your life to science and medicine, to logic and reasoning, still couldn’t explain why you found yourself speechless whenever his gaze was fixed on you. 

So you told him the truth. “You’re incredible, Satoru.”

The smile he gave you then… you could look at that smile a billion times and still melt from it. “I hope you mean both the sex and my theory.” 

You sighed, knowing exactly where he was going with this. “Alright, five minutes. Then I’m really going to sleep, promise?”

He laughed and kissed your forehead. “As you wish, my love.”

“Well, for starters, you’re talking about preserving brain activity—core consciousness—after death, not only on a cellular level. That’s notoriously tricky. Impossible, some might say, but I know you hate that word—“

“Most things are not impossible, merely improbable.”

“But brain function is quickest to deteriorate, so you’ll have to find a way to—“

“We, darling,” Satoru corrected. 

You couldn’t help your smile. “Right, so we will have to find a way to prevent core consciousness from ceasing to exist the moment the heart stops beating… save the soul, as you say, from extinction.” You tapped your chin, your mind whirring as his fingers continued their light tracing along the contours of your body. You didn’t doubt Satoru had already found the answer, but you loved him all the more for letting you figure it out on your own, even if he wasn’t letting you sleep. “The difficult part is the time constraint, unless we freeze the brain. We already have the cryogenic technology for that…”

“But?” Satoru looked at you with hopeful eyes.

“But the soul isn’t cellular. It’s immaterial.”

His answering grin told you that you were close.

“Even if we do bring back consciousness, we don’t want it to be a blank slate,” you continued. “We want it the way it was before death. We want to retain memory…” It hit you then. Your eyes widened at Satoru. “So we back it up. We copy neural activity in the brain before it dies and upload it back in later.”

Satoru leaned in, and pecked your lips as reward. “By the way, have I told you I’m crazy for you?”

You laughed. “Everyday. Don’t stop.”

“Oh, as if I will,” he said, pulling you in for yet another kiss. “You’re stuck with me for the indefinite future, baby. You’ll soon get sick of hearing it, but I’ll continue saying it anyway.”

You reached for his beautiful face.

“Never,” you said.

Satoru’s smile was tender. “I’ll hold you to that.” He kissed your palm, your lips again, and then he was pulling away to slip out of bed. 

Your brows furrowed. “I thought you promised we were going to sleep?”

“Huh? I thought you were going to sleep.” He was already pulling open the dresser drawer. “I’m going to the lab. Don’t wait up for me, okay baby?”

 “What? Are you serious?” You sat up straight now, back stiff. “Satoru, you have a wedding to attend. Our wedding. Can’t whatever it is you want to do wait for just one day?”

“I’ll meet you at the hotel. I need to make some new adjustments to the chamber. I’m thinking of calling it the Infinity Chamber. Has a nice, ring to it, no? Infinite life. Infinite time. Very mythical—”

“Satoru, don’t,” you warned. “Just forget about work for twenty four hours. That’s all I’m asking for. Please.”

“Baby, you know it’s not just work to me.”

“Then what am I? Just some girl you’re marrying?”

His hand paused midway to his backpack on the armchair. Satoru’s gaze found yours across the room.

“Is that what you think?” he said, his tone gentle but serious. “Because to me, you’re my equal. In every measure.”

“Satoru, don’t you dare walk out that door. I’ll kill you.”

“Baby, we both know you won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Then I’ll win,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Well, I am. I’ll win because you’ll let me. Because you love me.”

He winked, and blew you a final kiss.

And then he was gone. 

Satoru never turned up at the hotel. You’d waited at the lobby for an hour, and when he hadn’t answered your call for the sixteenth time, you went to check in to the suite you thought you’d be stepping in together with him. 

As the hours until the wedding drew closer and closer, you’d finally hit the last straw of your patience and sent Suguru to the research centre to drag Satoru over. It didn’t matter if you had to marry him in his lab coat. It was better than marrying his ghost.

The call came thirty minutes before it was time for you to walk down the aisle. The guests had arrived. White roses covered every surface of the ceremony hall. You were in your gown, veil draped over your head, chewing on your lip when Suguru’s name flashed on your phone. 

You’d laughed first. You’d thought it was a joke. A bad one. Suguru had to repeat it three times before you were running to your car.

But still, you didn’t believe him. Not until you reached the lab. Not until you saw Satoru. 

They’d categorised it as an accident. The security cameras confirmed Satoru had been alone. You’d seen the time stamp. It happened while you were sleeping. He’d forgotten to turn off the main power, and was ripping out some components from the cryochamber, presumably to move to his new Infinity Chamber, when the door malfunctioned, and sealed him inside.

Hours. Satoru had been stuck in there for hours. In a temperature of minus two hundred degrees celsius, slowly freezing. His blood solidifying…

And like brittle ice, he simply broke apart.

As with every task that involved touching Satoru, you were the one who performed it. The human mind was fallible, so it was natural for them to make mistakes, but you less than others. Satoru was unmatched, of course, but since he was out of commission for the time being, the next best person you trusted was yourself.

You were not unaware that Shoko and the team, as well as every board member, had their eyes on you the moment you wheeled Satoru into the Infinity Chamber—more a tall, circular room that resembled the inside of a silo, with large lamps fixed onto the generous, three-storey high ceiling, clinical light glaring down as rigid and impersonal as the spectators watching you from above, shielded behind a circumference of glass. 

Well, you supposed ‘impersonal’ was being unkind to your team. Suguru was Satoru’s best friend, after all. Correction—he is. Perhaps unforgiving was a better word. They’d understood why you’d put all of their jobs and livelihoods on the line for this, but it didn’t mean they would forgive you for it. 

And then there was the boy. Megumi. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back as you hooked up the last of the dozens of tubes connecting Satoru to the walls of the Infinity Chamber itself, because that was what this room was—one giant machine built to execute the last of Satoru’s ‘Five R’ Principle: 

Resurrect.

You checked the tubes again, checked the wires, checked the position of the helmet fastened over Satoru’s head, then checked everything again before finally forcing yourself not to prolong this any further. You hated leaving Satoru alone, but you needed to be in the control room, and no one could be in the chamber while the procedure was taking place unless they enjoyed being electrocuted.

You went through a steel inforced door that took you up a set of winding stairs straight to the control room, where the chatter immediately died a quick death the moment you stepped in. 

No doubt they had been discussing you. Not like you gave a shit. You were used to it by now—the whispers behind your back, the glances shot your way when they thought you weren’t looking. The furrowed brows and downturned lips, and perhaps worst of all, the knowledge that none of it was out of hate but pity. 

“Doc,” Shoko nodded in greeting, the others mimicking her gesture, albeit in silence. “All screens are live. Perfusion system is loading, should be ready to go in three minutes.”

You turned to Suguru, who was positioned in front of a wide monitor, the screen filled with lines and lines of ever-shifting numbers. You asked him the same question you did everyday.

“How’s it reading?”

And Suguru answered you as how he always did. Calmly. A little bleak. “We’re still at a 0.0000033 percent loss. Nothing’s changed since the soul mapping. The system shows his neural patterns are still processing information at an unnaturally high efficiency. His consciousness is more than active, doc. It’s fully functioning, fully realised—it’s like Satoru can’t shut up in there. Typical of him, I guess.”

“We should have just made him a new body,” Nanami remarked from where he stood monitoring the blood tanks. “By my calculations, it would have lowered the risks by precisely sixteen more percent.”

“Yeah, but then we’re wasting the original body,” Haibara pointed out. “We can’t just throw him out—“

“We’re already copying his brain. I don’t see what’s the—“ Nanami cut himself off, glancing for half a second in your direction. He cleared his throat. “It’s done anyway. The best course now is to proceed as is.”

It’s all noise, baby. Block it out. Satoru spoke in your head. You have me. 

Without thinking, you walked over to the wall of thick glass. Below, Satoru lay unmoving, in the exact same position as when you’d left him. You couldn’t explain it, but even now, a tiny, microscopic part of you still thought he might just wake up on his own. As if he’d merely decided to take a very, very long nap. It was ludicrous since you were the one who had put his body back together. But when it came to Satoru, your own brain tended to override most rhyme and reason.

“Everything’s good to go,” said Shoko, pulling you from your thoughts. “Want to do the honours, doc?”

Your gaze narrowed on the small green button raised against the main control panel. You approached it, reaching out a hand, fingers hovering. 

You think I can’t do it, baby?

I think you can do anything, Toru.

Do you doubt me?

Never

“Never,” you whispered, and pushed the button.

It was as if the chamber itself had come to life. The great whir of a beastly machine waking up from an eternal slumber. Invisible currents coursed through the air inside the cylindrical shaft where Satoru lay alone, hooked up to the tubes that were now pumping synthetic blood into his body. You thought you saw him twitch. You blinked. It was just electricity. But then—

“Doc—“ It was Shoko, her tone uncharacteristically shaken. “Peripheral nerve activity detected. We're seeing reflex responses. His motor neurons are firing."

“Perfusion efficiency at ninety-two percent…ninety-three…ninety-eight...” Nanami added, similarly unable to hide his surprise. “Capillary beds are accepting the new blood flow. Oxygen saturation levels are rising steadily. No adverse reactions detected. This is… unprecedented.”

“Ah, guys…” Haibara announced. “The ECG just detected a heartbeat.”

Your breaths stilled.

“Fuck me.” Suguru jolted from his seat. “Doc, you should come see this—all of you should see this. The upload… it's working. His consciousness is downloading into the biological brain. Neural pattern fidelity is nearly perfect. I'm seeing unified brain activity. He's not just alive. He's conscious. He’s… he’s coming back—“

But while everyone rushed to Suguru’s monitor, your feet were moving in a different direction. In the next moment, you were flying back down the stairs and slamming through the door into the Infinity Chamber. 

And just as your gaze snapped to his body on the metal slab—

Satoru bolted upright.

Blue eyes, wide awake, found yours. 

Your mouth fell open.

His lips, no longer leeched of colour, parted.

Satoru blinked. Once. Twice.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Your lungs hollowed out. Disintegrated.

But then he was laughing. 

“I’m joking, baby. It’s a joke. Hey, don’t pass out, okay?”

You stared at him.

At the same time, a voice came through the chamber’s speakers.

“Oh my fucking god, Satoru. Are you serious? Of all the times, now’s not it.”

“Suguru? That you? Tch—some friend you are.” Thirty three weeks of stillness, but now Satoru was tipping his head up at the control room. “If you’d just answered when I called you, then I wouldn’t have turned into a block of ice, would I? Because I would’ve forced you to come to the lab.”

“So you do remember dying?” It was Shoko this time. 

“I remember freezing my ass off with no way out of that bloody cryochamber. Doesn’t take a genius to know what came next.”

“That’s a ninety nine percent memory retainment.” Shoko gave a low whistle. “Impressive work, doc. You did it.”

“Of course she did. She’s my—“ Satoru paused, his gaze finding yours again. “Fuuuuck… baby, I’m sorry. I missed the wedding, didn’t I?”

You didn’t answer him. It was as if your mind had glitched while trying to process if this was real, or if you were actually hallucinating. If somehow, somewhere in the process of trying to bring him back to life, you’d lost your mind and ended up in the loony bin, and that all of this was happening in your head. 

“Baby, you’re shaking.” Satoru made to stand but was jerked back by the tubes connected to his body. “Ow, damn it—fuck.” He gripped a tube, about to yank it off, but then had the common sense to drop it when he saw blood still pumping into him. His arms reached out towards you. “Come here, baby. It’s me… I promise.”

But before your feet could decide to function, the door to the chamber opened. Two figures strode in. Both, you recognised. Both, you could do without seeing.

“Huh, so you’re actually alive.” Sukuna picked off some imaginary dust from his creaseless suit, his tone managing to sound both amused and scathing all at once. “I was expecting some sort of trickery. A hologram, maybe. At most, a robot. Who knows what they’ll come up with to prevent the board from selling this place off.”

Satoru snorted. “You’re lucky there were cameras, or I would’ve found a way to frame you for my murder. And a robot? How insulting. No one can be me but me.”

“Evidently. A robot would know when to stop talking.”

A step behind Sukuna, Fushiguro Megumi stood glaring. Not at Satoru, but at you.

He looked more dishevelled than last you’d seen him during the reading of Satoru’s will, in which a mini skirmish had broken out among Satoru’s relatives—who hadn’t bothered showing their faces until that day—when the Gojo family’s lawyer had announced that the entirety of Satoru’s assets were to be split equally between you and Megumi. An adopted son and a not-yet-wife.

And like you, Megumi hadn’t given a flying fuck about the inheritance. What he did care about was the one clause Satoru had somehow had the foresight to include in his will. That the decision on what to do with his body would be solely up to you. Satoru’s own messed up way of showing you he meant it when he’d once told you, “I belong to you.”

Megumi had wanted a funeral. You didn’t. Megumi had wanted to say his goodbyes. You didn’t. Megumi didn’t want Satoru to be tampered with, to be experimented with. You didn’t see it that way. And that was how your relationship with the boy had soured to this point. 

“I hope you’re happy,” he said to you. He might as well have spat in your face. 

Satoru must have sensed the tension, because he immediately dropped his verbal sparring with Sukuna. “Oh? What seems to be the problem, Megumi-chan? I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

But Megumi wouldn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed on you like daggers slicing into your skin. “The Gojo Satoru I know is dead. This…thing you created—with fake blood and a fake brain—“ he laughed, bitterly. “And now you’re pretending he’s real? What a load of bullshit.”

He didn’t wait for a reply and stormed out of the chamber. 

“He’ll come around,” Satoru said, but still, he’d winced. “Alright, welcome party’s over, everyone. As nice as I am to look at, I don’t really want to sit here naked with my dick hanging out for much longer. So if all of you could kindly piss off, that would be amazing. I’d like a moment with my wife, please.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Well, if you’re in good condition to yap incessantly, then I expect you’ll be in good condition for a board meeting tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Don’t die and be late again.” And with that, he was out the door. 

Shoko’s voice spoke through the speakers. “We’re going to stop the perfusion, Satoru. It should be safe to remove the tubes. But me and the team will need to stick around in case of anything… unforeseen. Just pretend we’re not here.”

The whirring of machines faded, steeping the chamber in a new silence. Once again, you were alone with Satoru. But this time, you’d finally accepted he was truly breathing. 

“Baby? Talk to me.” Satoru flashed you a nervous smile. “You haven’t said a word.”

You moved.

And the moment you did, you couldn’t stop. 

You reached for him. Your hands were on his face, moving down his neck, his chest. Over the very real beat of his heart. And when you felt his hand on yours, the pressure of his very real touch, your voice broke.

“I—we should try taking the tubes out.”

It was lame. You should have told him you missed him. You should have told him all the things you wanted to tell him in the months he lay lifeless while you pieced him back together. How you refused to let a single drop of tear roll down your cheek, because it would mean that you had something to cry about. How the entire research centre thought grief had turned you into some mad scientist who was obsessed with creating your very own Frankenstein, and that you almost believed them… almost.

But you didn’t tell him those things. Because those things no longer mattered.

Slowly, you removed the tubes from him one by one. Satoru just sat there, watching you work, his fingers playing with your hair, grazing down the back of your neck, applying gentle caresses here and there until the last of the tubes were gone. 

“Try standing up,” you said, your voice too thick to hide the emotions threatening to burst out from within you. “I need to check your sense of balance.”

Satoru nodded and wasted no time hopping off the table onto his feet. He grinned, and did a little spin. Like he was modelling for you. “Nice stitching, baby. I think I prefer myself like this—adds a lot of character, you know?”

“I’ll get you some clothes.”

But he caught your wrist then, pulling you tight against him. His arms enveloped you, fingers lifting your chin to meet his gaze. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he said, stroking your cheek. 

The way he spoke, softly, his cadence perfect and familiar and exactly as you remembered—it really was him.

Your lips trembled, betraying you as you peered up at him. 

“Never again, Satoru,” you said. “Okay?”

He leaned in. “I promise, baby.”

And when his mouth brushed against yours… when you parted your lips, feeling his tongue sweep inside you, meeting his every stroke and caress with your own… it was like everything that had been blocking up your insides for so long—the sand in your lungs, the pain in your chest, the hollow pit in your stomach—all of it became but a distant memory. 

Your kisses grew hungry. You couldn’t stop touching him. You needed to bottle up all of his warmth and preserve every ounce of this moment because you couldn’t bear to lose another second with him. 

“Hey,” Satoru murmured against your lips. “Easy, baby. I’m right here.”

A smile cracked through some forgotten place in you. “Well, deal with it. All my kisses have been one-sided for months.”

“I bet I still taste good dead.”

“That’s not funny, Satoru.”

He laughed. “We’ll see if it is sixty years from now.”

“Why sixty?”

He grinned, and then he was pulling you in for another kiss. “That’s what husbands and wives do, don’t they? Grow old together.”

Like wildfire, news of the scientist who died and came back to life spread across the globe, saturating every media outlet, baffling entire religions, upending the medical world and whatever long held beliefs they had been preaching on the subject of mortality. 

The headlines were calling it a miracle. Churches called it blasphemy. The medical journals were split between praise and skepticism. The National Registration Department had never had to rescind a death certificate eight months after registering it. Gojo Satoru, billionaire scientist, child prodigy, TIME 100 most influential individual, the world’s sexiest man alive for six years running, and former corpse, had become a global sensation as the man who had defied death. 

And you were right there in the spotlight alongside him. Satoru had made sure of it, insisting that your name was listed first in the accreditation for his now infamous Theory of Resurrection. Whenever he was asked, Satoru always drove in the fact that though he was the mastermind behind it, you were the one who saw it to the finish line.

“Execution is worth infinitely more than mere ideas,” he’d point out in all the interviews while refusing to let go of your hand.

Naturally, with any bizarre phenomenon came the conspiracies. There were those who accused Satoru of not being human, instead believing he was some kind of top secret, hi-tech artificial intelligence the government was testing out as a weapon for modern warfare. The ufologists’ deductions were much simpler—that extraterrestrial beings had abducted Satoru, conducted experiments, and placed him back on earth as one of them. 

In answer to these wild accusations, Satoru had only one reply. “Whether I’m an alien or the Terminator, at least I’m a damn good looking one.”

Well, if there was a truth you could confirm, it was that he still fucked you like a feral beast.

After three weeks of monitoring at the research centre, Shoko and the team had determined Satoru’s condition as stable, and the board finally allowed him to return home with you. The moment the both of you stepped through the front door, it was like Satoru was a man on a mission.

“To make up for lost time,” he said as he tore off your clothes, and took you against the wall. “It’s lucky you didn’t have to sew my cock back on as well.”

“If you’d lost it, I wouldn’t have brought you back—ahn!”

He laughed as he thrusted deep into you, filling you up so completely, making you take in every inch of him until there was no doubt that he was here to stay. Inside you. With you. “And here I am thinking you fell for my incredible mind.”

“It’s—nghh—Toru, you’re…”

“What is it, baby?” Another thrust. Your moans filled the foyer. “Tell me, what am I?”

“Everything,” you breathed. “You’re everything, Satoru…”

His gaze softened, and when his lips found yours, his kiss was tender. Warm. 

Alive. 

You let him pick you up, clinging onto him as he carried you to the bedroom and gently laid you on the sheets. You didn’t let go. Not when he sheathed himself in you again. Not as his mouth claimed every part of you as if he never wanted to forget the very shape of you. Not while your bodies moved in sync together, while you cried out his name over and over again as he brought you to the edge, and went right over it together with you. 

You still didn’t let go as your head rested in the crook of his arm, your palm on his chest, over his beating heart. Your fingers traced the thick gash spanning across his stomach. It was still too early to remove the stitches, but he was healing up nicely. You wanted to believe scars could be beautiful, too.

“You can close your eyes, baby. It’s alright.”

You peered up at Satoru, not understanding at first. 

“You’re exhausted,” he said. “I bet you haven’t properly slept since—“

“Don’t, Toru. I’ve heard that word enough. I don’t need you saying it too.”

“Then what do you me want to call it?”

“You didn’t—you were just absent. That’s all.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Satoru trailed his fingers down the curve of your back. “And I’m going to marry you. We’ll have that wedding I stupidly ruined. We’ll take that trip to Paris and never see the sights, because I’ll be fucking you so well you won’t want to leave the hotel.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “What about all the improvements you want to make to the Infinity Chamber? It’s going to be a tight schedule. All the major hospitals have already placed their orders, and Sukuna wants to release the first commercial model by early next year—“

“Baby, if there’s one thing I learnt from dy—my absence, it’s my priorities. Work can wait. Never you. Never again.”

You hugged him tighter. “Is that a promise I’m hearing, Gojo Satoru?”

He beamed. “I don’t have to promise anything, baby. I’ll show you. Just sit back and see for yourself, I’ll—“

Satoru paused. His brows furrowed.

“Toru?” Your smile vanished as he suddenly jerked upright, and stumbled out of bed.

Satoru was coughing. The coughing turned into heaving. He was doubled over, clutching his stomach. 

Red spilled out his mouth. Globs of it, fresh and dark, splattering across the white carpet.

Someone was screaming.

It was you.

Of all the fucking things that had to go wrong, why did it have to be his immune system?

Your jaw was tight as you read the report, your eyes burning holes into the file as if you could force the words to magically reshuffle and change the diagnosis. 

But nothing changed. Satoru was dying. Again.

“We’ll rush a stem cell transplantation,” you said. “We’ll develop new immunosuppressants. We’ll—“

“Those treatments take time, doc,” replied Shoko. You hated the tone she was using. It was too gentle. Too final. The kind of tone doctors used when they were required to deliver bad news to patients. “If it were a normal autoimmune disease, we’d probably have a chance. But Satoru isn’t normal. At the rate his immune system is attacking… it’s like a war inside him. His body is shutting down too rapidly—“

“How long?” you asked, already knowing the answer. But your brain refused to accept it, instead seeking out someone, anyone, who might tell you otherwise.

The team fell silent. 

“He won’t last the hour,” Suguru finally said. “I’m sorry, doc.”

You pitched the file across the Infinity Chamber. The papers came loose, flapping about midair before scattering soundlessly onto the floor. On the operating table where Satoru lay motionless, those blue eyes lost under closed lids. Unseeing. 

He’d fallen into a coma before the ambulance arrived. Simply keeled over, face down in a pool of his own regurgitated blood. No hospital would be able to treat him, so you’d screamed at the paramedics to take him straight to the research centre. Everyone had seen his face on the news, and it didn’t take much convincing for them to oblige your demand.

His skin was greying again. The pink in his cheeks, his lips, had faded to an ashen pallor. His breaths were waning. Those fucking tubes were stuck in him once more.

“Brain activity is flatlining,” Nanami reported, his expression grave. He added, quietly, “You might want a moment alone with him, doc. He can’t respond, but he can still hear you.” 

Your fists were balled, nails puncturing through the skin of your palms. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

This wasn’t happening. You weren’t going to let it happen. 

You weren’t going to fucking say goodbye.

“Activate the resurrection procedure,” you said. “Now.”

Someone touched your shoulder. You flinched back.

Shoko’s hand retreated. “Doc,” she said, carefully. “We never calculated for a second time. It’s too much. The process will fry his organs. The synthetic blood might destroy his natural cells.”

You spared her a single glance. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

No one moved at first. Then, Haibara spoke. 

“She wants to try, guys.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes as he said it. “We should let her try.”

A sigh. You didn’t know from who. You didn’t care.

“Everyone to the control room,” said Shoko. “Nanami, reduce perfusion speed by half. Suguru, watch the reading—the moment his consciousness hits zero, we’re uploading immediately. Haibara, see if you can block some of the electro current. Satoru’s still alive. We want to jolt his system, not subject him to an electric chair. Doc—“

“I’m staying in the chamber,” you said. 

“It’s not safe—“

“It will be if you block a portion of the electro current, which you are. Either way, I’m not leaving him.”

“If we’re going to do this, we should get moving,” said Suguru. “We have less than an hour now, and I’ll have to recalibrate the neural mapping.”

There was nothing to recalibrate and you knew it. Shoko might not have given up on you, but Suguru had accepted the fact that convincing you to do anything else was a lost cause. You suspected he’d understood this a long time ago. He was the one who had found Satoru in the cryochamber, after all. The one who had to call you while you waited in your wedding dress. 

But you didn’t need him to understand. You didn’t need a friend. You didn’t need compassion. 

You needed Satoru back.

The team left you alone and hurried to the control room upstairs. You positioned yourself beside the operating table, and waited your second eternity. But you were used to waiting by now. You’d waited for him to offer you a spot on his research team, waited for him to notice you as more than an assistant, waited for him to ask you out for a quick lunch at that dingy sandwich joint staff liked to go to when they were sick of cafeteria food…

You waited for him to love you. So death could go fuck itself if it thought it could rip Satoru away from you after you’d spent all this time waiting.

You counted each shallow rise and fall of his chest. Saw the moment it stopped moving before the machines around you started buzzing. You stood, numb, as the chamber you’d finished building—not for humanity’s advancement but for one person—came alive around you in a flurry of mechanical droning. 

All the while, you watched him. Until you chewed the inside of your cheeks raw and your vision blurred from refusing to blink. Until you spotted the twitch of his finger. A fluttering of long, white lashes. 

Satoru groaned. His eyes flew open, then he was fumbling upright. 

A small cry escaped you, and then you were holding him. 

“It’s alright,” you said when he looked at you, dazed and confused. “You’re alright now.”

“I…” Satoru hesitated. “Where am I?”

“At the research centre. You had an accident, but everything’s okay now. You’re okay.”

“I see. I think I remember. Just… give me a moment. My head feels like someone cracked it open with a hammer.”

You helped him to unstrap the helmet, and draped your lab coat over him. Continued to hold him steady as he studied the tubes running out his body.

“So I died,” he said. 

“For a short while, yes.” 

“And you brought me back.”

“I always will, Satoru.”

Those blue eyes searched yours. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “But I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Satoru, I told you it’s not funny.”

He blinked. “Right, ah… so I do know you. I mean, it feels like I do. It feels like I’ve known you my whole life.”

You stared at him.

Satoru stared back. “Shit. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

The speaker crackled. A grim voice cut through the chamber.

“Doc. Satoru…” Suguru sounded too calm. “So this is what’s going to happen—I’m going to read you the diagnosis, and then me and the team… we’ll wait for your decision. But, doc, I think this time you should let Satoru decide.”

Suguru didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “You died twice, Satoru. We brought you back using your Theory of Resurrection. Do you remember your theory?”

For a long moment, Satoru didn’t speak. His eyes darted from you up to the control room above, and then around the chamber, assessing. Processing. As if a flurry of information was running through his head at lighting speed to reach a conclusion. 

“I think I understand now,” he said, slowly. “And I can guess where this is going. Whoever you are, give it to me straight—and don’t bother explaining my theory. I know what I created.”

Silence.

“We couldn’t recover a portion of your memory, Satoru. Your body is rejecting the neural upload… among other things.”

“Please, I forgot some things. I’m not an idiot.” Satoru’s gaze settled back on you, on the matching rings on both your fourth fingers. He mustered a grin. “Well, at least I was lucky enough to find someone like you, even if I can’t remember how.”

You didn’t know when you’d started shaking. 

Suguru spoke. “Satoru… your body is shutting down. The synthetic blood we’re pumping in is keeping you functioning for now, but the moment we shut off the tubes, you’ll—“

“I’ll die,” Satoru finished. “Took you long enough to say it. Kind of figured that out since I woke up feeling like shit.”

“Your consciousness is currently at thirty three percent retainment. We can try to bring you back again, but from the reading, retainment percentage will only go down. You’ll probably lose another fifteen percent if we go through with a third procedure.” Suguru’s voice hitched. “I—listen Satoru… even if we succeed, you won’t be yourself.”

“Again, Mr. Obvious, I’m not an idiot. And I can hear you sniffling, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Suguru. We’re friends.”

“Well, Suguru, if we’re really friends, then I think you know what to do.”

“No,” you whispered. Then louder. “No. That’s not what we’re doing. We’re not going to—“

“Hey, come here.” You froze as Satoru took your hands in his, gently pulling you closer. He shifted, wincing as he stood, and wrapped you in his arms. 

The world slipped away from under your feet. There was only him. Soft, white hair falling over deep blue eyes. His pale, tired face, still perfect. The pressure of his hands around your waist, lifting to cup your cheek. The stroke of his fingers against your skin. The way he was looking at you, like he…

“I’m sorry, baby.” His lips were on yours as he spoke. “Do you hate me?”

At last, you broke. Your face crumpled. Your composure went. You stopped caring if he could feel your body shudder. 

“Never,” you said.

“Do you love me?”

Your laugh was bitter. “I can’t believe you’re even asking that.”

You felt his fingers tighten a fraction around your waist. “Then, do you know that I love you?”

“I—“you could barely choke the word out. Because the truth of it was more than you could handle. It was easier to beg. So you did. “Please don’t leave me.”

Satoru’s smile was oddly relaxed. Almost relieved. As if he’d lost something important and had found it. “I’ll still be around, if you want me to. Right here,” he said, and gently tapped the side of your head. “As long as you live, so do I.”

“It’s not the same.” Your vision blurred. “It’s not—it’s not everything. It’s not you...”

“My love, you know as well as I do that I won’t be me even if I stay.” He kissed you. Kissed away the damp streaks flowing down your cheeks. Gently. Slowly. 

“I’ll find a way,” you tried again. “There’s always a way. Nothing’s impossible, only improbable. That’s what you told me. There has to be another—“

“You’re right, there always is. Doesn’t mean you should go searching for it.”

“No. I refuse.” You were shaking your head violently. “Don’t do this to me. If you don’t want to try, I will. I’ll fix it. All you have to do is wait. I won’t stop—“

He hugged you tighter. You felt his lips on your hair.

“Look at me, baby.”

You screwed your eyes shut. If you couldn’t see the what was written so clearly on his face, then it wasn’t true.

“Please, baby,” Satoru said, lifting your chin. “I want to get a good look at what my soul cannot deny.” 

You wanted to scream. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to burn down this whole fucking place, with you and him in it, so you wouldn’t have to live through what was coming next. So you wouldn’t have to feel yourself tearing apart inside.

Not yet. It wasn’t enough. The time you were given with him was simply too short. It should be more. It should be sixty more years like he promised. 

You weren’t ready to let him go. 

But you knew you had to. Because it was what he wanted. Because he didn’t want you to lose him slowly. Because he was losing himself. Because he couldn’t be brilliant without his memory. Because he would no longer be Gojo Satoru, and he didn’t want you seeing it. 

Because he loved you.

You looked into his eyes… the eyes you once thought you’d be looking at forever.

“There’s my girl.” Satoru’s smile destroyed you. “Better holes in my brain than yours, because I don’t want you forgetting I’m yours. In every lifetime. Can you do that? Can you remember that for me?“

 It was the same before, and it was the same now. You would do anything for him. So you nodded, and told him what he wanted to hear. “You’re too much for me to forget so easily, Satoru.”

  He laughed and kissed you again, long and slow, and for a moment, nothing existed but the warmth of him that filled you. 

“Come here, baby,” he said. “Let me hold you.”

You let him pick you up and place you on the metal slab. You laid down with him, your head on his chest like how you always fell asleep, curled up against him. Your legs tangled with his, his arm under and around you. Your hand in his, where it belonged. 

You couldn’t say how long you stayed like that. Talking. You told him about the day you met, how he’d asked you to marry him one random morning to make you feel better about the coffee machine breaking down. He laughed and told you that he must be quite a catch for you to say yes to such a lame proposal. Then he told you his vows—the vows for a wedding you would never have. 

Somewhere in between, Satoru must have signalled for Suguru to stop the perfusion because the whirring in the chamber faded. You ignored the silence. There was only him. His voice. The press of his body against yours. His fingers wrapped in yours as you moved yourself up, placing your face so close to his that his features became indistinct, and you began to lose yourself in them. 

You held him as he slipped away. As his chest slowed and his skin turned cold. You told him it was okay for him to close his eyes, and right before he did, you told him you loved him. 

You held him long after his heart stopped beating. Long after the team had left and your muscles had gone stiff from lack of movement. Long after his soul had departed to a place you couldn’t reach. And when you finally let go of him, it was to pick up the metal helmet from the floor. 

You placed it over your head, and sat back down beside him.

“System override,” you said, your voice calm. Flat. “Password: Replacement.”

Satoru was wrong. He’d theorised Five R’s, ending with resurrection. He never considered a sixth. But you did. You’d figured out the final ‘R’ to the equation.

A computerised voice droned through the speaker. “System override. Affirmative. Existing consciousness detected. Permission to erase for remapping.”

“Permission granted.”

“Affirmative. Accessing stored neural data for replacement. Confirm subject.”

“Gojo Satoru.”

“Affirmative. Neural data for subject, Gojo Satoru, confirmed for replacement with existing consciousness. Requesting password for final permission.”

Your gaze fell on Satoru. You took his hands in yours, and brought them to your lips. 

“Never,” you said. 

“Password confirmed. Neural replacement loading. Erasing existing consciousness in ten… nine… eight…”

You loosened a great breath. 

You’d proven his theory. You’d succeeded. If you could not give him everything, then you would give him you.

His soul would live.

Even if yours couldn’t.

Anyway, it wasn’t like yours could exist without him.

thank you for reading! what do you think? this fic was a challenge for me to write, so i'd love to know your thoughts ♡

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then came the night satoru passed out drunk on the living room floor after a college party, snoring loud enough to drown out the rain. you found suguru on the balcony, cigarette between his fingers even though he quit months ago.

you leaned beside him, shoulder brushing his, stealing the smoke without asking. exhaled slow, eyes on the wet city. voice barely above the rain.

“tired of pretending yet, suguru?”

he took a drag, let the silence stretch, played dumb.

“pretending what?”

you smiled, stepped closer until the balcony light caught the lace edge of your bra through the open neck of his borrowed shirt. leaned in just enough that he could see straight down if he let his eyes drop.

they dropped.

“that,” you whispered, breath warm against his jaw. “exactly that.”

he snapped. cigarette flicked into the dark, hand already fisting in your hair to drag you in, mouth crashing against yours like the rule had never existed.

slow at first, lips barely parted. then deeper, mouth opening on yours with a low sound that rumbled in his chest, tongue sliding against yours. his other hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just right so he could lick into you slow and deliberate, swallowing the small noise you made when he sucked on your bottom lip.

you felt it everywhere (his teeth grazing, the faint sting when he bit down soft, the way he breathed your name against your mouth like it hurt to say it out loud). the rain kept falling, cold on your skin where the shirt slipped off one shoulder, but his palm was burning, dragging down your throat, thumb brushing the frantic pulse he put there.

seconds later, he has you pressed to the mattress in the guest room your parents never use, your thighs over his forearms, folded so deep your breath shakes.

he’s thick, impossibly so, and he knows it. takes his time pressing in, just the blunt head at first, slow nudge that has you gasping into the pillow. he watches your face, eyes black with want, jaw locked tight while he feeds you inch by inch, letting you feel every drag, every pulse.

you’re so wet it’s unreal, but still tight enough that he has to stop halfway, breath shaking, forehead dropping to yours.

“fuck,” he whispers. “feels so good.”

he bottoms out all at once, sudden and deep, hips flush to yours. you gasp loud, the sound echoing too far in the quiet house.

his hand clamps over your mouth fast, palm muffling the noise while his eyes lock on yours. “shh,” he breathes against your throat. “we’re still pretending he’s asleep down the hall.”

you whimper into his skin, body clenching hard around him, and he groans low, staying buried, letting you feel every twitch. he stays like that, hand over your mouth, hips perfectly still while you pulse around him, every clench pulling a ragged breath from his chest. his free hand slides down your side, thumb tracing the dip of your waist, fingers splaying wide.

slowly he eases back, just enough to feel the drag, then sinks in again—deep, deliberate, grinding at the end until stars burst behind your eyelids. you bite his palm to muffle the whine, tears slipping hot down your temples.

“good girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “be quiet for me, yeah?”

another withdraw, another thrust, building that maddening rhythm while the rain hammers the window, drowning out the slick sounds between you. his mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the pulse he races, sucking soft marks you'll hide tomorrow.

you arch into him, legs wrapping tighter, heels digging into his back as he hits that spot over and over. every slow drag back inside you rips another memory loose.

the couch where you fell asleep during movie nights, head on satoru’s shoulder while suguru stared at the inch of skin your shirt rode up to expose, hand clenched around a pillow so he wouldn’t reach. the kitchen counter you leaned against in tiny shorts, laughing at something stupid, and he pictured bending you over it until his teeth left marks on his own tongue. the hallway when you hugged him goodbye, tits pressed soft to his chest, and he had to count backwards from ten so he wouldn’t drag you into the bathroom and drop to his knees.

all those nights he came with your name on his tongue, pretending the fist around his cock was you instead.

now he’s buried in the real thing, tighter, wetter, better than any fantasy ever let him have. your body takes him like it was waiting, like it knew the whole time. every thrust proves the dream was a pale fucking shadow.

he bottoms out again, hips flush, grinding slow just to feel you flutter, and thinks: this is what i ruined myself for. this is why nothing else ever worked.

reality wins. every single time.

he pulls out slow, cock slick and heavy, and you’re still shaking when the first thick pulse of him spills across your folds. he watches, breath ragged, thumb spreading it lazy over your swollen clit, pushing a little back inside.

more leaks out, white against your skin, dripping down the curve of your ass onto the sheets. the sight punches the air from his lungs.

he thinks of satoru downstairs, snoring, trusting him with his life. thinks how his best friend would actually, finally kill him if he knew suguru just came inside his little sister raw, if he ever put a baby in you.

then he looks at you, thighs trembling, pussy painted with him, and the thought flips violent and possessive: satoru would absolutely hate it, but that's half the thrill.

he pushes more back in, finger curling just enough to make you gasp.

next time, he won't pull out.

Buying pretty lacy lingerie for you to wear on your next stream. Sending in requests to see you in different positions or using different toys. Getting personal chats from you – sometimes even little recordings of your soft voice saying good morning. 

Gojo probably replayed that one a hundred times getting ready, running his fingers through his hair to comb it and tossing on a fresh t-shirt and a pair of jeans from his floor after a fast shower, already running late to join Shoko and Suguru for their usual weekend brunch. Racing to make it there, sweat sticking to his arm pits by the time he pushed open the doors to some small hole-in-the-wall diner, the smell of bacon hitting him as he eyed a thick stack of pancakes on the closest table. 

“Over here,” Shoko dryly called out, a flash of movement drawing his stare over to where she was sitting next to Suguru in a corner booth. 

Gojo half-jogged to join them, mouth open and ready to offer an excuse before Suguru’s judgemental stare dragged over his sorry state. 

“You’re late,” he commented. “Jerking off to her again?” 

His friends didn’t understand.

Didn’t think that it was actually you, at least, messaging him. 

Shoko called him a creep for having a crush on some stranger he’d only seen through a screen. Suguru, though? He was a bit more…creative.

“No,” Gojo defensively said, blushing hard as he slid in the booth across from them.

“Sorry, were you speaking to your AI girlfriend?” He deadpanned, cocking his head to the side. Goji heard it all before, most commonly when they went to the gym together to work out – which he admittedly only started doing when he started privately messaging you.

“She’s not-” Gojo huffed. “I-I-”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, not really believing him either as he stammered out weak protests.

You were real. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, his entire face lighting up as he read the chat. He’d changed your contact to something more intimate, even though logically, he knew it was probably cringy and Suguru would be sure to tell him as much if he ever saw it. 

princess <3: toruuuuuuu

princess <3: how are you today? 

His fingers were hurrying to type a reply, clumsily hitting letters just to have to furiously erase and fix his typos before he hit send. 

blu3yedbigd1ck: Dreamed about you last night. 

Suguru reached across the table and snatched his phone, dark brows furrowing as he scanned over the messages before his nose scrunched up in disgust. 

“God, dude, could you not have picked something less creepy?” He groaned, tossing it back to him like he might have to pour bleach in his eyes out if he read any more. “You might as well have told her you jerked-” 

Buzz. Buzz.

You already replied. 

He was ignoring the rest of Suguru’s lecture, looking down at his lit-up screen to see your flirty replies back.

princess <3: oh yeah?

princess <3: what position? 

His dick was getting hard again. 

Straining inside his underwear as he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. Trying to hide the fact he was about to be sporting a bulge as he stared dumbly at your little contact photo, unable to convince his own thumb to move to type.

But then bubbles popped up, and you were sending a third message. 

princess <3: i was actually thinking about u too

That meant something, right? It had to.

“He's not even fucking listening,” Suguru complained, and Shoko was saying something back, pulling out cigarettes from her purse with a sigh, but he couldn't bother to look up. 

Glued to the rectangle in his hands as a picture popped up in the chat. 

There was nothing lewd about it, a perfectly innocent photo of you smiling in a pretty blue sweatshirt – and it somehow made it so much more intimate. 

Blushing as you sent something else, trying to suppress his stuttering and swelling heart as it pounded inside his chest. 

princess <3: your favorite color? 

blu3yedbigd1ck: My favorite everything.

“Can you pay attention for like, two minutes?” Suguru groaned, and Gojo had to shove his phone back in his pocket, palms sweaty as he tried to focus on his best friend. Suguru was sighing, nodding towards the waitress walking over. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, wiping his hands off on his jeans before glancing over his menu. 

But even half a plate of pancakes later, sipping on soda while Suguru talked about his problems with women – ones with warm bodies that had actually been in his bed – he was barely listening at all. Just nodding along, readjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose and licking the syrup off his fingers. Shoko had stepped outside, her outline visible through the window as she leaned against the wall, the last of a cigarette dangling from her lips as small puffs of smoke floated past. 

“You know,” Suguru sighed, dragging Gojo’s back from his daydream about being at a place like this on a date with you. What would you order? Would you sit across from him? Slide into the booth next to him and lean your head on his shoulder? 

“Huh?” Gojo blinked, gripping his fork a little too tight. 

“I was just saying I could probably hook you up with someone,” he said, thick fingers wrapping around the handle of his coffee mug, one brow arched as he tried to assess Gojo’s reaction. 

“Nah,” Gojo shrugged, the idea of going out with any girl that wasn't you making his skin crawl underneath his shirt. “Not interested.” 

Suguru’s jaw clenched, ready to call him a moron when Shoko strolled back in, easily reading the situation. 

“He said no?” She asked, as if she'd been expecting it. 

“I mean, I just don't really have time for a relationship right now, y’know-” Gojo started bluffing, trying to make it sound casual.

“You're too busy talking to a girl who probably uses a chat bot to talk to twenty other guys online,” Suguru sarcastically finished for him. 

“She's not like that,” he protested, an ugly feeling stirring up in his stomach. 

“You pay her to talk to you,” Suguru reminded him, and even though he was right, it still stung. “Wouldn't you rather be with a girl who likes you for you?” 

How was he supposed to explain that he didn't care if you only wanted him for his wallet?

Gojo only wanted you. 

But Suguru’s question stuck in his head. Stayed there for the rest of the day, going back home to stare at his chats with you, all the ones where you listened to him rant and ramble about his favorite games and shows, asking questions and exchanging interests. Looking back through the photos you sent him and the few he scrounged up the courage to send back. It was never his whole face, just part of his eyes or his hands. Most of the pictures he sent were of his meals, desserts he made or bought from his favorite sweets shop. 

Did you think he was annoying?

Just a loser in love with you? 

He turned his phone off, tossing it on his nightstand next to the tissues and lube as he collapsed on his bed, pulling the pillow down over his face as he groaned into it. Even when his eyes were shut, he still saw you behind them. 

And the moment his phone started ringing with the specific notification he set to know you were streaming, he was sitting back up, scrambling to grab his laptop and switch to the tab always reserved for you. 

It was funny how fast he forgot about everything else the second he saw your pretty face blinking back at him. Sitting up straight in a computer chair this time, no longer in that soft blue sweatshirt and instead in a barely-there nightgown that didn't leave much to the imagination as you greeted people joining the chat. 

blu3yedbigd1ck: Hi beautiful

He hesitated, before adding a definitely absurd number of heart emojis he hoped would catch your attention. 

“Hi there,” you hummed, face lighting up – and he held onto the hope it was directed towards him. “I have a little announcement to make today.”

You twirled a loose strand of hair around a finger, looking into the camera like you could see him through it. 

“In honor of my latest milestone,” you started, smiling so pretty it was practically blinding. Struck with cupid’s arrow as he stared hopelessly at his screen, spit pooling in the back of his mouth and hanging onto your every word. “I wanted to host a very special celebration stream.” 

The chat was already going crazy. Message after message being spammed, people sending in requests, emojis, compliments and complaints before you even announced what it’d be. Your eyes flickered over to where the chat was, reading the messages like you were waiting for one. 

His fingers were already flying across his keyboard.

blu3yedbigd1ck: You know I’ll be there. 

It was probably his imagination, but your face relaxed more, features brightening as you tilted your head to the side.

“One of my lucky top three spenders will get invited at the end of the month to join me on stream,” you softly said, and his brain stopped working. 

Your words jumbled up and echoing in his head, pulled apart and pieced back together as he struggled to make sense of it. 

Join you? Like, actually, meeting you? And if it was on stream, did you mean-

“Our winner will get to pick whatever they want to do with me,” you winked, before starting to rattle off a few rules and regulations you were obligated to – mentioning that you'd cover the costs of the plane ticket but that they'd have to pass a background check, blah blah blah – but Gojo was still stuck on that first sentence. 

Anything he wanted? 

Would you really take his virginity? Let him fuck you into those pretty pink sheets of yours until it was stained with your tears and his cum? 

(Even if he was probably the one that would end up crying?)

You didn't say it was a competition. 

But it immediately came apparent it was one after the donations started flooding in. People desperate to make you theirs. Losers like him itching to feel you for themselves. 

Gojo had to fucking win. 

He had watched almost every stream of yours. Even ones where you worked with other cam girls or guys, but he didn't know if he'd be able to stand his own jealousy if he wasn't on top. 

Or the one underneath you for this. 

The other assholes in your chat wouldn't appreciate you as much as he would. Wouldn't worship your body how he would. Adore every little twitch and tremble they earned. 

Gojo was fumbling to grab his wallet off his nightstand, flipping through to find his credit card with the highest limit. His fingers were shaking as he typed in the information, barely listening to you talk about how you would donate a portion of the proceeds to some charity, just clicking away before sending an exorbitant sum your way. 

A flicker of pride shot through him at how wide your eyes went when you saw it, suddenly stammering as your breath hitched in your throat. 

“To-” You stopped yourself, catching the nickname before it could slip off your tongue. “You guys don't have to donate that much, I’m-”

He sent another one just to see the way your lips pressed together as you shut up.

Other people were sending in donations too, but it wasn’t like they could match his. Could measure up to him. 

Although some of them tried, a few annoying contenders attempting to catch up when you shifted back to your more normal streaming mode, switching to a different camera and getting settled on your bed. A toy between your thighs, one that sucked softly on your clit as you threw your head back and filled his room with sounds of your breathy moans. 

But his eyes were skimming over the chat, scared that his spot as top donator would be replaced. Honestly, it was the first time in fucking forever that he didn’t have his hand down his pants when watching you, too stressed that he might lose an opportunity he didn’t know if he’d ever get again. 

He was fucking sweating, white strands of hair sticking to his forehead while he listened to you whine, prettily panting as he squinted at someone complaining that he was probably someone spending his daddy’s money to win. 

Which okay, wasn’t totally untrue. 

But they’d do the same if they were him. 

He’d do anything to be with you. 

Even if Suguru thought he was a moron. Even if you were only interested in him for money. Even if the most he’d ever realistically get with you was one night – and that was if he was lucky. 

But luck was one of the few things he did have. 

Fortune favored him – and after a few weeks of sending in donations every time he thought someone else might manage to usurp him, despite your private messages pleading with him that he really didn’t need to, that he was already in the lead, he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Satoru,” you said his name like you were scolding him. “I told you-” 

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” He changed the subject, listening to your little huff on the other end of the phone call you asked him for. Another little perk of his VIP membership. Sometimes, he sort of felt more like a sugar daddy, although he didn’t think the kind of guys that did that were usually twenty-something virgins who had never actually experienced the touch of a woman. 

“Well, no,” you sighed, and he was already picturing what face you might be making. Were you pouting? Pushing out your bottom lip? Were your brows kitted together? 

What kind of faces did you make when no one was around to see them? 

“You can order yourself something,” he muttered. There was a brief pause, and he just knew you were still fighting to find something to argue with him with. 

Did you not want him to win? 

“I just don’t want you to not be able to eat,” you eventually said. 

It took him a few seconds to process what you were saying. 

That you, of all people, were concerned about him. 

That was what Suguru didn’t understand. He didn’t know you. Didn’t get that you weren’t solely selfish or greedy. You cared. 

“Sweetheart,” he lightly chuckled, heart soaring. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” You asked, voice lilting like it never did in your streams. It wasn’t practiced or put-together. This version of you, one he couldn’t even see, was somehow more real when it was raw like this. “You’re already like, way ahead of everyone else, y’know, I just-” 

“I want to take care of you,” he quietly interrupted, awkward and nervous as he barely managed to not stutter. 

Gojo meant it. 

And he’d make sure you’d see it. Sooner or later. Still making sure his username stayed at the top in every stream until the end of the month crept closer and closer. Until he was anxiously tapping his foot on the floor of his bedroom, cock aching in his boxers as the moonlight drifted in through his window while he watched the strap of your lingerie slip off your shoulder. 

He held his breath, heart thrumming loudly inside his chest as he waited for you to say it. Hoping for you and hating himself at the same time for being so pathetically attached to someone so out of his league. 

“I’m going to message our winner of our little contest privately once the stream’s over,” you said, a gleam in your eyes he imagined was only for him as you addressed the audience. 

He was pretty sure the seconds stretched out into hours once his screen went dark after you ended it. Staring down at his phone and choking on his own spit, desperately willing for a new message to pop up. 

One did, but it was from Suguru, asking if he was busy. 

Suguru: Can I drop by? I’m like five minutes from you  

Gojo grimaced, ready to throw his phone on the bed, replaying what you’d first mentioned when you announced it. You just said one of the top three spenders, didn't you? So what if the guy in second place got it? Or even third? 

Fuck, he should’ve paid more attention, shouldn’t he? 

Now there was no fucking chance-

princess <3: soooo are you doing anything on the 30th?

He almost screamed. Or squealed. Or whatever the most manly version of crying in relief was, all the tension in his body suddenly snapping like a rubber band as he read and reread your message. 

Gojo won. He won.

blu3yedbigd1ck: Just tell me the time and place and you know I’ll come.

And cum. 

He paused, thumb hovering over his screen as he practically hyperventilated, freaking out inside and thankful you couldn’t see his face right now as he stood up just to pace. Did he sound suave? At least a little cool and collected? 

princess <3: promise? 

princess <3: send me your information? 

He still couldn’t believe this was fucking real. That it was really happening to him. He still hesitated to type it out – wondering what you would do once you had his name. What would a background check reveal? 

That he was a dork who rarely left his apartment outside of his responsibilities or the occasional hangout with his only two real friends? That he collected Digimon figurines? 

He sent everything over with a fear that you’d find something out that would make you change your mind. Maybe you’d think he was just a loser riding on his family’s name like most other people did. 

Or you-

Someone knocked on his door hard enough he froze and hit send on accident. His message with his full name in it immediately marked as seen, his cheeks heating up as he forced himself to look up as the pounding outside continued. 

“Hey, put your dick up and answer the door,” Suguru called out. 

Gojo grabbed his pajamas from where he’d left them on the floor earlier, hurrying to pull them up his legs before groaning at the realization it didn’t have any pockets. You hadn’t replied yet, but he couldn’t bring himself to just leave his phone on his bed, gripping it tightly in his palm as he hurried to go see what Suguru wanted. 

His best friend was waiting outside the door for him, leaning against the frame and holding out a bag with to-go boxes. 

“Hey,” he greeted, praying Suguru wouldn’t notice or comment on the bulge he was still sporting. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Suguru muttered, one pierced brow arching up suspiciously as he still noted how pink his face was. 

“Nah, just, um, watching stuff,” Gojo lied, like Suguru wouldn’t be able to see through him. As if in the ten years they’d known each other, he hadn’t figured out what face he made when he was hiding something. 

“Me n’ Shoko are worried about you, dude,” Suguru sighed, holding out the bag for him to take before running his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “You never want to go out or do anything anymore.” 

He had a point. 

Gojo was getting addicted to you. 

He wanted to tell Suguru that he was better than okay, that he was about to go out and actually do someone for the first time in his life. But he also knew what Suguru would have to say to that. 

Suguru would tell him precisely what an awful idea he thought it was – scold him and say he was getting scammed. 

So instead, all he did was grin, clapping his hand on Suguru’s shoulder and shrugging.

“Don’t worry, man,” he chuckled. “I actually just made some plans to go on a little vacation soon.” 

He just left out that it was to see you. 

It took a few days to sort out – you wanted to buy him plane tickets and book his hotel for him. But when you mentioned that he was closer than you expected, sending an address that was only a couple hours away, he said he’d handle it. 

Why bother taking a plane when he could just drive there? 

Be able to actually drive you around in his own car once he got to your city, y’know, if you were interested. Besides, he could always pay for his own accommodations – make whatever arrangements he needed without feeling like he was being a burden to you. 

You protested, but Gojo won in the end. 

He always did. 

And on the 30th, he was waiting outside your door, one hand clutching a bouquet he spent thirty minutes struggling to pick out in the closest floral shop, and the other hesitating to actually knock.

He tried to hype himself up. 

There were two condoms in his wallet, two gift bags hooked over his elbow, one stuffed full of lingerie in shades of white and blue. The second was something a bit more personal, in a much smaller bag. A gift he wasn't sure you'd even want, half-convinced you would just toss it in the trash once it was all over. 

Gojo almost lifted his hand back to finally do it, to tap on the thick wood, but then he started agonizing about what to say when you answered. 

‘Hey, it's the guy who pays your rent every month?’ 

God, no, that made him sound like an asshole. Desperate. Which, yeah, he was the latter, but he didn't want you to think that. 

Should he try to act more like Suguru? Girls liked him. Could he pull off the whole quiet and contemplative thing? 

The door opened before he could keep deliberating. 

You were somehow prettier in person. 

Standing there in a cute little dress that was practically sheer, a loose cardigan hanging over your frame that didn't conceal the way the slip clung to you underneath it. He recognized it almost immediately as one he purchased for you, his favorite color even better when it was on your skin. 

“Hi,” you half-whispered, and he could almost convince himself you were looking forward to meeting him too. 

“Hi,” he breathed back. 

Way to go. 

“Do, um, do you wanna come inside?” 

“Yes,” he bluntly answered, and the tension in your shoulders relaxed, laughing a little as you opened the door wider. He was pretty sure his face had to be red, his filthy mind jumping to both meanings as he tried to get his feet to move and take him past the threshold. 

He was staring at you, and you were staring at him. 

Your soft eyes searching over him, studying him with an expression he wished he understood better. Dragging over his tall frame before returning to his face, like you couldn’t wrap your brain about it being him. 

“It’s kinda silly, but I feel like I already know you. Can I still call you Toru?” You slowly asked, and he was finding it hard to stop himself from bouncing in place at how your voice washed over him. Syrupy, almost sugary, getting stuck on each syllable. “Or do you prefer Satoru?” 

“You can call me anything you want,” he said before he could stop himself, hating how much of a fool he already felt like in front of you. Stiffly holding out the flowers for you to take, which you also took longer to accept. 

“Thank you,” you smiled, stepping aside so that he could come in. He only managed to step forward when your stare shifted down to the bouquet. He hoped he got it right. Hoped he picked your favorites, and too sheepish to ask. 

It wasn’t that he was timid, because he wasn’t, really. Just flickered from overconfident to sure he was being stupid. 

“I don’t even think I have a vase,” you laughed a little, like you were trying to ease the tension simmering between you. 

Was it just the awkwardness hanging there? Or something else?

“Do you want me to go get you one?” Gojo genuinely offered, wondering if he did something wrong already but you shook your head. 

“I’ll figure something out,” you insisted, your free fingers reaching out to brush against his arm – and suddenly he was wishing he hadn’t worn a long-sleeved shirt. “Don’t leave.” 

You didn’t need to tell him twice. 

He'd go where you want. Do what you want. 

Gojo couldn't stop staring at you, fantasizing with you in front of him over this domestic feeling in this chest. The casualness in your steps, padding barefoot over to the joint kitchen area attached to your living room. You started rummaging through cabinets, grabbing an empty glass pitcher and filling it up with water from the sink before stuffing the flowers inside. 

“They're pretty,” you complimented, leaning over to sniff the delicate petals. 

“Not nearly as pretty as you,” he replied, and you made a sound he had never heard before. A squeak? A squeal? 

Something small and light and twinkling and so goddamn cute he stopped breathing for four full seconds. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually real,” you exhaled, chest rising and falling just as fast as his was.

He blinked, struggling to figure out what that meant.

You saw his reaction, lips twitching up in a sweet smile like it was a good thing. 

“I was kind of scared to get my hopes up,” you confessed, and Gojo felt a cold shard of fear being driven into his heart. Did he disappoint you or-? “But you’re way hotter than me.” 

“You can’t just say stuff like that,” he half-whined, his hand reaching up to hide his mouth under his large palm. As if you wouldn’t be able to see the blush creeping up on his cheeks. 

He never thought he was unattractive. But he was awkward, uncomfortable when it came to actually going on dates or at the idea of an actual relationship with a girl. He talked too loud, too fast, was the kind of know-it-all most people called annoying. 

Maybe you liked his face, but he was really just paying you to tolerate his personality. 

“Why not?” You giggled again, moving the flowers before walking back over to him. Tenderly grabbing his fingers before guiding his hand down like you wanted to look at him. Pinching his chin between your smaller fingers, tilting his head from side-to-side like you were appraising him. 

Gojo could smell your perfume from here, and he was pretty sure his eyes actually rolled back in his head. It was intoxicating. You smelled like candy, but he bet you tasted even sweeter. 

Completely frozen, stuck there as he stared down at you, blue eyes bulging as they zeroed in on the gorgeous little gleam in yours. Your manicured nails digging into his skin, not enough to cut, but to apply enough pressure to keep him still. 

“It’s kinda hard to believe a guy like you is actually interested in me,” you freely admitted. Before your brows scrunched and you corrected yourself, “My streams.” 

“A guy like me?” He asked, and you swallowed hard this time, avoiding your stare. 

“You know what I mean,” you murmured. He didn’t. 

“Tell me anyway?” He tried to tease, mouth twitching up in a smirk he hoped was charming. 

“Fishing for compliments?” You grinned back, letting go of his chin to briefly cup his cheeks, patting it a little before you turned away. 

But your eyes flickered back to the bags he was still holding, like you were silently trying to ask what they were. 

He sat both down on the closest piece of furniture, an armchair that looked like it was barely used. 

“Are those for the stream or-” 

“Just for you,” he answered, and he was pretty sure he’d be chasing the feeling flooding his chest watching you beam back at him. 

“Can I open it now or is it for later?” You followed it up, pulling off your cardigan and throwing it over the back of the chair. 

It was just your shoulders, more of your arms, but it made him feel like he was seeing something holy, like he should be on his knees worshipping you or taking photos as if you were some piece of art he’d been admiring for so long from afar. 

“Whenever,” he shrugged. 

Was he being off-putting? 

For a guy who always talked too much, who could never get himself to shut up, he suddenly seemed unable to come up with anything to say when all his words got choked up in his throat. 

“I guess I’ll save it then,” you muttered, even though you looked like you were itching to open them now. It was better this way, though, he was barely functioning as it was. He wasn't sure his brain would still work if you offered to put on a fashion show for him in the new lingerie he bought you. 

“O-okay,” he stammered, already flustered simply at the thought. 

“So, um,” you paused, briefly biting your lips before jutting your thumb behind you. “Do you want to see my room?” 

He dumbly nodded, feeling like a fucking moron making this more awkward as he trailed after you down the hall. You tried to fill the silence, casually asking questions he dutifully answered, his eyes constantly drifting back to you despite how interested he was in every part of your life he hadn't been privy to before as you pushed open your bedroom door. 

It was weird viewing it from this new angle. Able to note new things he’d never gotten a glimpse at. It made him feel special, as if he was sharing this secret with you – although an annoyingly logical part of his brain wanted to suggest you film from a proper set instead of the intimacy of your actual bed. 

“I cleaned up before you came,” you hummed in front of him, sitting in the spinning chair by your desk, turning on your computer and starting to adjust the settings for the stream. 

“You didn't have to do anything for me,” he quietly said, toning himself down into something he hoped was more appealing to you as he examined the little trinkets on your desks. Stuffed animals you kept out-of-sight on stream. 

“I'm, uh, also on birth control, so as long as you're clean, you don't have to wear a condom,” you added, a hint of anxiety bleeding through, as if you were seeking his approval. 

“Um, I'm, uh, clean,” he said, turning away so you didn’t notice that he was hard just from the idea of sex with you. 

“Satoru,” you spoke his name like it was something precious. Pronouncing the syllables like you were really his friend. “Are you nervous?” 

“Is it that obvious?” He chuckled, reluctantly looking back at you to meet your sympathetic stare. “I just, I’ve never…”

Gojo couldn't finish, couldn't stand to tell you he was a virgin. 

“Been on camera before?” You asked, innocently tilting your head, coming to the wrong conclusion. “It's okay, if you don't want-”

“I've never wanted anything as much as I want this,” he bluntly interrupted. “You.” 

“Oh,” you half-whispered, hiding a smile by looking down before you gestured to your streaming setup. “Guess we should get started then?” 

He watched practically in awe at how you turned it on the second the stream was running, chirping as you greeted everyone in chat, taking a minute or two to make sure most of your audience was there before waving him over and introducing him as the winner. 

That's what he was, right? He had done it. Made it here. About to lose it all to you – in the same bed he'd been dreaming about doing it for so goddamn long. 

Your hands slid up his arm, squeezing his bicep as you pulled him close. 

“Our special guest has never been on camera before, so you guys better be nice,” you warned, pouting in frame as you leaned your head against him. “It's his show tonight.”

Whatever he wanted went. 

You looked up at him before you switched over to the bed, guiding him there. A tripod was set up, ready to capture every dirty detail and broadcast them. Two fingers poked his chest, getting him to sit on the edge, before you giggled and pushed him back further. 

And suddenly you were straddling him, your soft thighs on top of him, your weight shifting and readjusting as you wrapped your wrists around his neck, playing with his soft undercut. 

He was fucking terrified to touch you. Scared that it would shatter the moment and he’d realize this was just an illusion, another dream he’d wake up from. 

But then you sighed, going to grab one of his hands, guiding it towards your waist, wrinkling that pretty slip of yours as you tilted your head so sweetly. Blinking at him with disbelief that mirrored his own, before you were whispering under your breath, “Hold me.” 

“Bu-” He didn’t get more than a single syllable out.

“I want you to,” you murmured, pushing your bottom lip out in another pout. 

His heart swelled, and before he could stop himself, he was leaning up to kiss you. Lips crashing together in an admittedly clumsy connection, too aware of the camera currently focused on both of you to direct all of his own focus solely on you. But then your tongue was suddenly in his mouth, tracing over his teeth, and he was pretty sure his mind melted. 

All his other kisses were drunk ones at parties Suguru and Shoko dragged him to, sloppy and messy, but this was different. You were different. 

It felt fucking magical. The softness of your lips, the taste of mint on your mouth, like you had brushed your teeth before he came over. Sucking on his lower lip, a warm buzz spreading inside his chest at how right this was. One of his hands caressed your cheek, his thumb dragging over your soft skin while his other fingers sank deeper into your waist. 

Trying to pull you closer, forgetting about how this was being filmed in favor of kissing you harder. 

Gojo didn't want it to end. 

He could feel his cock starting to grow, throbbing and aching already underneath the heat of your body, the weight of you on top of him. 

God, he was glad he started lifting fucking weights over the last year – because it was easy to lift you up. 

He flipped the positions, hearing all the air get knocked out of you when your back hit the bed. Hair splayed out underneath you, lips parted in surprise as you looked up at him. 

“What are you going to do to me?” You asked, not scared or nervous, teasing him as you propped yourself up on your elbows, like you wanted another kiss. 

Gojo couldn't help but oblige, leaning down to press his mouth to yours again while your words repeated in his ears. 

How many nights had he spent asking himself that question? Debating over what he’d do if he ever found himself here? 

Take out that custom dildo and take you both ways? Press your thighs to your chest in some mean mating press? Do it doggy style? 

“Come on, baby,” you purred, sifting your fingers through his hair as you peppered his face with more kisses. “Tell me what you want.” 

All he could think of right now was how much he was dying to taste you. 

“I wanna eat you out,” he confessed, coming out hoarser than he intended, his voice just as raw as his heart felt, throat constricting at the idea of you on his tongue. 

He pushed you higher up on the bed so he wouldn't have to be on his knees on the ground, spreading your thighs apart with those huge hands of his. Forcing himself to take it slow, palms traveling over your skin in time with his lips. Kiss after kiss, admiring each pretty inch of you before he was face-to-face with the thin lace thong hardly keeping anything covered. 

Gojo ripped it off like it was nothing, dropping the little fabric to the floor while you let out a small surprised gasp. 

He bought it – so why couldn't he break it too? 

The camera hadn't captured precisely how pretty your pussy was in person. Already wet for him, glistening and goading him into doing something about it. 

“You're soaked,” he commented, swallowing the spit pooling in the back of his mouth as his eyes drifted up to you. 

You made a noise, almost like a whine, shifting your hips and arching them up as you pushed your bottom lip out. “Yeah?”

Gojo wasn't always great with social clues, but he saw it for what it was. An invitation. 

One he was more than happy to accept. 

Diving in to deliver messy kisses, mouth open as his tongue dragged inside of you – copying the same methods he’d spent the past six months studying in porn scenes, desperate to make you cry out his name. 

Until you forgot about the cameras too, so lost in his tongue and his hands that you couldn't remember your own name. Or that he was simply a loser with too much money to spend. 

Because if he was just some guy you met on the street, would you ever really let him do this? 

Let him wrap his mouth around your cute clit, sucking on it and swirling his tongue over it, painting his own name with his tongue while you twitched? Let him slot two thick fingers inside your dripping cunt, scissoring you open with steady strokes? 

He counted them out, tested out what spots you seemed to like the most and made a mental note of them for later. Even if Gojo was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to think of anything once his cock was actually inside of you. 

He was already painfully hard, dick throbbing and pulsing for relief as he rutted into your mattress mindlessly. It creaked under your combined weight, but your own moans were louder. Pitchy and airy, filling the room as you tugged harder on his roots. Keeping him close, refusing to let him stray from the task. 

He groaned into your sensitive bundle of nerves as your nails raked over his scalp, the vibrations making you whine right there with him. His fingers crooked, curling just enough to have your back arching up, hips trying to work them in even deeper as you chased your climax. 

Your thighs closed around his head, holding him hostage there, but honestly? He didn’t mind. 

Gojo would live here if he could. Breathe you in and sustain himself with this alone. 

He dragged his tongue back over your clit, and you made a sound that almost made him cum. Maybe that was just a habit though, years of training himself to finish when you did, the noise immediately registering as your resolve crumbling and giving into the urge to cum just from his mouth and a couple fingers. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, y-you-” 

You sounded desperate, and Gojo decided he'd never heard anything hotter than that. The cute little stuttering, the raw mantra while his tongue tugged you closer to overstimulation, still working on that pretty bud until you pried him back with another pull of his hair.

“You said whatever I want,” he reminded you with a pout that matched yours. 

After a stunned pause, you relented though, eyes wavering and wide as you reluctantly started laying back down, but Gojo just chuckled, climbing back on top of you fully, tempted to tear your dress off too so he could feel your skin. 

Kissing your mouth again, knowing you could taste yourself on his tongue when he slowly slipped it between your open lips. 

Gojo could barely bring himself to part from you, his warm breath on your skin, his nose nudging against yours. 

“What do you want to do with me?” He returned the question, holding out the reins for you to take. 

Because more than anything, he wanted to make you happy. 

You giggled, grinning up at him as your fingers traced over his side, slipping underneath his shirt. 

“Take your clothes off,” you instructed. 

He listened better than any dog did. Standing up to strip quickly, proudly showing off the muscles he only bothered growing for you, wondering if the lamps in your room lit them well for the cameras. 

Your eyes raked over him with appreciation that made his pride flare even more, his fingers fumbling to unzip his jeans and drop them to the floor. You were sitting up now, still breathing a little hard from cumming before. Eyes going wide the second you saw his bulge in his boxers, the damp spot against the thin white fabric from where pre-cum was already leaking. 

“Fuck, you’re-” You didn't let yourself finish, voice dying out as his boxers hit the floor next. 

Big? Huge? Pretty? 

He hoped it was one of the above. Gojo had probably spent too long online browsing the average size of penises, but he was pretty sure his should exceed expectations. 

It wasn't as thick as some he'd seen in porn, but it was long, at least. Besides, he'd seen you satisfy himself with the fake one he sent you enough times so shouldn't the real one be even better? 

“Like it?” He asked, hope plaguing his tone. Really trying to ask if you liked him. 

“Mhm,” you nodded, soft and low as you skimmed your hands over his thick thighs. “Get on your back.” 

You wanted to trade spots again. 

He was trying to focus, to stop himself from saying or doing anything stupid or giving away just how inexperienced he was when he laid flat on your bed. Pre-cum smeared over his pink tip, throbbing at the open air, glancing over at the camera, seeing the chat flying by on the screen behind you before you were positioning yourself just over his cock. 

You didn't look. 

Your eyes were only on him. As if the rest of the world didn't exist. Didn't matter anymore. 

His hands were shaking a little as he reached for your slip, and you helped him pull it off over your head. Breasts bouncing, your body so much fucking better when he actually got to experience it, to feel your skin under his palms as he ran them over your waist. 

There wasn't nearly enough time for him to feel all of you. Torn between making frantic attempts at cataloging you and making the most of the moment while he had it, but you seemed to sense what was brewing inside of him. 

Knew how to shut up the voices inside his head. 

Your hips sank down, one of your hands resting on his chest to steady yourself before you started taking him in. His tip catching at your entrance at first, but then you readjusted again, wet enough that you didn't need lube for him to nudge inside and-

He shattered. 

Sanity splitting into a million tiny little pieces the second he felt your warmth wrapping around him, the tight rubber band of desire inside him threatening to not just snap, but dissolve into straight bliss as you took him in a single rough thrust. Going from nothing to everything all at once, your walls sucking him in. 

Nothing could compare to you. 

All those times he fucked his fist suddenly seemed futile. Just a pale mockery of what the real thing was like, groaning loudly and throwing his head back as his fingers dug into your hip. He tried to mind his strength, stop himself from bruising you, but he could barely control the guttural sounds coming from the back of his throat. 

“Isn’t he cute?” You asked, and his eyes were scrunched too tight to see what face he was making, even if he was sure you were finally acknowledging the rest of your audience. He rolled his hips up, feeling his tip nudge and grind against what he guessed was your cervix, that sweet little spongy spot that had you gasping. He finally cracked his eyes open, thick lashes fluttering at the sight of your gorgeous body grinding down on him. Your nails ran over his chest, tapping over his heart. “My pretty boy.” 

If tonight was about him, then maybe you wouldn’t mind him asking you to call him that again.

“Promise?” He asked, his voice wavering and thick as his brain continued to short-circuit. 

“Pinky swear,” you smiled, a cute crinkle next to where your makeup was beginning to run. Your usual waterproof mascara had been traded in for something that smeared, like you wanted him to see what a mess he made you. 

Gojo grinded up, getting a little more comfortable, holding onto you like you were his last tether to reality, even if it still seemed fake. At his fingers dimpling your flesh, you whined, pushing down until he was completely buried inside you, the muscles in your thighs probably aching from how spread they were. 

His cock practically jumped inside you. 

Warm pleasure swirling inside him, fraying the rope of rationality he couldn’t believe he was still clinging to. And just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, couldn’t hold out, you started to bounce. 

Sliding up-and-down on his thick shaft, letting his ridges and veins drag along your insides, slow at first, but steadily speeding up while he started desperately crying out your name. Not on purpose, just babbling, his thoughts all foggy and dazed as he gripped your waist and tried to help you. 

Lifting you up and bringing you back down, muscles working to copy the moves he thought he’d be better at, wishing he’d worn a condom so it wasn’t so hard to not snap. 

Gojo refused to cum. Scrunched his eyes shut as he buried his face in your skin, brain flashing any unappealing images he could conjure up and desperately failing to hold himself back. 

“F-fuck, you’re so-” He groaned, and you were huffing, leaning forward, pressing your chest against his, skin on skin, your breath on the inside of his neck as your lips left a light kiss on his collarbone. The new angle somehow forced his cock in even deeper, your walls clamping down. 

“I’m so what?” You teased, sucking softly, like you were trying to leave a hickey. To mark him as yours. Trailing kisses up to the hard line of his jaw, murmuring softly where he’d be the only one to hear. “Look at me, Toru.”

Gojo looked, and he came. 

Thick ropes of cum filling you up, a raw sound ripped from him as he thrusted up uselessly inside of you. Your eyes were gleaming, practically fucking glittering with his reflection in them, lips parted and glossy, your hands on his body and your heat on him, all the simmering sensations driving him fucking crazy as he stopped fighting the impulses burning him up inside. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he started rambling, rattling off every word he could think of that fit you as you continued to ride him raw. “Gorgeous, p-pretty, cute, sweet, i-irrestible-” 

“S-says you,” you stammered back, face flushing as your own focus slipped. 

His fingers slipped between your connected bodies, finding your swollen clit, still sensitive from your first climax, almost distressed as he attempted to get you to cum at the same time as him. Wanting you to feel as good as he felt. 

Rubbing circles over it now, putting as much pressure as he could, feeling you respond to him with more broken breathing. 

“C’mon,” he grunted, his other hand sliding around to wrap around your back, holding you tight and close, locking you into this position. “Cum for me, please.”  

Was begging unattractive? Pleading for you to join him in this intimacy? 

Either way, you started trembling, thighs shaking hard as you made some sharp little squeak, whimpering in response as you nodded. 

Catching his lips in another kiss, moaning into his mouth like it would do anything to muffle the sound. He swallowed it anyway. Devoured each noise as his own cum continued to leak out inside you, his cock still hard as it nudged against your cervix again. Dampness dripping down your thighs and onto him, probably some getting on your sheets too. 

“That’s it, fuck,” he murmured, assurance he didn’t know was meant for you or himself. 

“You wanna keep going?” You half-whispered in his ear, lips grazing against his skin – but he shook his head. He liked overstimulation, could probably fuck you for hours, but he wanted to do it in privacy. 

Where it was just you and him – where the audience wouldn’t get to see him crying into your skin. 

“Turn it off,” he muttered back, and you nodded, leaving another kiss on his forehead before you slid off of him. His arms fell limp to his side, blue eyes hazy, the world blurred around the edges and tinged with leftover pleasure. 

He was still trembling, shaking as his spent cock throbbed on his stomach, staring up at your beautiful figure as you shifted off of him. 

“Didn’t he do a good job?” You hummed, addressing the chat, back to your casual persona. “Maybe I should keep him.”

It was a joke, something meant to make the mood light – but he wanted so fucking badly for you to keep him. He’d chain himself to your bed if you let him. 

You were saying something else, talking about your next normal stream while you said goodbye – and he was reminded that after this, you would both go back to real life. Regularly scheduled programming. 

Gojo still sort of felt like a virgin. Utterly inexperienced when he watched you switch off the camera, his stare flicking from the shape of your legs to the way your tits lightly bounced leaning over the computer screen. Scrolling through something on your computer before you glanced back at him, offering a smile that almost felt shy. 

“So,” you said, but you didn’t finish your thought.

“That was-” He tried to finish it for you, but it hung out in the open, too many words to choose from that fit. Fantastic? Amazing? Unforgettable? 

“Great, yeah,” you nodded, as if you were on the same page. Filling in the blank with one of your own. “Really great.” 

“Uh-huh,” he breathed, for once in his life, lacking the ability to say what he wanted. 

To tell you how much it meant to him. 

“Did you get a hotel?” You asked, holding your own breath as you fiddled with your fingers. 

“Um, no, I, uh, drove here,” he stammered out, palms sweating as he sat up in your bed. Only to accidentally dipped his fingers in his own cum stains, immediately lifting it up and looking around for something he could wipe it off with. 

You giggled a little, light as you walked back over, getting down on your knees to lick the cum off. He almost came again just from the image alone, cock twitching between his sticky thighs. 

The feel of your tongue dragging over his knuckles, sucking until they were clean and the lewd pop! when you pulled them out.

“Do you want to stay the night?” 

“Yes,” he quickly answered again, cheeks heating up with embarrassment as he cringed at the neediness in his voice. 

“We should probably, like, shower first,” you softened, smiling up at him. “But we could watch one of those movies you told me about?” 

Nothing had ever sounded so fucking good. 

But the morning after managed to be even better. 

Waking up with you nestled in his arms was a feeling he suspected he’d spend the rest of his life chasing. The morning sun drifting in through your pretty lacy curtains. The quiet sound of your breathing. How cute your cheek looked squished on his bicep. The softness of your thigh when you had slotted in between his own. 

He couldn’t even blame his morning wood on testosterone. 

Gojo slowly snuck out from underneath you, making sure to fix the pillow underneath your head and tuck you back under the blanket before snagging his phone from his jeans on the floor. Padding silently over to your attached bathroom, trying his hardest to shut the door as quietly as possible before flicking on the light and the exhaust fan. 

He had more missed messages than he could scroll through the group message between his best friends. It appeared they had somehow managed to figure out that his ‘vacation’ was really just a guise to be with you. Maybe they used his spare key to get in, found his printed out travel plans on the counter or saw any of the messages left up on the computer. 

Suguru: Fucking answer asshole. 

Shoko: he’s probably asleep

Shoko: or dead lol

Suguru: I might kill him if he isn’t. 

Oops? 

He sat down on the closed toilet seat, muscled thighs spread out as he ran his fingers through his hair. He hesitated, brows scrunching together as he tried to figure out what to say before settling on announcing his big news. 

Although, maybe he should’ve said something other than: Guess who's not a virgin?

Gojo held his breath, nervously tapping his foot on the tiled floor while he waited for the … to pop back up once his message was immediately marked as read.

Suguru: Not funny. 

Shoko: ? 

Suguru: Where tf are you? 

There was a light knock on the bathroom door outside, and Gojo half-jumped up, his still-hard cock springing up at the same time and smacking into his abs just as you called his name outside. 

“Satoru?” You yawned, all soft and sweet. Need was pooling back in his stomach, hot and swirling despite him trying to cool it back down with the reminder you were probably just being nice. Only checking on him like a good host would. 

“Um, yeah?” He answered, his hand hovering over the door knob as he hesitated to open it. Would you judge him for being hard already? 

“Are you okay in there?” You asked, and he almost winced at the earnestness in it. You cared. Even if he was a dork and a loser who had never touched another woman before you. Even if he collected Digimon figures and was more comfortable playing dungeons and dragons than putting his dick in you. “Did I do something-”

“N-no,” he forced out, swinging the door open too fast, panicked by the hint of sadness in your voice, hitting his, uh, most sensitive area with it. 

Gojo almost crumpled, a pained moan escaping as you slipped through the crack of the door to see what was wrong. 

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” You started rambling, reaching out like you were going to pat his penis. 

“It’s okay,” he groaned, still wincing at the dull ache. 

Your frown deepened as you noticed his phone in his hand, but he was already waving it like it would explain itself.

“My friends were worried for me,” he muttered. 

“Oh,” you blinked. “Do they-”

“I’ve told them about you,” Gojo added, sighing as he ruffled his fingers through his messy hair. “Like, a lot.” 

“Good things?” You asked, rolling your shoulders back like you were getting more comfortable around him. 

“Just that I’m completely obsessed with you,” he chuckled, cringing again when it came out less like a joke and more like a truth.

That’s what it was, though, wasn’t it? 

Your eyes were on him, your lips just slightly parted like you had something to say and just couldn't work out how to say it. 

Gojo hesitantly met your stare, wondering if he was meant to say something, before you abruptly blurted out a question he never thought he'd hear from any woman. 

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” You practically squeaked, more high-pitched than you intended, blinking fast and glancing away like you were skittish. The girl who was happy to show off every sensitive spot on camera suddenly shy around him.  

“A date?” 

Was it really your fault for falling for a guy like him? 

You didn’t know when it started. Or well, that wasn’t exactly true. You did remember the first message he ever left for you. It was your third-ever stream, still uncomfortable around the camera as your fingers rubbed over your clit. He called you gorgeous. 

He came back for the next stream. And the next. 

Actually, he never really left. 

Dropping compliments and donations like it was nothing to him, your number one supporter who would shout his approval from the rooftops. He made you smile, lips curling up the second you saw his name in chat – and eventually in your messages too. 

From the first kiss, you knew you didn't want to kiss anyone else. 

Wanted to spend every morning waking up with him, curled against his chest or sifting your fingers through his soft strands of hair. 

You were greedy. You’d always known that. 

But that was probably part of the reason it worked so well. 

Gojo wanted to spoil you. To take care of you, whether it was tucking your hair behind your ear or buying you presents. Physical and emotional and material, fuck, even spiritually, he fulfilled every need or want – and somehow left you still craving more of him. 

He was a little dorky. Giving you lingerie that he thought you liked just to sneak in a second bag with a digimon keychain, stuttering through an explanation that he had one too, that he thought it would be cute if you both had virtual pets together. 

But you wouldn’t want him any other way. 

It didn’t stop with just one date. Your weekends now spent with him in your bed or on your couch, hand-in-hand going out shopping or listening to him ramble about his latest hyperfixation. He asked you to be his girlfriend in the middle of a movie, his head in your lap while you combed through his pretty white hair, looking up at you like a cute puppy dog. Cuddling one of your plushies against his chest, a new one he you were pretty sure he only bought because you said it reminded you of him. 

Satoru sighed into your skin now, fingers skimming over your arm as he pulled you closer into the street. Pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he murmured something about how starving he was.

You glanced up at him, still a little in awe that a guy as handsome as him was with you. And that he’d never actually been with another woman before either. He confessed he’d been a virgin before you took it after a couple weeks after sleepy sex, humming that he was your responsibility now. 

One you happily accepted. 

“Do you think your friends will like me?” You asked, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You were both supposed to meet them for brunch, assuage some of their fears that he was turning into a recluse. 

“I know they will,” Satoru promised, kissing the top of your head now. 

You paused in front of the restaurant, one he insisted you’d love, trying to work up the nerve to meet people that he’d told you so much about. The skeptic and the smoker, his closest friends – and ones you so badly wanted the approval of. 

Your phone vibrated in your purse, pulling it out to see it was bank calling. Probably to check that the deposit you were trying to put down on a new studio to film at. Satoru had suggested it – and said that he wouldn’t mind starring in a few more videos after how many donations the one he did with you got. 

“Shit,” you frowned at your phone. “Go ahead and order for me? This will just take a few minutes.” 

You didn’t realize that his friends might have thought he totally lost it until you walked in and overheard the conversation going on. 

“What’s next?” The guy sitting across from him sarcastically drawled. “Something will come up and she’ll have to leave before we see her?” 

“No,” Satoru protested, but he wasn’t done. 

“You can’t seriously expect us to believe that-” 

You tapped on his shoulder before he could finish. 

Dark hair almost hitting you as he swiveled back, jaw dropping the second he saw you standing there. 

“Hi there,” you smiled, holding your hand out to introduce yourself while he squinted at you as if you were some shimmering apparition. 

“You're real?”

“Did you think I wasn't?” You giggled, tilting your head to the side as Satoru stood up from the booth, hurrying over to slip an arm around your waist and guide you back to the seat next to him. 

“What do you see in him?” The girl, Shoko, deadpanned, poking at the food on her plate and staring between the two of you like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

“He’s your friend, too,” you laughed, shrugging your shoulders and leaning against your boyfriend. “I think Satoru’s sweet. And funny-” 

“You think he’s funny?” Geto echoed, like you just said something simply absurd. 

Satoru just grinned, squeezing you tight as his brilliant blue eyes flickered between you and his friends. 

“Do I get to say I told you so now?” 

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?

.

.

.

@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.

“Thank you,” you say then, never wanting to wash the damn spot his lips pressed like some lovesick teenager. You clear your throat and smile, tilting your head a bit, pressing a kiss on his, making him chuckle. “I figure this is our greeting.”

“I guess it is,” he murmurs, your lips leave a glossy little mark on his skin, and he can only imagine how it would feel to kiss you as your hands fall. He realizes his daughters are going to embarrass him to hell for acting like this, but he can’t really explain…

Something about you just makes his pulse race, his palms are even sweaty – him, Suguru Geto, an experienced man. He wasn’t Gojo for instance, his best friend who he’d had to coach in the ways of women, he was the one doing the coaching. At this moment though, his damn friend even would laugh at him, if the girls weren’t already texting ‘uncle gojo’ over his folly.

“Do you need help?” He asks then, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, and fuck him for those forearms, your weakness, you can’t speak again.

“This is hilarious,” Mimiko whispers, and Suguru glares back at her, only to be met with her snapping another pic and grinning.

“Girls, introduce yourselves properly.”

“Yes dad,” they say that at the same time, you smile at the two pretty young ladies, who are just adorable.

“It’s so good to meet all of you, I don’t know anyone here really, I moved to do a new position out of state,” you murmur softly, while Suguru studies the way the sun peeking from the cloudy sky illuminates your pretty face, stunned again at the lights and shadows.

Suguru Geto is an artist, and he loves beauty, never more so than what’s right in front of him. Your sweater falls off a shoulder, revealing the smooth skin and gentle curve of your neck, he could almost feel his brush stroking against the canvas, imagining just how beautiful an art piece you would be, while you’re talking to him.

“Huh?”

He blinks, and Mimiko nudges him. “She said she’ll buy us all pizza and bake cookies if we help!”

“And she’ll buy you wine,” Nanako finishes.

“Oh…” How’d he not hear that, he watched that pretty mouth move… but his thoughts were not about pizza or food. Not at all. “You don’t have to get us anything, we’d love to help.”

“No, really, please let me. It’ll be nice to make friends.”

You turn away then, leaving the three of them staring after you, Suguru’s gaze locked on your swaying hips underneath leggings that cup your ass far too perfectly. He clears his throat and forces his gaze to the moving truck, wondering how bad it is that he wants to get to know his new neighbor so damn well when he’s a complete loner damn near in the neighborhood.

Wants to know you too well.

Suguru’s divorce was brutal and since then he’s really holed up, Gojo has been trying to get him out but he’s quite the hermit, staying in his art room aside from when he takes the girls places, or has events. She hurt him pretty terribly, and Suguru already had issues from losing one of his best friends when he was young.

He still has the painting of her – Riko – the sweet girl him and Gojo had gotten so close to once upon a time, hanging up in his living room. He thinks that’s when he threw himself into art, and getting with the girls’ mom very young left him a young father, and eventually a young single parent.

He doesn’t even know where she went off to, some other country maybe, but honestly that was better for the girls. She was not involved, and his girls deserved the world. Amidst the loss and pain, Suguru was holed up almost completely, quite different from the carefree, laughing young man he used to be.

Something about you though, made him feel just a little lighter, when you smile over a shoulder at him. “You coming? I’ll get all kinds of pizza.”

Suguru chuckles softly and runs up after you, letting his gaze linger on you again as you gesture at a bookshelf. “Holy shit, how many do you have?”

“I have a romance novel addiction,” you admit shyly, the boxes of books are a ridiculous amount. “I’ll do all that, if you could just help me put it together?”

“Of course…” The four of you all help put things in its place as the movers start to finish up.

Suguru would help you move all day if it meant he got to watch you bend over in front of him, that’s so fucked and he feels like such a pervert but his goddamn eyes won’t leave your ass. He is an ass man, but this is ridiculous. He eyes your kitchen table as he helps make sure the screws are tight and can’t help but imagine you bent over it, your legs just dangling.

It’s the perfect height for-

What’s wrong with him!?

He’s glad when pizza arrives later, and the movers are gone, the living room is nice and cozy with Mimiko and Nanako nibbling on their slices and lounging on your couch. Suguru is pulling out a painting that you ask so sweetly to go on top of your fireplace, when he pauses. It’s a large abstract piece he knows intimately, his own brushstrokes, his fingers touch where his initials are.

S.G.

You have his painting!?

He looks and you have multiple works of his, you must have been quite an art connoisseur because these are all originals of his. His heart races when you come near him, smiling at the piece. “It’s beautiful huh? He’s my favorite artist.”

Mimiko and Nanako look at the piece, then look at him, just smiling, not saying a thing. “Yeah, is he?”

That’s all he asks, as he adjusts it – his own painting in the pretty new neighbor’s house was surreal. He brushes his hands off and Nanako hands him a slice of pepperoni pizza. He takes a bite, leaning against the ladder, eyes flitting between you and his work, wondering how you found this piece… It was sold years ago to an art gallery owner.

You notice him staring at it thoughtfully, before his gaze flits back on you, holding out napkins and handing him one. “You like it?” you ask softly. Suguru just nods. “It’s one of my favorites… got it at an auction last year.”

“Is that what you do for work?” He asks curiously.

“I do work at a gallery, yes! But the one here in town is the best, so I relocated,” you notice the girls are yawning a bit. “Hey, want the cookies?”

“Yes!”

Suguru looks back at the collection of his own art, then to a picture of you that you have face down on the mantle of the little fireplace. Your home is set up the exact same style as his own. He sees you with what looks maybe like a partner, a man hugging you from behind, but he just sets it back down, making no mention.

You appear to be single, but he can’t assume.

And why is he wondering? Why is he jealous already at the thought of someone being with you – he just met you.

After sending the girls home with cookies, it’s just you and him in the quiet of your kitchen, you pull out a bottle of wine and grin. “It’s my favorite kind.”

“Oh?” He eyes the bottle curiously, before uncorking it and inhaling the scent, mixing with whatever your fragrance is, it is more intoxicating than your wine. “And you’re sharing with me?”

“Of course! I appreciate you so much, have at least a glass before you go home,” you offer softly, before sorting through your box of dishes. “Aha!”

He chuckles a bit at how cute you are, washing the glasses for the two of you, handing him one now, your fingers brushing. Goosebumps rise on your skin from just that, and you both pause once more. You can’t figure out what that is, sure watching him almost shirtless earlier and his muscles bunching and moving has you a little too excited.

Yet it’s different.

“Your daughters are beautiful,” you manage to say then, softly, pouring him a glass of a pretty pinot. “They’re so sweet too.”

“They’re brats, don’t let them fool you,” you laugh and sit next to him, sipping your wine carefully, hands wrapping the stem of your glass, your fingertips stroking it. Your hair is messy, you’re all sweaty and disheveled, baby hairs slipping around your brow.

You look so beautiful.

He swallows the wine quickly, the last thing he wants to be is your creepy obsessed neighbor, but you are already talking. “This may seem rude but you look too young too have teenagers?”

“Ah,” he clears his throat, smiling at you. “I was young. Like… eighteen.”

“Oh! Goodness, that’s so impressive that you’ve done such an amazing job, it must have been difficult.” Your words melt him more and more, it takes a lot not to lean over and kiss you then and there, practically a stranger.

He holds himself back, never a man to just jump on instinct, especially after his past relationship, but it takes a lot not to at least cup your cheek. “Thank you, it was pretty hard honestly, but we are very close.”

“And… their mom? Is that invasive?” Your brows draw together.

“She’s not in their life,” his tone is harsh for a moment, and you feel horrible for him then, sensing the pain he doesn’t say out loud. “Not for years.”

“Oh, well…” You sigh, shaking your head. “She’s missing out, hmm?”

Suguru smiles at you, a little relief in his gaze, sipping the wine and letting a little drip fall, you catch it with your thumb before you can think better, making him pause. The air around you both makes it difficult to breathe or move, Suguru’s hand gently touching yours then, before you pull back and look down nervously.

“She is,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “Is anyone moving in with you?”

“Oh, no, it’s been years for me too…” You murmur, sighing now, eyes fluttering shut. “I had a pretty serious relationship, but he passed away a few years ago. So I haven’t… dated since.”

“Oh…” fuck, the pain on your face says it all, and it’s one he has from losing his friend so young, your eyes glimmering, the prettiest jewels glossy with tears. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“It was a long time now but I guess I haven’t put myself out there,” you admit softly. “Just shook me up, even though it was not too long of a relationship. He was still very special.”

“Losing someone like that will fuck you up,” he murmurs, brushing a messy lock of your hair back. “I understand.”

“I wish you didn’t,” you say softly. “I thought a fresh start in a new place may help, and so did my family. So the opportunity presenting itself? It seemed a little like fate telling me to go.”

Suguru smiles softly, his cologne and the lingering scent of the perspiration filling your senses as he leans close. “Fate, do you believe in that?”

“To an extent? Yes. See, some handsome strong man just saw me move in and offered to help,” you poke at a broad shoulder playfully, watching him laugh and shake his head. “And you? You got pizza and wine. Fate.”

“Fated pizza, huh?”

“Mhm,” you giggle and sip your glass.

It’s too comfortable, the silence even.

Soon you walk him over to your door, and the cool breeze from the night air works overtime to chill heated skin. “Thank you so much for making my first day here amazing, I was so nervous.”

“Of course, you feel free to come over any time. I’ll buy pizza next,” he says, as you two awkwardly sort of stand there again, him taking your hand. “This is our greeting so I suppose it’ll be our goodbye too.”

He places a cute kiss on your knuckles, hand swallowing yours with how huge it was, you giggle again, kissing the back of his rough knuckles. “Good night, Suguru.”

“Good night.”

Suguru can’t help but sketch you from memory that night, like a madness in his art room, peering over at your bedroom window. It was a cruel joke to have them facing each other, where he could see your silhouette behind your blinds, your window left just a little open, so there are hints of your frame.

He’d not drawn a thing in a month, not anything worthy of not being thrown out, frustratingly unmotivated. He had a good savings from how much he’s made with his art so it’s not like he had to work, but to not do what he loved felt so cruel, truly, like a piece of him had been missing.

Now charcoal flies right over the paper, the figure of you with those glittery eyes, a swipe or two of dust on your clothes from moving, that tremulous little smile. He sketches the curve of your waist, the jut of your hips hiding under that sweater, and it may be the first thing he hasn’t wanted to throw out in months.

Fate, did that exist?

Was his muse his brand new neighbor?

******

“Geto!” You greet your neighbor at the art gallery that weekend, surprised to see him there, looking far too attractive in a three piece suit. The man had no right to look that good. “I didn't know you enjoyed art!”

He flushes across those high cheekbones just a bit, clearing his throat with a little smile. “You could say I enjoy it. You… work here?”

“I do,” Geto procures two drinks from one of the trays, handing a little glass of pinot. “Thank you, where are the girls?”

“They are at a sleepover, they're growing up on me.”

“Aww, no don't worry, they adore you,” you touch his shoulder, making his heart hammers.

God you look pretty. 

This little black dress is just clinging to your form in all the right places, tantalizing and tempting him in too many ways. In one way, he wants to paint you, in another he wants to drop to his knees and sip you up like the wine on his tongue.

Suguru was not someone to get nervous, to get affected like this. No he focused on his art, on his daughters – too busy and too choosy of who he lets in his life to have much interest in someone. Of course he appreciated beauty, he loved pleasure, but it's not often he's left speechless like this.

You're sweet, giggling and pointing at his own painting. Making him so nervous as you assess it, while he assesses you, the way the light hits the curve of your neck, how that red lipstick just makes your skin look so pretty. Everything about you standing in front of him makes it hard to concentrate. 

“Are you all right?” You ask softly, Suguru clears his throat and smiles, focusing on what you're saying.

“I'm sorry, yes. You said…”

“This is my favorite piece,” you look at it almost lovingly. Fuck if you looked at him like that? He'd fucking drop to his knees, he almost does when you walk up to it. Fingers hovering an inch over the brush strokes raised on canvas. “I love this artist so much.”

“Yeah, do you?” You nod and grin all pretty, sipping your drink once more. “Why's that?”

“The emotion and… there's such a darkness,” your words are soft, contemplative. “A sadness they express so beautifully.”

“Ah, Mr. Geto!” Your boss comes up now, the owner of the gallery, shaking Suguru’s hand as you watch curiously. “We are so glad you could make it!”

“Of course,” amethyst eyes lock onto yours, his lips curving up, blush reddening his tanned skin. “I'm really glad you all wanted to display this one.”

You blink now.

Suguru is…

Your favorite artist!?

Your boss says your name and you snap out of it, feeling the cool rush of air while the doors open, barely brushing against your skin that’s far too warm, as more people walk in to admire the tall, dark haired man’s art. Suguru seems a little unused to the attention, rubbing the back of his neck and just smiling a little bit when more people come up to him.

How’d you not put two and two together? The fancy, scrawled S.G, that’s etched into the night sky in between the swirls of clouds. You had noticed some paint on his hands before but sort of assumed he was just doing touch ups to his home, if anything. It doesn’t help the crush you already have on your neighbor, the insane feelings making you tremble even now.

“Thanks,” he mumbles the answer while they are swarming around, girls giggling and giving you just a prick of jealousy. You don’t know why, either, you hardly know him – and of course he’s attractive and clearly talented. Yet his eyes meet yours over his glass, signaling almost for you to save him.

“Mr. Geto,” you cut in a little bit, and he says your name, his lips curving up. “Maybe you’d like to see some of my favorite work here?”

“I’d love that, excuse me,” Suguru takes the out you give him, and exhales in relief when you get him out of the throng of people, looking at you gratefully. “Thank you, love.”

Love.

Fuck he shouldn’t call you that.

“You want a little air?” You ask softly.

“Please, I’m not… good with attention,” you smile at just how cute he is in that moment, yes he’s tall, broad, handsome, but in that moment he’s just…

Shy.

Suguru Geto is a little shy.

You both step out into the gardens, where they have more art pieces put up on easels, the two of you so close your shoulder brushes against his arm, the suit material soft against your skin. Goosebumps rise at the proximity, Suguru pauses and turns to look down at you, taking off his jacket.

“You don’t have to!” You flush when he places it over your bare shoulders, you get an eye full of his dress shirt stretching around his broad chest, he rolls up his sleeves just a bit to taunt you with those veiny forearms and artist’s fingers. “Aren’t you gonna be cold?”

“Nah, feels amazing,” you look so pretty in his jacket, practically swallowing you when you hold it tightly, smiling gratefully. “Looks better on you anyway.”

“Me?” You giggle now, shaking your head. “I don’t think so.”

He can’t help but picture laying you on it, sprawling your hair out on the soft inner satin, and looking at how gorgeous you would be, underneath him. Would he paint you before or after he licked every inch of your body, explored all of that smooth skin with his fingertips?

The thoughts are maddening, he of course found you pretty when he saw you move in, but they’re getting worse by the moment. He’s scared to just… say it though, you seem lovely and sweet, but who knows your life? If  you’d want to date him, when you don’t really know him.

The darkness comment was true – Suguru has been through tough times, and aside from the girls and his best friends he’s scared to open up again.

“I feel so silly right now, not knowing it was you!” Your words bring him out of his thoughts now. Suguru chuckles, brushing his fingers across the strands of your hair, they gently tickle your skin.

“No, don't at all.”

“You're like a famous artist!”

“I'm kind of niche and obscure,” Suguru shrugs a broad shoulder, while the wind starts whipping around the two of you, he tugs it close to your body.

“Thank you, Geto.”

“Suguru,” you flush at his words, looking down shyly. “Please call me that.”

“If you're okay with it?” He nods a bit, the moon is glowing softly and reflecting on the angles of his face. 

He was a little too handsome.

“Suguru,” your words make him fucking ache, he bites back a moan. “I'd love to see any of your work you want to show me any time. No pressure though please! I'm fangirling right now."

Suguru chuckles, shaking his head at you. “Yeah artists don't really get ‘fangirls’ so this is new for me.”

“Well you have one now,” your eyes lower to the cleft in his chin, aching to press a kiss on it. “Your art is so beautiful Suguru.”

Suguru.

God every time  you say it, it almost ruins him. Spilling from lips that are a faded red now, you're so beautiful he can’t stop the words from coming out. 

“I need a subject,” he murmurs softly, bringing your attention to him. “For my art, a study of… anatomy.”

“Oh?” You look down at your heeled feet as the moonlight glows around you both, illuminating everything, casting a soft cool light.

“Yeah it's been a bit since I've taken on the female form,” he curses internally. “I sound so corny, asking this.”

You blink a bit and look back up at him. “Asking what?”

“Let me paint you,” he sighs and takes in your blush. “Like one of my French girls.”

You burst into laughter with him, shaking your head and sighing. “A titanic reference?”

“Mhmm,” Suguru is dying of thinking of just that, you naked on your side right on his couch. The curves of you right in front of him, bare for his gaze. “You wouldn't have to get naked though of course, just… anything you'd want to wear.”

“Are you serious or flattering me?” You tease. “You really would paint me? Oh my god I’m excited.”

“You are!?”

You grin now, nodding. “Let's do it.”

“Shit, yeah?” You nod and he slips his hand in yours. “I swear it's not just a hit on. It'll be beautiful to paint you.”

“Will you hang me in a gallery?” You ask softly, lashes lowering just a bit. But it makes his head spin.

How could he show anyone that body really?

“In my private gallery,” you giggle and finish the wine, inclining your head. “I’ll show you that some time too.”

“Then… let’s dip out early? Or do you want to wait?”

“Did you drive or…”

“No, just rode here.”

“Then come with me, we’ll sneak around the front.”

***

You’ve seen Suguru’s place so often but you’ve never been inside it before, and everything in it screams eccentric artist, boho chic would be the best term to describe it, messy in a way that’s not unclean. No, things are very clean, but intentional little things all over, tubes of acrylics, brushes across the counter, the chaise itself that you’ll get painted on is vintage, purple suede and gold.

Your fingers brush upon the edge of it, soft scents of cedar and hints of vanilla mixing together. He lights a couple candles, trying to organize a few things with a little smile. You see hints of the girls all over, their backpacks hanging on the hooks, pictures of them across his walls.

The way he loves them is so clear, and so beautiful.

“All right, ready for the nonsense?”

“Nonsense?”

“My art room,” he teases, you grin then. “Don’t get so excited, it’s a fucking mess. I haven’t had much inspo until…”

Until you.

You tilt your head curiously, and silence hangs thick in the air, but he falters just looking down at your pretty face, before clearing his throat, holding a hand out. “When you moved in I started drawing again.”

“Oh my god, am I like some really cool, edgy muse?” You make him laugh, nodding a bit. “Oh hell yeah, art girl’s dream.”

“Come on,” Suguru leads you into one of the rooms up the stairs, and you see several canvases stacked against the walls, many of them half finished or bare. Along the walls are beautiful portraits, many you’ve never seen. “The ones that just stay with me. Some special, some look like shit.”

“Oh, nothing you do looks bad,” you say, shaking your head, studying the ones lined along the walls curiously. “God, it’s like my dream.”

“You dream of a weird, introverted artist and his messy art room?”

“Fuck yes I do,” Suguru smiles, god you make him just feel so good, like he never wants it to end.

Nonsense, right? It’s too soon, it’s too new it’s…

You’re everything he’s ever wanted, personified in a pretty body, with an even prettier energy. No one sees this but the girls and his best friend, but he’s so comfortable now, watching you take each and every one in. Some are people, angels, demons with haunting eyes – others are landscapes, surreal or abstract. All a range but it all feels just like him.

Like Suguru.

It’s intimate im here with him now, he’s so quiet right behind you, walls covered in framed sketches. One drawing catches your eye – two young boys laughing, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Clearly one is Suguru – and a cute, sweet little girl right next to them throwing up a peace sign.

“That’s Riko,” Suguru says quietly, noticing your gaze. “We grew up together.”

“She’s adorable, this is you, right? Is this… uncle Gojo they called him?” You ask, he nods and his lips curve up.

“That’s Satoru all right, he’s still my best friend, even if he’s annoying.”

You laugh, shaking your head then sobering up. “And Riko?”

Suguru’s eyes darken a bit, his lips pressing together. You put a hand to his chest, feeling his heart racing, stepping close to him then. “She’s… gone.”

You just tiptoe and hug him.

You hug him.

He’s frozen for a moment as you do, before he wraps arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. Your tears are sticky against his chest, and he exhales, feeling his own emotions hit. “It’s all right, it was a long time ago.”

“It still hurts,” you whisper, he leans back and cups your face, a thumb tracing your lower lip then. “I know it does.”

“It does,” he agrees softly, then smiles at you, eyes lidded, those dark lashes casting shadows. “I do miss her, like I’m sure you miss…”

“Yeah,” he swipes a tear now. “I feel like you get it. If that makes sense. But I hate that you do.”

“I hate that you do,” he murmurs, before resting his head on yours. “Tonight, let’s just enjoy this.”

“Let’s.”

He guides you out of the room, hand entwined in yours, feeling far roo good. “You can get undressed right here,” he murmurs, gesturing to his bathroom. “Like I said, keep on whatever you want. I’ll go get the paint.”

“And more wine?” He chuckles.

“Of course more, white or red?”

“White please,” he sets his jacket down on the arm of the couch, and you nervously walk into the bathroom, glancing at the mirror and feeling your heart hammer in your chest.

Suguru Geto was going to paint you.

You slip down the straps of your dress as Suguru nervously and frantically tries to pick up a bit of the crap the girls have everywhere, it’s not too bad but he’s hoping to get the couch presentable for you. He’s drawn and painted naked women before back in his art school days, it’s just anatomy he learned then, but something about the thought of what you’d come out in drove him to distraction.

His always steady hands tremble just a bit, grabbing the easel, the paint brushes, putting down a cloth underneath it all to keep it clean. Would you wear something lacy, something simple? Either way he’d love it, imagining how good you’d look for him, in any stage of undress.

What he doesn’t expect is you to walk out naked.

His lips part, you’re a little nervously hugging yourself, cheeks a little flushed, one arm over your tits and one hand over that pussy snug between the plush of your thighs. That’s when Suguru Geto leaks so much pre it sticks to his slacks, looking at how fucking perfect you are.

He can’t say anything, his eyes wide, making you blush even more, clearing your throat and walking up to him carefully. “It’s insane but if my favorite artist is going to draw me Rose from Titanic style? I’ve gotta go all out.”

Your panties are on Suguru’s bathroom counter, next to your bra and your dress, neatly folded up, and you’re bare in his living room. He still can’t speak or summon up a damn thing, he just gently touches your hand covering your pretty breasts, watching your eyes dilate with the movement, guiding it down so that those tits gently sway, making him almost moan.

The rise and fall with your quick breaths, fingers dancing along your arm, gently pulling your hand off that cunt that makes him salivate as he looks down.

“This is crazy, isn’t it?”

He just blinks for a moment, before exhaling, stepping back to slip his gaze down your body, tracing the skin an inch away – not touching you, but the air near you, electric sparks just humming around his touch. He steps around you carefully, brushing your hair to the front, so it rests along your shoulders, fingertips barely touching your sensitive neck.

“You’re not saying anything, so I’m gonna ramble, and I’m freaking out. And-”

“Shh,” he’s back in front of you now, taking one of your hands in his own, so big it swallows yours, long lashes lowering over his purple irises. “You’re perfect.”

Perfect.

You aren’t un confident, but to hear that from him, while he gazes into your eyes rather than at your tits, your body, it’s too much. You’re trembling with need, embarrassing wetness dripping out of your hole, you almost moan just being so close to his proximity.

“You’re sweet,” you murmur, but he touches your lips to shush you.

“You’re going to be a beautiful fucking painting, I promise.” His words have you aching, wishing he could drag you against his body, kiss you, touch you. Yet he’s gentle as he guides you on his couch, gently laying you down. “Can I touch you to move you where I need?”

“Of course,” when he does you have to bite back a whimper, his big hands just a little rough from years of holding paint brushes. He takes your thigh, slipping it across the other and bending it at the knee, catching a glimpse of your pretty cunt and almost faltering. “Are you all right, love?”

“Mhm, just nervous, I need a sip.” He chuckles, a little nervous himself now, handing you the glass to sip on your side.

“I may use it, paint it in there,” he muses softly, your fingers touching each other. “Can you lean up on an elbow?”

“Y-yes…” You do just that, sipping some of the wine for courage. There was something so sensual about this moment, Suguru Geto positioning you where he needs you at, before he undoes the little row of buttons on his own shirt.

Your cunt throbs when you see him down to that thin little white undershirt, his muscles bunching underneath that skin pulled taut. You shift a little bit, thighs brushing against each other, core tightening as you sip the wine out of your glass, feeling his gaze drift along your body like a physical touch.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks, voice husky, he clears his throat a bit, grabbing the brush in his hands now. “Do you want some music on?”

You nod, so fucking gorgeous laying there it’s difficult not to stare, but he tries to keep it somewhat professional, putting on some soft music so it’s not just the sound of your breaths in the home. Though he loves that sound, loves the way you laugh, loves your energy in the room.

He sits down on the seat across from you and leans forward, that smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners, dipping the brush in the paint, swiping it across the canvas, doing a black line in the curve of your body. Hips he’d love to grab, waist he’d love to grip, puffy nipples he’d love to suck on.

You clearly are interested, the way your pupils dilate, the way you look right back at him, yet he’s just so nervous around you. The girls tease it’s been too long since he’s been out there – maybe it has, but then again maybe it’s just you that does it.

It’s a comfortable quiet as your beautiful body lays on the soft purple suede of his setté, you stay as still as you can, but you can’t help but move just a bit, hips arching, your glass slipping to your lips. Suguru’s strokes of something close to the pretty color of your skin work gently, dabbing in the areas where there is just a bit of shade, a bit of lighting, a soft glow.

“Am I being still enough?” You ask nervously, his lips curve up at the corners, leaning over to take a sip of his wine now.

“You’re doing amazing, the prettiest subject,” your blush dances on your cheeks, he decides to add a hint of that color to the picture. “Is that too bold of me?”

“Bold, I’m naked on your couch, famous artist.”

“God,” he shakes his head as you giggle a little, his gaze catching the base of your neck, where you can feel your pulse fluttering. “I’m not famous...”

“You are in the art world, I assure you,” you’ve moved just a bit, he puts down his brush with a quiet click, standing and drinking from his glass. He tilts his head to capture the light in your eyes, picking it back up.

He works on those lines, capturing the gentle swell of your breast, the dip of your waist, admiring every inch in front of him and on the canvas. It’s a comfortable silence between you both, broken only by the hitch in your breathing whenever his stare lingers too long, a certain part of your body that reacts immediately.

He continues until he pauses for a moment, tilting his head, you look down nervously then. “Did I move too much?”

“Just a bit,” Suguru kneels to reposition your bent knee, his breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh just a bit, you gasp out and your eyes lock. “I’m sorry, I should have asked again.”

“No, no…” You bite down on your lip, as your leg falls open a little wider than he’d intended, revealing the glistening puffy folds between them. His eyes linger for a heartbeat too long, pupils swallowing the violet of his irises, before he drags his gaze up to yours.

The heat in his look makes your nipples peak tighter, his fingers slipping up to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, you suck in a breath at how good it feels. You don’t want to be desperate, to beg for more, but everything about the situation and his breath on your skin is too much.

"Lift your chin," you do just as he asks, moving your chin up a bit, he looks down at you, lips far, far too close. “Perfect.”

“I’m feeling very pretty right now,” you murmur, a hand gripping his wrist when he goes to move his hand. “I may need… more repositioning.”

“Yeah?” He teases, chuckling softly, your thumb is brushing his inner wrist delicately.

“I’m not a good subject, too fidgety,” he eyes your lips, then lower, where your thighs spread just a bit again. “See? Entirely fidgety.”

“I see,” he touches your thigh and hears your sharp intake of breath, some of that dark hair falling down and brushing against your skin, to see your slick glittering on your thigh. His thumb sweeps the dampness from your inner thigh, your hand grips him tightly, a soft little cry escaping your throat. “You are moving too much, is there something I can do to help? Interfering with the painting.”

“Oh no…”

“Bratty art piece,” he teases, but he’s aching now, slipping that slicked finger and dragging it across your lips like a gloss, making you taste yourself. “How can I help you listen better, hmm?”

You lick your own slick off your mouth and lean up on your elbow, breasts brushing against his hard chest. “Maybe you could pin me down, make sure I stay where you need me?”

“Yeah?” Your intent is clear, when he leans ever closer, his breath mingling with yours, fingers finding your cunt, making him groan. “You’re soaked, love. Gonna make a mess of my couch.”

“Oh no,” your foreheads rest together, hips arching when the rough pads of his fingers drag through your syrupy folds, finding your little clit. “Mnh!”

“How do you taste?” He whispers, pulling his fingers back and sucking you off him, leaving you aching, watching his cheeks hollow. “Fuck…”

Suguru’s kissing you then, and everything shifts in that moment – he’s felt desire, but he’s never felt whatever connecting his lips with you is like. He moans against them, a hand entangling in your hair at the nape of your neck, your hands grip his broad shoulders, hips arching for more of him.

“Please,” your desperate little whisper almost does him in, your heart hammering under your pretty breasts, fluttering against his chest, his fingers slipping up again. Your head falls back, his lips brushing across your throat, fingers running circles on your clit, which jumps in response, your cunt drooling. “Suguru…”

He drinks in your moans, tongue sweeping inside the hot recesses of your mouth, pulling back for just a moment, a trail of saliva dripping from between your lips now. “I’m being unprofessional, huh?”

“Very,” you tease, but the laugh turns into a needy little whine, more pressure on that clit, your slick pouring down his fingers. He moans as he feels it, hot and wet, slipping just the finger tip down and in your gummy walls.

“So tight,” he whispers in wonder, thick finger stretching you, pulling back to let more slick pour out. “How should I keep you still then? Do you need to cum?”

You’re eagerly nodding, Suguru’s finger slipping all the way inside your hole, when the phone starts ringing. You tense and he curses a bit, eyeing it and then pausing.

“I have to take this one,” he eyes you carefully. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, of course,” you’re trying to gather yourself a bit when he picks up the phone.

“Girls, what is it this late?” He’s quiet, and you realize who it is, exhaling just a bit, gathering yourself. You’re too lost in that moment, in everything about Suguru Geto, down to the fact that he’s just that amazing of a parent too.

He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs, laughing a little. “All right, I’ll come get you then, but you owe me. Dishes all week.”

You laugh softly in the background, he comes back over and you’re already hastily getting dressed.

“I’m so sorry,” he says then, you’re just a little nervous anyway, what was that between you both? “We can finish the painting another night?”

“Of course we can,” you whisper, leaning up and kissing his lips, which still taste like you. He carefully adjusts the straps of your pretty dress, a kiss drifting on your forehead. “The girls come first.”

“They do, but I love that you… that it doesn’t bother you.”

“Never would,” you nervously shift a bit where you stand, eyes locking on his then. “Next time you could paint me at… my place?”

“I can, soon I hope,” he doesn’t know what to say or do, just a little awkward at that moment. “I'll walk you back.”

After reluctantly dropping you off with another heated kiss, Suguru heads in to get his keys, seeing black lace panties on his bathroom floor. He should return them to you, but instead puts them in his room for… artistic reasons. 

*****

Sure.

Totally not to jerk it to with them buried against his face, putting it in his mouth like a gag to keep quiet that night, as he strokes his cock that’s aching. And of course, right as he’s working his cock up and down with his fist, whispering your name in his mind while your sweetness coats his tongue, the phone rings again.

“Fuck me…” He grumbles, but then he sees it’s you. “Shit… shit, shit, shit…”

Suguru’s already leaking pre from his pretty tip, this light tan that’s now drenched in streams of white, a hand reaching for the phone and putting you on speaker. 

“Suguru, hey…” you bite nervously on your lip, still trembling from his touch. “Is this too clingy, to call you after?”

“No, no,” Suguru hardly bites back a moan. Is he filthy to keep stroking his cock, hearing your cute little sigh? “Are you all right, princess? I mean… shit…”

“Princess?” You almost fucking squeal, pressing your thighs together in need. 

“Sorry, I-”

“I like it,” your voice is so sexy then, making Suguru moan out loud. You blink a bit then blush. “Are you um…”

“It's been a long time and you were right on my tongue,” He's so pathetic and desperate for you, but how can he not be? “I'll stop-”

“No, don't stop,” you lay back on your bed, fingers slipping down your body. “Let me hear you.”

Suguru Geto is in love.

“Hah – so you’re not the sweet little thing I thought,” he manages to whisper into the phone, stroking his cock again, hearing your little desperate gasp. “You’re touching that pretty pussy?”

“Is that t-terrible?” You gasp out the words, he shuts his eyes then, shaking his head even though you can’t see, spitting on his cock in a bubbly trail, letting it hit that thickened cockhead.

“No, princess,” you moan softly. “I wanted to do so much more before I had to leave.”

“Tell me what you wanted to do,” Suguru takes your panties now and strokes the lace on his cock, your half painted picture was sitting right in his room, half of the curves of that body were enough to destroy him. “I mean, if you want!?”

He chuckles – a broken little sound, stroking his cock faster with the silk, feeling so filthy yet everything about it was perfect. Your arousal lingering on his lips, your art hanging up right in front of him, your voice right in his ear when he takes you off the speaker, lips near the phone.

“Are you touching that little clit, or your tight pretty hole?” You’re soaked at his husky words, surprising you as much as they make you ache, make you throb. “I mean is that too-”

“Fuck keep going,” you’re lost, arching your hips and rolling your finger in little circles on your clit. “Mnh!”

“The sounds you make,” he huffs out softly, the sound of him stroking his cock filling the bedroom – he’s very thankful to be up on the loft floor all alone, far away so no one hears such debauchery.

Yet he couldn’t keep you quiet, no he’s sure of it.

“Can hear how wet she is on the phone,” he murmurs, as your fingers slip in your hole, nothing like his. “I wanted to make you cum all over my fingers to start – then I wanted to bury my face and drown in your cunt.”

“Oh my g-god…” You’ve never been talked to like that, trembling thighs clamping down on your own hand, already pulsing as Suguru leaks white sticky ropes against your once perfect, now ruined, panties. “You wanted to um… l-lick it?”

“Not lick it princess, hah -” his skin is coated in just a thin little sheen of perspiration. He’s moaning, stroking faster and faster – the fwap fwap fwap sounds so filthy and mixing with the squelch and click of your fingers on your cunt. “I want to suck on your little clit, feel you drool on m’face.”

“Suguru!” You’re lost in his words, in the images of his long dark hair against your skin. “You’re… I… you do?”

“You’re so fucking cute,” he exhales, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I want you to ride my face and spill all over it, soak me.”

“Ride your face?” You’re just a little inexperienced in that you’ve never ridden a face, blushing so furiously.

“Hmm, haven’t done it? Don’t worry, I’ll have your thighs on either side of me…” You cry out softly, hips jerking up, fingers curling deep inside yourself. “Are you imagining me?”

“Y-yes… I am, mnh!” Your eyes roll back, clit twitching, cunt slippery.

“Cum f’me, princess, picture my mouth right there.”

Suguru Geto was shy.

Suguru Geto was reserved.

Suguru Geto was freaky.

You cum so hard your fingers feel your own pulsing, touching that spot just enough to push you over that edge. Suguru groans when he hears it, your pretty whimpers while you’re cumming on the phone. “Your messy, pretty cunt… it’s so loud.”

You’re too lost to blush, or you would, as he hears the wet sloppy sounds your messy hole makes, spurting and gushing. His amethyst eyes flutter shut then, he’s so close now after hearing you, stroking faster and faster, panting your name in a desperate little whisper.

Suguru’s ragged breath rings out with your name on his lips over and over like a devotion, the painting just a bit blurry as his eyes fades. The phone is muffled against his cheek as he spills hot stripes across your panties – once a pristine black lace, now a sticky fucking mess of white.

“F-fuck…” he’s never done this, over the phone, a sweaty mess as his cock jerks with all of those aftershocks. “Oh my god.”

“Mnh…” you’re running your fingers through your slick as your heavy breaths fill each other’s ears over the phone.

“I can picture you,” he murmurs, running a thumb across his tip and exhaling.

“Can you?” you ask, fucked out alreadt, shifting on tangled sheets, your fingers slipping from your swollen clit that’s so sensitive you hiss.

“Mhm, skin shining, gripped those sheets with one hand,” you let that go and laugh, breathless. “Cunt is all puffy too.”

“You’re insane,” he laughs too, wiping a hand across his face. "Suguru?"

"Yeah," his voice is a little hoarse, you hear fabric rustle, picturing him wiping up his pretty cock. “I’m the creepy neighbor now, who was jerking it to you.”

“Never, I was already…”

“Yeah?”

“Shh,” he laughs again. "I... really liked hearing you."

"You did?”

“Oh yes,” you’re a trembling mess, slipping your shorts up, cunt just aching for all of him. “I’ve never done that.”

“Want a secret?”

“Yes.”

Suguru sighs, cleaning up his hands now. “I haven’t done that either. It’s been… a long time since I’ve done anything.”

“Really?” You sound a bit surprised. “You’re so gorgeous though.”

“Tch,” he sighs now, shaking his head, walking over to that half finished painting and brushing his fingers across it. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Oh, Sugu… I mean Suguru!”

“I like that,” he murmurs. "Your voice when you came, how wet you sounded, I need to really hear it, see it.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering in your chest.

“Is it too much?”

“No, no… Suguru I called for…” You wrack your addled brain, fucked out by just his voice. “A date tomorrow. My place, we... finish the painting.”

"Your place," he murmurs slowly. "What time? I’ll make sure the girls are… not gonna call again.”

You laugh softly. “They will always be the most important, that doesn’t bother me one bit.”

“I know,” he adores you already, so much affection and obsession it scares him just a bit. “I still want an entire night with you.”

His insinuation is clear, his voice smooth like honey, making you pulse with aftershocks. “Mnh…”

“God, how you sound,” he’s fucking getting hard again. “What time, you didn’t tell me?”

"Six work for you?”

"Gonna be torture, princess,"

“What?” You laugh nervously.

“That long.”

“Oh… you’re excited?”

Suguru chuckles, shaking his head and looking in the mirror for a moment, just as you do in your room, seeing both of your dilated eyes. “Yeah, I’m excited.”

“Then I’ll have dinner ready.”

All Suguru Geto wants to eat is you.

*****

“Have fun, best buddy,” Satoru Gojo has brought the limo to make sure the girls are good for the night. They love his mansion and the ridiculous, extravagant shit he buys them, already bouncing up and hugging him.

“Uncle Gojo!” They’re met with tousles of their hair and his chuckle, as he eyes you across the street then.

“Ooh, is that her?” He asks, lowering his sunglasses to study you, you wave all friendly and cute, earning a low whistle. “If it doesn’t work out for you-”

“Gojo, I swear to god,” Suguru glares and Satoru just flutters his fingers at you, before getting unceremoniously shoved into his own limo. “Bye now.”

“Seriously, no introductions!?” He is appalled, the girls are giggling. “Ya worried she’d like me too?”

Suguru rolls his eyes, the girls hug and kiss him good bye. “Good luck, old man.”

“I’m not even old, Nanako, god,” she just waves and hops in the obstentatious limo. Mimiko kisses his cheek.

“You’ll do great, just act like yourself.” Suguru’s heart melts at his daughter, he playfully tugs her pig tail then.

“Love you girls.”

“What about me!?” Satoru demands, crossing his arms and glaring as you walk up now. “No thank you? No I love you? No kiss?”

“For fucks sake, Satoru,” Suguru grumbles and lets his best friend hug him so tightly his damn back cracks. “I love you too, now go.”

“Aww, you’re in wuv with her,” Suguru finally gets Satoru’s lanky ass in the limo, waving goodbye.

“Aw, you should have introduced me,” you said when he walked over finally, his art supplies in his arms. “I’d love to meet your best friend.”

“Another time, he… had to go.”

“Oh! Okay, come on in, I made-” Suguru wastes no fucking time, after he sets the supplies down, kissing your lips. “Mnh!”

“Fuck,” he whispers, breath hot, cupping your face with his huge hands then that take you over. “Sorry.”

“N-no,” you tug at his sweater, bringing him down close to you then, exhaling and looking at him with your lidded gaze. “Don’t apologize, please.”

“I can’t even think of anything but fucking filling you up,” you’re kissing once more, as Suguru loses any tentative control he has, after jerking it till he was raw last night, already throbbing when he shuts the door behind you both. “God, you look beautiful.”

“Ah!” Suguru’s teeth sink against the delicate curve of your neck, his big arms around your waist, tugging you so close. He shocks you then, as you both stumble into the kitchen, his hands everywhere, your hands slip up his chest as you stumble back against your counter, the coolness against your back.

“Sorry, shit,” he tries to pull back, seeing the pretty meal you have all ready on top of the stove, salivating for an entirely different reason. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” You manage to ask weakly, voice trembling, Suguru chuckles and lifts you up on that counter, spreading your thighs wide and shoving that dress up over the curve of your hips.

“Starving,” he answers, kneeling for you then. Suguru Geto on his knees, eyeing your pretty cunt and moaning. “No panties?”

“My last came up missing with you,” you tease, biting down on your lower lip as he gets a perfect view of your cunt that’s just winking and pulsing for his view, parting your puffy lips and spreading your folds wide. “Suguru you’re… you’re so in there!?”

“I sure am,” your cunt is spread wide for his artistic gaze, earning his moan when he sees inside you. “I can’t wait to fill it with white.”

You’re a flustered mess, spread wide on your kitchen counters in your brand new home for your neighbor across the street, hands gripping his raven locks and tightening, a whine escaping your throat. Thighs tremble on either side of his head, legs on each broad shoulder, letting him slip his tongue all the way inside like it’s fucking you, the wet muscle curling right up.

“Suguru! Ngh!” Just once delicious fuck of his tongue in your hole fucking destroys you, his amethyst eyes so dark you can barely see a ring of color, your pussy drooling down his tongue, down his mouth, you’re spasming around him, nose bumping your twitchy clit, eliciting another desperate little moan.

Your hands entangle in his dark locks, silky strands carding through your fingers, your hips arching up so that your cunt is right in his face, Suguru drinks you up like he’s a starved man, fingers dimpling the plush of your thighs. He’s lost in your pleasure, eyeing your pretty face that falls back, hair tumbling down your shoulders, thighs trembling with pleasure.

His tongue flicks up higher, teasing your clit, drinking up all your arousal with that long pink tongue that had just been shoved in your snug hole. He holds your hood up to watch it jump, tiny little thing that makes him smirk, eyeing you under dark lashes as he flicks it again, cock so hard he has to rub it over his jeans, gasping out at the need for friction.

But not until you came for him.

“Sugu…” That little name with your breathy cry is his undoing, he’s close to cumming from how you say it, how your thighs press against his face, your cunt slick and drooling down his mouth with every movement of your hips. “S’good, there, there!”

You’re arching and fucking his face, much to his fucking delight, coating him in your slick that just makes a mess of him. Suguru’s tongue is flicking over and over on your clit while two fingers swirl in your wetness, pressing in and stretching that tight hole out. Tacky, textured walls grip those calloused fingers so tightly he can only imagine the moment you milk his cock.

He’d give it all to you.

Suguru doesn’t ‘hook up’ at all, he doesn’t sink to his knees and bury his face for some random girl, or even a fling – no, you were special. Your juices coating his tongue and the way your heat consumes him is merely a fraction of everything he wants and needs from you, that spasming cunt spurting juices down his fingers, his hand, his wrist, slippery and messy.

“Mmph,” he barely is able to speak with his mouth so full of your juices, pulling back with a dripping mouth, eyeing your pretty face with those fucking heart eyes. “Gonna cum on m’face Princess?”

Your answer is a jerky nod, a soft desperate whine, when you shatter for him – food untouched, wine uncorked – just your cunt squirting ever so slightly, coating his face and surprising him. He almost busts then and there as it happens, as your hole spasms and spurts so much he’s coated. The orgasm has you rolling your eyes back, head smacking on that counter.

“S-Sugu…” He groans, lapping up a stripe that has your whole body trembling, so overwhelmed with how much he’d made you cum, made you shatter. “Nghhh! F-fuckkk…”

Suguru’s standing up and lifting you now, thighs straddling his hips while he kisses you, coated in your pussy, your tongues swapping the sweetness. Your arms cling to him even as you’re shaking – boneless and weak, so dizzy it’s hard to cling to him like this, the way he consumes you, the way your core has spread that heat.

You both barely make it to your couch, the one he plans on painting you on later, but for now all he can do is rut his cock against your cunt, thickness pressing and making your core tighten. You’re clinging to him with your nails pressing in his shoulders when he leans up, slipping your dress even higher, until it’s slipped right off over your head, leaving you bare.

“Tell me to slow down,” he murmurs desperately. “To take my time, to-”

“No,” you cut him off, hastily slipping off that sweater, gasping when you trail your fingers down the tattoos curving across his abdomen, watching the tense muscles flex underneath your touch. “I want this, I want you.”

“Fuck I want you, so much,” he’s hoarse and damn near whimpering when he frees his cock, smacking it against your puffy lips, glossy from his spit and your arousal, the sight of him pressing the tip into your hole almost his undoing. “Look at her, so tiny, gonna fucking fill you.”

He does just that, tugging a thigh up, cock sliding half way in and stretching your tight cunt then and there, a filthy squelch of your greedy hole sucking him in. “Mnh! S-so much…”

“Hah,” he leans forward, cupping your face with one hand, long dark strands slipping against your skin while he looks down at you.

Lovingly.

Suguru loves you.

There’s no sense to the timing, there’s fear there, but he can’t fucking deny it anymore.

“I love you,” he murmurs, you gasp, eyes widening. “You don’t have to say it back, I know it’s f-fucking… insane, yeah?”

You want to say it back then and there but he captures your throat with one hand, gently choking while his cock slides deep, and you can’t speak. Your nails pressing into the hot skin and strong muscles are your only answer, gasps and little weak whimpers mixing with your messy cunt. Suguru’s taking you over, seeing the way your tummy moves with him.

It ruins him even more, how your small little hole accommodates him, even as you struggle, as you whine out. “I know,” he huffs softly, leaning low over you and hiking your leg up. “Big stretch, hmm?”

You nod jerkily, tears of pleasure slipping from your eyes, letting him bury his cock to the hilt. Suguru has to pause to study your beauty underneath him, something to keep in mind for his art, before he works his cock in and out of your hole. Faster, deeper, folding you damn near in half as your body is buried against your own couch, sinking into the cushions.

“That’s it princess,” he praises you, you’re drooling from your mouth and your cunt as he moves, thrusting in and out, tip leaky on your cervix, you scream out in pleasure, body writhing underneath him. “Gonna cum f’me, all over me, yeah?”

You nod weakly, you’re already close – sensitive from his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.

“Then go ahead,” he whispers softly, lips brushing your nose in a cute little kiss. “Let it all out for me.”

You’re done, when those words sink in, when his lips capture yours, all you can do is orgasm all around his thick length, shattering and crying out. Suguru swallows your screams with his hot open mouth on yours, fucking you right through your orgasm, his tip dragging on the little spot in your walls.

He pulls every bit of pleasure out of you, shoving in deep and letting it drag one more time, making you a twitchy little fucking mess, dizzy and lost in him. Rain starts pattering outside – a rare thing this time of year, mixing in with your desperate little moans, your breaths, body weak.

“Good girl,” he says this shit to ruin you – you swear, when he starts thrusting again, this time so lazy and slow, each drag of his cock along your walls making you shake with overstimulation. Your legs tighten around his hips reflexively as he holds you close, hands tracing over your hips like he’s using his paint brush.

You feel like art underneath him, the way he studies you so quietly, but you didn’t need the words, just feeling everything. Your eyes flutter shut for just a moment when he kisses you, losing his rhythm now, he can feel his cock throbbing, about to bust deep inside you.

Every movement of his curved cock in your gummy walls is loud, messy, so good you're blinded. Eyes rolling back in your skull just for him to gently order you to open them. To see that pretty face hovering over you, his lips glossy, cock pulsing and impossibly thickening. Sweat drips from his slick skin to yours. Fingers tightening on a thigh to sink deeper.

“Want me to fill you up, princess?” He murmurs softly, breaking the heated silence, the rain pounding now on your windows, lightning illuminating the form over you.

“Yes.”

It’s so quick of an answer he blinks, slowing his movements inside you, groaning out when he feels you fluttering around his cock, pulsing pre. He lifts your legs higher around his hips, his hands taking over your breasts, lips trailing hot as they descend, his strokes lazy, pushing you over that limit again.

“Perfect,” his hot breath tickles your breasts, his tongue flicking lightly against your nipple, taut and sensitive, you gasp out while his wicked tongue swirls around your nipple before, drawing it gently between his teeth. “Mmm… s’fucking pretty. Can you take it all?

You nod breathlessly, your fingernails digging into his back and leaving crescent moons in his skin as he fucks you hard, leaned back shoving your thighs up high. Your hips jerk when that sharp pleasure shoots through you, when he bottoms out with his huge, veiny cock so deep.

“Gonna fill you s’good, pretty girl,” he busts so much it floods your cunt, you’re arching so that your tits are perfectly there for his bent frame to suck on, arching his back and holding you with huge hands, groaning. “F-fuckk…”

Suguru’s cumming so much it’s already pouring out, but he makes sure to shove it all back inside you, picturing how much his kids need a little sister or brother – insane thoughts overtake him. Yet, they have been since he laid eyes on you.

Drawing you.

Jerking his cock to you.

Stealing your panties.

Suguru needs you. You look up now, taking a shaky breath, eyes lowering to his lips, cupping his face then. “Suguru…”

“You don’t have to say it back, it’s okay princess,” he murmurs, but you’re blinking back tears. “Too intense?”

“Intense yeah but,” you lean up on your elbows, hair falling down behind you as a storm pounds outside. “I love you Suguru Geto.”

You’re met with a desperate, needy kiss, as the world around you both fades, leaving you covered in sheens of sweat, coated in each other. Soon Suguru lays you like you were just last night, but he makes sure to clean that cum that has slipped down your lips off with his tongue, to paint you while you’re both completely naked.

He’s moving the brush on the canvas, not able to really capture how fucked out your pretty eyes are, just sighing as his paint starts to form the silhouette of the girl he’s in love with. You’re still trembling, cum pouring from your hole that he hasn’t cleaned out completely yet.

“Suguru…” You murmur softly, he eyes you then. “Your art subject is… sticky.”

He chuckles then, putting the brush down, and walking to you, tilting your chin up as he kneels. “I can’t have my subject in such a state.” He sits you up, making you gasp when he spreads your thighs. “I’ll just have to clean her up more, won’t I?”

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That’s right. The lake house just up ahead was supposed to help you fix things, or so he claimed. Suguru had been distant lately, though not just from you, but from others, hell, even with himself. You understood it, at least partially: the weight of expectations stemming from jujutsu society was suffocating, especially for someone like him with the technique that he had. Nobody else could even begin to understand that slow decline of isolation that came from feeding himself on repeated negativity.

The lake house itself was lent to him by Satoru for at most, a week or two, more as a favour to an old friend, who, even he admitted, had seen better days.

Were you both really only twenty-five?

It sure didn’t feel like it.

The last ten years felt more like fifty, aging you both well past your years, at least mentally.

You watched him from the side, just like you always did, wondering when his exhaustion started to look so familiar to your own.

So when he said that the city must have been dragging him down, all of the usual bullshit that built up and piled unwelcomely on the surface, you didn’t even argue with him—you even agreed—that yes, something was very, very wrong. But then, when he let slip, perhaps accidentally or maybe on purpose, that you were always dragging him down too, making him feel worse than he already did, you went quiet.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Then, before you could spiral further…

(…And overthink things even more…)

…The car came to a stop.

Suguru didn’t say anything when it had—but when he parked, his lips parted slightly. Back when things were better, he might have nudged you to see if you were awake, tease you softly if you weren’t in that low, warm voice, but he didn’t do any of that anymore. He simply sat there in the driver’s seat staring out at nothing.

You got out by yourself at first, the crisp air hitting you hard: feeling cold and heavy, as it often did in November. Fallen leaves stuck to the soles of your boots as you took a step forward, the ground soft and damp from rain.

The lake house was a bit different in its first impression than what you had imagined: bearing quiet, polished dark wood, albeit weathered and old, standing before a stretch of water that hardly moved except for the ripples from the rain. The surface looked solid, almost like muted glass.

You looked around before finding your voice, your tone landing a little uncertain on his ears. “Does this really belong to Satoru?”

You expected something more modern, or less dramatic, that was all.

It took Suguru a moment to respond, or maybe it just took him that long to come back to himself. He got out about half a minute later, slamming the car door a bit too hard, the sound cracking through the still air. He moved around to the back, dragging both of your bags from the trunk, the pair hitting the ground with a dull, heavy thud.

“Yeah,” he said at last, blinking up at the cabin with a faint distaste written on his face. “Well, I mean, I think it’s his family’s, technically. There was another place that I had in mind, but… Satoru’s still trying to impress Utahime, so we’re stuck with this old thing.”

“...Oh,” you mumbled. “Thought she didn’t like him showing off.”

Suguru snorted lightly at your comment. “That’s what I said, too, but you know him. He’s hopeless when it comes to her.”

You nodded quietly, glancing up at the property once more, thinking that it wasn’t that bad. The house itself had a quiet sort of beauty that came with being forgotten. It matched the location it was in, standing proud before a lake that sat in the apex of a thick forest. There was a mountain that you had seen on the drive up, too, but it was gone now, swallowed up by the mist as though it had never been there at all.

Suguru followed in step beside you, scanning the house with a restless focus as he contemplated whether or not it was a good idea to rest his hand on your hip; something deeper that played on the inside of his mind that made him doubt if you wanted anything to do with him. He ran his fingers through his hair at the thought, pulling a tie loose before twisting it back into place again. You recognised this as an old nervous habit, but held off on saying anything. The air was already too sharp anyway, pushing you both towards the door and leaving whatever was left unspoken to scatter in the wind.

The moment you stepped through, however, something in the air changed. Not enough to name, it was just a slight shift, subtle enough to overlook, but it planted something within you. It felt like an overridden instinct.

The scent of damp wood and dust otherwise hung thickly inside, and your breath fogged faintly when you exhaled, even though the room wasn’t that cold.

Suguru exhaled sharply as he followed, keeping his thoughts to himself for the time being. He tossed the keys to both the car and the house onto the nearest surface and kicked off his shoes without caring where they landed, even if he was a guest in this place. Light flickered once, twice, before steadying as he probed along the switches, a low grumble from the generator he found about a minute later, the space slowly filling with warmth. He also muttered something about the wifi, but his focus faltered before the sentence had even finished.

You started up the stairs with your suitcase dragging behind you as he lingered downstairs, the wheels of it bumping against the steps.

You needed to lie down.

To process things.

Then you’d tackle the night up ahead.

Before you could get too far, however, Suguru called out for you, “I’m going to see if there’s anything in here that I can turn into dinner. Satoru said that it should be stocked up.”

You stopped about halfway up, your hand resting against the cold surface of the wall. “Yeah, okay.”

He let out a slow breath, not quite an exhale, because that much would imply that some tension had lifted. It hadn’t. “So, I’ll call you down when that’s ready, alright?” Then he hesitated, replaying in his mind how that must have sounded. Too cautious. He schooled his tone into something less hesitant, more friendly, closer to what he used to sound like. “Or, hold that thought. I’ll come get you.”

You looked back long enough to offer a small smile, but it gave more reflex than warmth, and then, you kept on climbing until you were out of sight.

Suguru stayed behind, leaning over the kitchen island with his head dipping below his shoulders. He blinked ahead, staring at the space where you had just been, pressing his palms into the smooth finish of the marble, his fingers curling as if the very act alone might anchor him. The silence stretched, long and uneven, until a half-laugh, half-scoff slipped out of his lips.

“Shit,” he whispered. “What the hell was that?”

Then a bit quieter.

“Do you even… love me anymore?”

~*~

Upstairs, the hallway was dim and narrow, coated with dust that hadn’t been disturbed in months, maybe even years. You tried a few doors until you stumbled upon what must have been the master bedroom. It was large, empty, and had a king-sized bed positioned right in the middle. As you reached to pull the curtains open, dust clouded as they fell apart, the stale air filling your lungs.

You dropped the suitcase to the side and sank onto the bed, spluttering out whatever you had just inhaled. The mattress gave in easily beneath you, and for a moment, you let it pull you down, finding serenity in the stillness as it pressed in on all sides.

Your head felt light even if the rest of you felt heavy, but that much could be blamed on the drive. It had been long, disorienting, and silent with unspoken resentment. You couldn’t shake the thought, though, that perhaps somewhere along the way, you somehow crossed over into a place that you weren’t meant to find.

And after a while, you lifted a hand towards the ceiling, just to watch your fingers move. The gesture was small, but grounding; proof that you were still here, still real, still alive. Your mind had long been fraying at the edges, any cohesive thoughts you once had slipping loose from each other. Seeing your hand sway above you gave you something to hold onto, a fleeting reminder that time hadn’t yet fully stopped.

But you couldn’t maintain that feeling for very long.

You couldn’t ignore the problem up ahead.

Your thoughts circled back:

Suguru—your high school boyfriend, now the man your life revolved around—was unravelling right beside you. Right before you. Whatever had been eating at him for years had sunk too deep to be removed cleanly. It festered within him like a parasite that made a home in his suffering. You wanted to help, still foolishly believing that something good could still come of this trip, but nothing useful came to mind to help you get there.

All you could do was just lie there, listening to the wind brush against the windows.

Wondering if you could still do anything at all.

Was that even possible anymore?

Or was there nothing left to do but to just exist with him? To linger like a stubborn memory that he wanted to be rid of, but couldn’t quite dislodge.

You swallowed hard, curling in on yourself, forcing your thoughts to be still, to be quiet for just this once. It never helped to dwell on them, did it? You tried to focus on the little things instead, like the hum of the house, the patter of the rain against the roof, of the faint creaking from the surrounding wood as the cold settled in, deep into the structure of the house.

Until something interrupted you.

A soft rattling noise that you couldn’t filter out.

Your eyes drifted next towards a vanity pushed up against the wall, the once white paint on it chipping away. Beneath it, a small hatch lay low, built into the panelling. It was almost missable, half hidden behind an old pouf stool. You blinked, narrowing your eyes, staring longer than you meant to.

A faint clattering sound followed, like something repeatedly shifting against metal.

You tried to rationalise it at first, knowing that’s how Suguru would handle it, so you told yourself that it was nothing. Old houses made noise all the time, and this one probably did so all the time, with or without company inside. Realistically speaking, also, there couldn’t have been any curses out here either—not if this property belonged to the Gojo clan—they surely took care of their estates, lived-in, forgotten or otherwise.

Therefore, it was just your imagination, then.

You pulled out your phone a moment later, needing something to distract yourself with, even if just to check the time. Fifteen minutes had gone by without you noticing, and you hadn’t accomplished a single thing at all.

You had one bar of service, no wifi just yet. You thought about going downstairs to ask Suguru for the password, if only to hear his voice again, but then—

The hatch shook again.

Louder this time.

Maybe it was an old laundry chute that made noise when the wind caught it just right, or something similar. You tried to convince yourself of just that, even as the sound deepened and vibrated through the floorboards beneath the frame of the bed.

You should have ignored it, but…

Curiosity pushed through reason.

Albeit tentatively, you climbed off the bed and crouched down to get a better look. The rattling grew into a low rumble that overwhelmed you with dread, but you didn’t stop, needing to know what exactly this was.

You reached out and then you hesitated, your fingers stopping at the handle, but then…

You pulled it open.

At first, inside was darkness—just as you expected, but then, a surge of muted colours started to spiral and shift before your very eyes. A strange, desaturated glow that heaved in and out like something breathing—something alive. A narrow tunnel stretched inwards, but it was too small for anything human—at least adult—to fit through. It was surely deep, though, far enough to swallow sound. The sight made your stomach churn, your balance waver, and then—and then—a voice cut through, pulling you out of where you didn’t belong.

“Hey, what are you—”

It was Suguru’s voice.

At first, he startled you, and you flinched, jerking your whole body back. Your head caught on the corner of the vanity as you scrambled away.

“Shit, ow…” you cursed under your breath, pressing a hand to soothe the sore spot.

“—doing?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

You blinked up at him, then quickly glanced at the open hatch. Whatever had been twisting around inside of it was long gone. It looked ordinary now, just an old fuse box with frayed wires fitted into the wall.

Your voice came out uncertain, “Thought I…” you murmured, unsure how to word exactly what you were doing. “I thought I heard something.”

Suguru frowned, but he crouched to take a better look. His brows knitted together as he took in the sight of the faulty fuse box, then back at you, his expression softening a moment later as if he’d found an easy explanation.

“Old place like this, probably just the house settling,” he muttered, brushing the dust from his hands before gently pulling you back, in case it decided to spark or shock you. “Plenty of room to sleep elsewhere if it bothers you.”

You gulped, choosing not to bring up what you just saw. “R-right,” you chose to say instead, even if the hesitancy was still ripe in your tone. The image of what you had seen just seconds before burned into your mind. You couldn’t have imagined it—surely not—you were tired, yes, but not enough to hallucinate something so vividly clear like that.

Suguru hesitated too, maybe doubting your state of mind, but he brushed it off as nerves or exhaustion. This was a stressful situation, not to mention a new place. You were likely just tired. Taking a deep, heavy breath, he chose to press forward with something grounding, something to steady you in light of everything else.

“Food’s ready,” he said, nodding towards the door. “Maybe we can sit while we eat. Talk. You know, just like we used to.”

You paused before rising, dusting your hands against your jeans. You tried to smile, softening your voice as you replied to him. “Okay,” you simply said, before following after him downstairs.

You were still unsettled, but you were also too tired to think about it anymore.

Whatever you had just witnessed could wait, and then maybe you could investigate it again later.

Or maybe you’d let yourself forget about it altogether.

Just like you did with everything else.

~*~

Dinner passed by at a comfortable pace. To Suguru’s credit, his effort was clearer than it had ever been before in the last couple of months. He made a full spread from scratch and had a low light casting a warm glow over the old, falling apart kitchen. Such a scene reminded you of the dorms all the way back then at Jujutsu Tech, after everyone had gone off to sleep, and you’d spend the evening with Suguru, who’d made quick meals for you both. You’d sit over the worn hardwood floors, eating from shared bowls while Principal Yaga would scold you later for damaging what was already at its limit. Something about hot appliances burning the floor.

This felt similar.

An old rice cooker that hummed on the counter, two bowls, and something that steamed from a frying pan, likely pulled from the freezer.

It was almost nice.

Even if the air between you both stayed uncertain for a while, even if small talk started up and stopped before dying in the air before it could even bloom, eventually something broke through.

While Suguru was cleaning up, his voice turned lighter, almost boyish—sounding like the guy you used to know—more carefree, serious but not jaded.

“Guess what I found while looking through the cupboards?” he called out, holding up a pack of glass bottles.

You blinked, recognition flooded through your eyes. The label had long faded, but the colour and the shape of the glass were unmistakable.

“No way,” you said, pushing yourself up from the kitchen chair, reaching to separate one from the pack. “I thought they’d discontinued these.”

Suguru snorted softly. “Guess Satoru must’ve stashed ‘em out here when he was younger or something,” he explained, smiling faintly when he saw just how brightly your eyes lit up. “Wonder how long they’ve been sitting around.”

You turned the bottle around in your hand, watching the synthetic red liquid inside catch the glow of the faint lamp that hung overhead. Some of it had crystallised near the bottom, but that didn’t bother you.

“You see a bottle opener anywhere?” you asked.

Suguru sucked on his cheeks before taking a step back, checking a couple of drawers around the kitchen, shaking his head. “Nope,” he said, his tone initially laced with disappointment, before his face lit up with an idea. “Hold on, though,” he murmured, patting his pockets and pulling out a scratched-up lighter. “I know a little trick.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Isn’t that Shoko’s?”

He quietly laughed, fixing you with a quick glance. “Yeah, but she won’t miss it. She’s supposed to be quittin’ smoking anyway.”

You didn’t answer and instead just watched him work, taking in how his fingers moved with calm, almost practiced precision as if it was important for him to get it right.

Then, a pop sounded from the bottle. “And.. there… we go,” he murmured, catching the lid with his thumb. The liquid inside had long gone flat, likely with age, but Suguru seemed oddly proud as he handed it to you, the glass warm from where his fingers had been.

You took a cautious sip and winced, your face souring as you shook your head at the almost medicinal sweetness that clung unpleasantly to your tongue. “God,” you heaved, pulling the bottle back to look at it. “This stuff is way too sweet. Did I really use to like this?”

Suguru took the bottle from you, gulping down a little himself. His mouth twisted in the same way, but he took another sip anyway, handing it back a moment later. “Guess so,” he said with a shrug. “It’s really… sweet. But that must be why Satoru hid a whole stash up here.”

Your brows twitched, knitting together. A small thought tugging at the back of your mind. “Yeah?” But he hates alcohol, doesn’t he? Why would this be here, then? I doubt the people who used this place before would have even stocked something like this. This stuff used to be cheap, even for us.”

Suguru shrugged, something like doubt crossing into his mind, but he shook it off. “You’re overthinking it. Just enjoy the surprise.”

Your eyes drifted back to the bottle once more, taking in how it just looked a little too red, too vivid—like it belonged to a memory seen through rose-tinted glasses—not as it currently should have looked. Still, you chose to ignore it, letting the thought drift away.

Whatever it was, it felt nice to hold onto. A small, fleeting part of yourself that you rekindled with.

Just like the old times, too, one bottle disappeared between you both, then another, and another. Soon, your vision began to blur at the edges, the soft hush of colours melting away into something else entirely, until that off-putting feeling you had before slipped out of reach.

It felt better to hold onto whatever this was instead.

As the night deepened, however, Suguru laughed harder than he had in years. It wasn’t the tight, polite laugh that he presented to others to push them away, but something real. It reached his eyes, it softened his face—it cleared the lines of tension that otherwise had been eating at him for a long, long time.

For a moment, he looked just as you had remembered him, and with that in mind, you allowed yourself to relax, too.

For a while, you found yourself being able to laugh with him, quietly at first, until it blossomed into something that felt natural again.

Maybe something in this whole mess was still salvageable, after all.

Suguru reached for you then, his fingers brushing against your arm. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t flinch away. Maybe it was the alcohol, dulling your senses, or maybe it was something deeper, a part of you that refused to die even after everything else had gone wrong. You leaned into it, whatever it was. Into the warmth, the closeness, the illusion that you were both still the same people, sitting in some kitchen, drunk and young, a lifetime ago.

So, when his face flushed a deeper shade of red and his gaze turned heavy-lidded, you didn’t quite resist as his hands began to wander. His touch traced lingering paths along your skin—his fingertips hooking at the edge of your underwear after he’d pushed your jeans down—hungrily—clumsily—his skin too warm. It felt both familiar and foreign, but you leaned into it all the same.

Then, he broke the silence. “I missed this,” he breathed, pulling your underwear completely off by now, reaching hastily to fumble with his sweatpants, pulling out his arousal before climbing over you, grinding against your form before he was even inside.

His length probed between your legs as he tried to steady his breath, demanding closeness. As your slurred mind was able to catch up, too, you let him push inside, shuddering slightly from the contact you had been craving for so very long.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, beginning to set a steady rhythm, feeling more aggressive than he perhaps intended to. It was as if he was making up for lost time, especially from the way his hands groped at and kneaded all over your skin greedily, his palms pressing into your breasts, his fingers curling at the give of the soft flesh.

“Y-yeah,” you gasped out, beginning to pull him over you, rolling your hips to match his movements. Your legs tingled slightly from the way his girth split you open, filling you out in the way that he only could. You bit your lip as he pounded into you, clumsily, out of practice, but needily all the same, as if needing to prove something to you.

“Fuck,” he hissed, kissing your neck with hasty plucks. “The things you do t’me,” he added, rutting into you with increasing urgency. You could feel as his tip punched from the inside, your thighs trembling with pain that blurred between pleasure and discomfort, dampened slightly from the sedating effect of the booze.

Then, his grip on you noticeably tightened, and his pace quickened, holding you in place as he started to rut into you with increasing abandon. You could feel his cock pierce through you, hilting into your cunt extra hard. Your back writhed below him, and he twisted you around in his reach, as if unsatisfied with holding you in just one position alone.

No, he missed you—missed this—he was going to feel as much as he could.

“You gonna cum for me?” he encouraged, plunging himself deep and then slowly out again, repeating the motion, his lips curling when he heard your reciprocated, breathless gasps.

“Y-yeah—” you whined, squeezing your legs tight, inviting a surge of sweeping warmth to explore within your core. “Suguru, I-I…”

He followed up after you, sighing as he was met with a low groan of completion. You could feel the tension leave his body, how he relaxed over you, and instead of getting up—like you expected him to do so—he kept his arms wrapped around you, still plugging you up as he drifted off to sleep.

You didn’t mind following him into a similar state.

Closing your eyes.

~*~

After a while, you reluctantly blinked awake. The room was spinning in and out of focus, fading around the edges. Suguru’s arms had gone slack, and at some point, he must have slipped out of you. His lips were parted slightly, breathing in and out a faint snore as drool seeped from his mouth, pooling slightly into the curve of your neck.

Ever so carefully, you slipped out from beneath him. Your skin felt too hot, and the air was too thick with the aftermath of sex. You perhaps needed to step outside for a bit, or maybe to feel a splash of cold water over your face. Something just sharp enough to pull you back into yourself before the hangover fully formed within your skull.

“Need to clean up,” you mumbled sleepily, half to yourself, half to him. Just loud enough for him to loosen his arm around your waist.

You stumbled onto unsteady feet, the dark floor tilting beneath you as you made your way down from the hall and to the living room, feeling for the narrow stretch of hallway that you knew was up ahead. The corridor, like the rest of the house, was dim and cold, the dim light not reaching that far in. You could, however, feel that your arms didn’t extend as far anymore, so surely, a bathroom was close.

You reached for a door handle, pressing it down, pushing it open, and then—and then—the world, like before in the hatch, split open.

A surge of colour, not muted like before, flooded your vision. It was the same shifting consistency as before, like oil mixing with water, but brighter and far more alive. It was soft and beautiful and wrong. What should have been a room now led somewhere else, a passage that seemed to breathe in a tunnel that pulsed with quiet, living light. It stretched inward endlessly, the walls rippling as though made of liquid glass.

You glanced back behind you.

Suguru was still fast asleep.

Then, before you could think to stop yourself, you stepped forward.

And again.

And once more, until your feet began to move forward on their own.

The air around you grew thicker the deeper you went, and the sounds of the house, of the wind, and the rain, all faded until nothing was left beyond your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The light folded inward, bending space into something impossible; so beautiful but also terrifying.

The sight captivated you entirely, and the door clicked shut softly behind you, sealing you inside.

Leaving you unaware of Suguru stirring awake just moments later.

Blinking groggily into the dark—his hands reaching for you—only to find the space beside him empty.

That’s right. The lake house just up ahead was supposed to help you fix things, or so he claimed. Suguru had been distant lately, though not just from you, but from others, hell, even with himself. You understood it, at least partially: the weight of expectations stemming from jujutsu society was suffocating, especially for someone like him with the technique that he had. Nobody else could even begin to understand that slow decline of isolation that came from feeding himself on repeated negativity.

The lake house itself was lent to him by Satoru for at most, a week or two, more as a favour to an old friend, who, even he admitted, had seen better days.

Were you both really only twenty-five?

It sure didn’t feel like it.

The last ten years felt more like fifty, aging you both well past your years, at least mentally.

You watched him from the side, just like you always did, wondering when his exhaustion started to look so familiar to your own.

So when he said that the city must have been dragging him down, all of the usual bullshit that built up and piled unwelcomely on the surface, you didn’t even argue with him—you even agreed—that yes, something was very, very wrong. But then, when he let slip, perhaps accidentally or maybe on purpose, that you were always dragging him down too, making him feel worse than he already did, you went quiet.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Then, before you could spiral further…

(…And overthink things even more…)

…The car came to a stop.

Suguru didn’t say anything when it had—but when he parked, his lips parted slightly. Back when things were better, he might have nudged you to see if you were awake, tease you softly if you weren’t in that low, warm voice, but he didn’t do any of that anymore. He simply sat there in the driver’s seat staring out at nothing.

You got out by yourself at first, the crisp air hitting you hard: feeling cold and heavy, as it often did in November. Fallen leaves stuck to the soles of your boots as you took a step forward, the ground soft and damp from rain.

The lake house was a bit different in its first impression than what you had imagined: bearing quiet, polished dark wood, albeit weathered and old, standing before a stretch of water that hardly moved except for the ripples from the rain. The surface looked solid, almost like muted glass.

You looked around before finding your voice, your tone landing a little uncertain on his ears. “Does this really belong to Satoru?”

You expected something more modern, or less dramatic, that was all.

It took Suguru a moment to respond, or maybe it just took him that long to come back to himself. He got out about half a minute later, slamming the car door a bit too hard, the sound cracking through the still air. He moved around to the back, dragging both of your bags from the trunk, the pair hitting the ground with a dull, heavy thud.

“Yeah,” he said at last, blinking up at the cabin with a faint distaste written on his face. “Well, I mean, I think it’s his family’s, technically. There was another place that I had in mind, but… Satoru’s still trying to impress Utahime, so we’re stuck with this old thing.”

“...Oh,” you mumbled. “Thought she didn’t like him showing off.”

Suguru snorted lightly at your comment. “That’s what I said, too, but you know him. He’s hopeless when it comes to her.”

You nodded quietly, glancing up at the property once more, thinking that it wasn’t that bad. The house itself had a quiet sort of beauty that came with being forgotten. It matched the location it was in, standing proud before a lake that sat in the apex of a thick forest. There was a mountain that you had seen on the drive up, too, but it was gone now, swallowed up by the mist as though it had never been there at all.

Suguru followed in step beside you, scanning the house with a restless focus as he contemplated whether or not it was a good idea to rest his hand on your hip; something deeper that played on the inside of his mind that made him doubt if you wanted anything to do with him. He ran his fingers through his hair at the thought, pulling a tie loose before twisting it back into place again. You recognised this as an old nervous habit, but held off on saying anything. The air was already too sharp anyway, pushing you both towards the door and leaving whatever was left unspoken to scatter in the wind.

The moment you stepped through, however, something in the air changed. Not enough to name, it was just a slight shift, subtle enough to overlook, but it planted something within you. It felt like an overridden instinct.

The scent of damp wood and dust otherwise hung thickly inside, and your breath fogged faintly when you exhaled, even though the room wasn’t that cold.

Suguru exhaled sharply as he followed, keeping his thoughts to himself for the time being. He tossed the keys to both the car and the house onto the nearest surface and kicked off his shoes without caring where they landed, even if he was a guest in this place. Light flickered once, twice, before steadying as he probed along the switches, a low grumble from the generator he found about a minute later, the space slowly filling with warmth. He also muttered something about the wifi, but his focus faltered before the sentence had even finished.

You started up the stairs with your suitcase dragging behind you as he lingered downstairs, the wheels of it bumping against the steps.

You needed to lie down.

To process things.

Then you’d tackle the night up ahead.

Before you could get too far, however, Suguru called out for you, “I’m going to see if there’s anything in here that I can turn into dinner. Satoru said that it should be stocked up.”

You stopped about halfway up, your hand resting against the cold surface of the wall. “Yeah, okay.”

He let out a slow breath, not quite an exhale, because that much would imply that some tension had lifted. It hadn’t. “So, I’ll call you down when that’s ready, alright?” Then he hesitated, replaying in his mind how that must have sounded. Too cautious. He schooled his tone into something less hesitant, more friendly, closer to what he used to sound like. “Or, hold that thought. I’ll come get you.”

You looked back long enough to offer a small smile, but it gave more reflex than warmth, and then, you kept on climbing until you were out of sight.

Suguru stayed behind, leaning over the kitchen island with his head dipping below his shoulders. He blinked ahead, staring at the space where you had just been, pressing his palms into the smooth finish of the marble, his fingers curling as if the very act alone might anchor him. The silence stretched, long and uneven, until a half-laugh, half-scoff slipped out of his lips.

“Shit,” he whispered. “What the hell was that?”

Then a bit quieter.

“Do you even… love me anymore?”

~*~

Upstairs, the hallway was dim and narrow, coated with dust that hadn’t been disturbed in months, maybe even years. You tried a few doors until you stumbled upon what must have been the master bedroom. It was large, empty, and had a king-sized bed positioned right in the middle. As you reached to pull the curtains open, dust clouded as they fell apart, the stale air filling your lungs.

You dropped the suitcase to the side and sank onto the bed, spluttering out whatever you had just inhaled. The mattress gave in easily beneath you, and for a moment, you let it pull you down, finding serenity in the stillness as it pressed in on all sides.

Your head felt light even if the rest of you felt heavy, but that much could be blamed on the drive. It had been long, disorienting, and silent with unspoken resentment. You couldn’t shake the thought, though, that perhaps somewhere along the way, you somehow crossed over into a place that you weren’t meant to find.

And after a while, you lifted a hand towards the ceiling, just to watch your fingers move. The gesture was small, but grounding; proof that you were still here, still real, still alive. Your mind had long been fraying at the edges, any cohesive thoughts you once had slipping loose from each other. Seeing your hand sway above you gave you something to hold onto, a fleeting reminder that time hadn’t yet fully stopped.

But you couldn’t maintain that feeling for very long.

You couldn’t ignore the problem up ahead.

Your thoughts circled back:

Suguru—your high school boyfriend, now the man your life revolved around—was unravelling right beside you. Right before you. Whatever had been eating at him for years had sunk too deep to be removed cleanly. It festered within him like a parasite that made a home in his suffering. You wanted to help, still foolishly believing that something good could still come of this trip, but nothing useful came to mind to help you get there.

All you could do was just lie there, listening to the wind brush against the windows.

Wondering if you could still do anything at all.

Was that even possible anymore?

Or was there nothing left to do but to just exist with him? To linger like a stubborn memory that he wanted to be rid of, but couldn’t quite dislodge.

You swallowed hard, curling in on yourself, forcing your thoughts to be still, to be quiet for just this once. It never helped to dwell on them, did it? You tried to focus on the little things instead, like the hum of the house, the patter of the rain against the roof, of the faint creaking from the surrounding wood as the cold settled in, deep into the structure of the house.

Until something interrupted you.

A soft rattling noise that you couldn’t filter out.

Your eyes drifted next towards a vanity pushed up against the wall, the once white paint on it chipping away. Beneath it, a small hatch lay low, built into the panelling. It was almost missable, half hidden behind an old pouf stool. You blinked, narrowing your eyes, staring longer than you meant to.

A faint clattering sound followed, like something repeatedly shifting against metal.

You tried to rationalise it at first, knowing that’s how Suguru would handle it, so you told yourself that it was nothing. Old houses made noise all the time, and this one probably did so all the time, with or without company inside. Realistically speaking, also, there couldn’t have been any curses out here either—not if this property belonged to the Gojo clan—they surely took care of their estates, lived-in, forgotten or otherwise.

Therefore, it was just your imagination, then.

You pulled out your phone a moment later, needing something to distract yourself with, even if just to check the time. Fifteen minutes had gone by without you noticing, and you hadn’t accomplished a single thing at all.

You had one bar of service, no wifi just yet. You thought about going downstairs to ask Suguru for the password, if only to hear his voice again, but then—

The hatch shook again.

Louder this time.

Maybe it was an old laundry chute that made noise when the wind caught it just right, or something similar. You tried to convince yourself of just that, even as the sound deepened and vibrated through the floorboards beneath the frame of the bed.

You should have ignored it, but…

Curiosity pushed through reason.

Albeit tentatively, you climbed off the bed and crouched down to get a better look. The rattling grew into a low rumble that overwhelmed you with dread, but you didn’t stop, needing to know what exactly this was.

You reached out and then you hesitated, your fingers stopping at the handle, but then…

You pulled it open.

At first, inside was darkness—just as you expected, but then, a surge of muted colours started to spiral and shift before your very eyes. A strange, desaturated glow that heaved in and out like something breathing—something alive. A narrow tunnel stretched inwards, but it was too small for anything human—at least adult—to fit through. It was surely deep, though, far enough to swallow sound. The sight made your stomach churn, your balance waver, and then—and then—a voice cut through, pulling you out of where you didn’t belong.

“Hey, what are you—”

It was Suguru’s voice.

At first, he startled you, and you flinched, jerking your whole body back. Your head caught on the corner of the vanity as you scrambled away.

“Shit, ow…” you cursed under your breath, pressing a hand to soothe the sore spot.

“—doing?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

You blinked up at him, then quickly glanced at the open hatch. Whatever had been twisting around inside of it was long gone. It looked ordinary now, just an old fuse box with frayed wires fitted into the wall.

Your voice came out uncertain, “Thought I…” you murmured, unsure how to word exactly what you were doing. “I thought I heard something.”

Suguru frowned, but he crouched to take a better look. His brows knitted together as he took in the sight of the faulty fuse box, then back at you, his expression softening a moment later as if he’d found an easy explanation.

“Old place like this, probably just the house settling,” he muttered, brushing the dust from his hands before gently pulling you back, in case it decided to spark or shock you. “Plenty of room to sleep elsewhere if it bothers you.”

You gulped, choosing not to bring up what you just saw. “R-right,” you chose to say instead, even if the hesitancy was still ripe in your tone. The image of what you had seen just seconds before burned into your mind. You couldn’t have imagined it—surely not—you were tired, yes, but not enough to hallucinate something so vividly clear like that.

Suguru hesitated too, maybe doubting your state of mind, but he brushed it off as nerves or exhaustion. This was a stressful situation, not to mention a new place. You were likely just tired. Taking a deep, heavy breath, he chose to press forward with something grounding, something to steady you in light of everything else.

“Food’s ready,” he said, nodding towards the door. “Maybe we can sit while we eat. Talk. You know, just like we used to.”

You paused before rising, dusting your hands against your jeans. You tried to smile, softening your voice as you replied to him. “Okay,” you simply said, before following after him downstairs.

You were still unsettled, but you were also too tired to think about it anymore.

Whatever you had just witnessed could wait, and then maybe you could investigate it again later.

Or maybe you’d let yourself forget about it altogether.

Just like you did with everything else.

~*~

Dinner passed by at a comfortable pace. To Suguru’s credit, his effort was clearer than it had ever been before in the last couple of months. He made a full spread from scratch and had a low light casting a warm glow over the old, falling apart kitchen. Such a scene reminded you of the dorms all the way back then at Jujutsu Tech, after everyone had gone off to sleep, and you’d spend the evening with Suguru, who’d made quick meals for you both. You’d sit over the worn hardwood floors, eating from shared bowls while Principal Yaga would scold you later for damaging what was already at its limit. Something about hot appliances burning the floor.

This felt similar.

An old rice cooker that hummed on the counter, two bowls, and something that steamed from a frying pan, likely pulled from the freezer.

It was almost nice.

Even if the air between you both stayed uncertain for a while, even if small talk started up and stopped before dying in the air before it could even bloom, eventually something broke through.

While Suguru was cleaning up, his voice turned lighter, almost boyish—sounding like the guy you used to know—more carefree, serious but not jaded.

“Guess what I found while looking through the cupboards?” he called out, holding up a pack of glass bottles.

You blinked, recognition flooded through your eyes. The label had long faded, but the colour and the shape of the glass were unmistakable.

“No way,” you said, pushing yourself up from the kitchen chair, reaching to separate one from the pack. “I thought they’d discontinued these.”

Suguru snorted softly. “Guess Satoru must’ve stashed ‘em out here when he was younger or something,” he explained, smiling faintly when he saw just how brightly your eyes lit up. “Wonder how long they’ve been sitting around.”

You turned the bottle around in your hand, watching the synthetic red liquid inside catch the glow of the faint lamp that hung overhead. Some of it had crystallised near the bottom, but that didn’t bother you.

“You see a bottle opener anywhere?” you asked.

Suguru sucked on his cheeks before taking a step back, checking a couple of drawers around the kitchen, shaking his head. “Nope,” he said, his tone initially laced with disappointment, before his face lit up with an idea. “Hold on, though,” he murmured, patting his pockets and pulling out a scratched-up lighter. “I know a little trick.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Isn’t that Shoko’s?”

He quietly laughed, fixing you with a quick glance. “Yeah, but she won’t miss it. She’s supposed to be quittin’ smoking anyway.”

You didn’t answer and instead just watched him work, taking in how his fingers moved with calm, almost practiced precision as if it was important for him to get it right.

Then, a pop sounded from the bottle. “And.. there… we go,” he murmured, catching the lid with his thumb. The liquid inside had long gone flat, likely with age, but Suguru seemed oddly proud as he handed it to you, the glass warm from where his fingers had been.

You took a cautious sip and winced, your face souring as you shook your head at the almost medicinal sweetness that clung unpleasantly to your tongue. “God,” you heaved, pulling the bottle back to look at it. “This stuff is way too sweet. Did I really use to like this?”

Suguru took the bottle from you, gulping down a little himself. His mouth twisted in the same way, but he took another sip anyway, handing it back a moment later. “Guess so,” he said with a shrug. “It’s really… sweet. But that must be why Satoru hid a whole stash up here.”

Your brows twitched, knitting together. A small thought tugging at the back of your mind. “Yeah?” But he hates alcohol, doesn’t he? Why would this be here, then? I doubt the people who used this place before would have even stocked something like this. This stuff used to be cheap, even for us.”

Suguru shrugged, something like doubt crossing into his mind, but he shook it off. “You’re overthinking it. Just enjoy the surprise.”

Your eyes drifted back to the bottle once more, taking in how it just looked a little too red, too vivid—like it belonged to a memory seen through rose-tinted glasses—not as it currently should have looked. Still, you chose to ignore it, letting the thought drift away.

Whatever it was, it felt nice to hold onto. A small, fleeting part of yourself that you rekindled with.

Just like the old times, too, one bottle disappeared between you both, then another, and another. Soon, your vision began to blur at the edges, the soft hush of colours melting away into something else entirely, until that off-putting feeling you had before slipped out of reach.

It felt better to hold onto whatever this was instead.

As the night deepened, however, Suguru laughed harder than he had in years. It wasn’t the tight, polite laugh that he presented to others to push them away, but something real. It reached his eyes, it softened his face—it cleared the lines of tension that otherwise had been eating at him for a long, long time.

For a moment, he looked just as you had remembered him, and with that in mind, you allowed yourself to relax, too.

For a while, you found yourself being able to laugh with him, quietly at first, until it blossomed into something that felt natural again.

Maybe something in this whole mess was still salvageable, after all.

Suguru reached for you then, his fingers brushing against your arm. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t flinch away. Maybe it was the alcohol, dulling your senses, or maybe it was something deeper, a part of you that refused to die even after everything else had gone wrong. You leaned into it, whatever it was. Into the warmth, the closeness, the illusion that you were both still the same people, sitting in some kitchen, drunk and young, a lifetime ago.

So, when his face flushed a deeper shade of red and his gaze turned heavy-lidded, you didn’t quite resist as his hands began to wander. His touch traced lingering paths along your skin—his fingertips hooking at the edge of your underwear after he’d pushed your jeans down—hungrily—clumsily—his skin too warm. It felt both familiar and foreign, but you leaned into it all the same.

Then, he broke the silence. “I missed this,” he breathed, pulling your underwear completely off by now, reaching hastily to fumble with his sweatpants, pulling out his arousal before climbing over you, grinding against your form before he was even inside.

His length probed between your legs as he tried to steady his breath, demanding closeness. As your slurred mind was able to catch up, too, you let him push inside, shuddering slightly from the contact you had been craving for so very long.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, beginning to set a steady rhythm, feeling more aggressive than he perhaps intended to. It was as if he was making up for lost time, especially from the way his hands groped at and kneaded all over your skin greedily, his palms pressing into your breasts, his fingers curling at the give of the soft flesh.

“Y-yeah,” you gasped out, beginning to pull him over you, rolling your hips to match his movements. Your legs tingled slightly from the way his girth split you open, filling you out in the way that he only could. You bit your lip as he pounded into you, clumsily, out of practice, but needily all the same, as if needing to prove something to you.

“Fuck,” he hissed, kissing your neck with hasty plucks. “The things you do t’me,” he added, rutting into you with increasing urgency. You could feel as his tip punched from the inside, your thighs trembling with pain that blurred between pleasure and discomfort, dampened slightly from the sedating effect of the booze.

Then, his grip on you noticeably tightened, and his pace quickened, holding you in place as he started to rut into you with increasing abandon. You could feel his cock pierce through you, hilting into your cunt extra hard. Your back writhed below him, and he twisted you around in his reach, as if unsatisfied with holding you in just one position alone.

No, he missed you—missed this—he was going to feel as much as he could.

“You gonna cum for me?” he encouraged, plunging himself deep and then slowly out again, repeating the motion, his lips curling when he heard your reciprocated, breathless gasps.

“Y-yeah—” you whined, squeezing your legs tight, inviting a surge of sweeping warmth to explore within your core. “Suguru, I-I…”

He followed up after you, sighing as he was met with a low groan of completion. You could feel the tension leave his body, how he relaxed over you, and instead of getting up—like you expected him to do so—he kept his arms wrapped around you, still plugging you up as he drifted off to sleep.

You didn’t mind following him into a similar state.

Closing your eyes.

~*~

After a while, you reluctantly blinked awake. The room was spinning in and out of focus, fading around the edges. Suguru’s arms had gone slack, and at some point, he must have slipped out of you. His lips were parted slightly, breathing in and out a faint snore as drool seeped from his mouth, pooling slightly into the curve of your neck.

Ever so carefully, you slipped out from beneath him. Your skin felt too hot, and the air was too thick with the aftermath of sex. You perhaps needed to step outside for a bit, or maybe to feel a splash of cold water over your face. Something just sharp enough to pull you back into yourself before the hangover fully formed within your skull.

“Need to clean up,” you mumbled sleepily, half to yourself, half to him. Just loud enough for him to loosen his arm around your waist.

You stumbled onto unsteady feet, the dark floor tilting beneath you as you made your way down from the hall and to the living room, feeling for the narrow stretch of hallway that you knew was up ahead. The corridor, like the rest of the house, was dim and cold, the dim light not reaching that far in. You could, however, feel that your arms didn’t extend as far anymore, so surely, a bathroom was close.

You reached for a door handle, pressing it down, pushing it open, and then—and then—the world, like before in the hatch, split open.

A surge of colour, not muted like before, flooded your vision. It was the same shifting consistency as before, like oil mixing with water, but brighter and far more alive. It was soft and beautiful and wrong. What should have been a room now led somewhere else, a passage that seemed to breathe in a tunnel that pulsed with quiet, living light. It stretched inward endlessly, the walls rippling as though made of liquid glass.

You glanced back behind you.

Suguru was still fast asleep.

Then, before you could think to stop yourself, you stepped forward.

And again.

And once more, until your feet began to move forward on their own.

The air around you grew thicker the deeper you went, and the sounds of the house, of the wind, and the rain, all faded until nothing was left beyond your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The light folded inward, bending space into something impossible; so beautiful but also terrifying.

The sight captivated you entirely, and the door clicked shut softly behind you, sealing you inside.

Leaving you unaware of Suguru stirring awake just moments later.

Blinking groggily into the dark—his hands reaching for you—only to find the space beside him empty.

"And," Shoko retorts, "apparently Utahime said that they got a transfer student just a few days ago. Didn't tell me. Now I'm asking her for info."

Pestering sounds like the more appropriate word, judging by the speed of her thumbs.

"Huh," Satoru muses, only slightly interested. "What year?"

"Fourth."

"Boo," Suguru murmurs, smacking the magazine down on his bed. "When are we getting someone our year. This shit's getting boring."

"Nanami and Ijichi's getting that newer first year," Satoru points out, and Shoko scoffs.

"Yeah. Another guy. Kyoto gets all the girls, it's unfair."

A loud ping interrupts their conversation—

"Oh, she's literally a transfer. From—wait, where the hell?"

Satoru groans, stretching like a cat as he flops on his belly instead. "I don't care. When's Yaga-sensei installing an AC unit to the dorms?"

Suguru answers by giving in, taking his shirt off then tossing it against the wall, watching it fall on the floor with a heavy thud.

Suguru stands with Satoru, Nanami, New-First-Year, and Ijichi on the far side of the field as Shoko—short as she can be—waddles to Utahime, Mei Mei, and… her. Shoko is already looping an arm around Utahime's, and their chatters echo through the invisible veil around the school. Something about Shoko being curious about how she is, and Mei Mei recalling her first impression of her.

Being in a school with a total population of eight (including staff members) does that to you, he supposes. He watches with a scrunched nose as Shoko raises a hand to poke at her arm, like prodding at a school fish, trying to elicit some kind of reaction.

Well—

Suguru isn't the type to mind new faces, so he won't complain. Especially if they are pretty.

And he would know if she was pretty or not if Mei Mei would just get the fuck out of the way.

"What's she like?" He asks, trying to be nonchalant, to Satoru who quickly shrugs.

"Pretty. I guess."

New-First-Year raises an eyebrow at Satoru.

"You see her?"

"I see everything."

Nanami scoffs.

Suguru is going crazy.

Satoru's words keep on ringing in his head—Pretty. I guess.

Well, he's fucking wrong. She's gorgeous. Beautiful. What's another word for it? Fucking gorgeous.

And Suguru can't have her— fuck, he can't have her.

Maybe he can.

He doesn't know how to do this. It should come naturally, but there's something so daunting in approaching an upperclassman. Or maybe it's just her—he has no issue poking fun at Utahime or smoking with Mei Mei behind the school building. So it's probably just her.

He sat at the dining hall with Satoru blabbing his ears off about some band performing under the bridge near Akihabara, and Suguru had to physically stop his eyes from darting to where she's sitting, sandwiched between Shoko and Mei Mei, munching on the pickle side dish Utahime swears is good for your skin.

When Satoru went to grab a soda from the vending machine, his eyes loll to her direction and before he can think, he looks away. His heart beat loud enough to pulse on his ears; cock twitching with interest at the sight of her crossed legs, the swell of her tits under her uniform.

Fuck. He's pathetic.

So now, he's standing there in the shower, one hand propped up against the tiles while the other fists his pulsating cock, his tip swollen and leaking and angry at the thought of her lips around the chopstick as she giggles at something Shoko said.

Suguru grunts, his breath stuttering as he imagines her on her knees, small hands on his thighs, lips on his boxers—

Shit.

He came.

Spurts of thick, hot cum paints the tile, white and miserable and alone.

He came from just the thought of her lips on his clothed cock.

Suguru's breath eventually, and he curses softly, watching his dick limp, twitching again when flashes of the way she bats her eyes appear in his mind.

He turns the water on.

He tries to be as far away from her as possible.

Food? He wasn't hungry. Late night talks? He took melatonins.

He just doesn't know how to deal with this— fuck. What do you even call it? Crush?

And even right then, during the actual Goodwill Event, Suguru chooses to patrol the edges of the forest, afraid that if he ventures too in, he would meet her. And he'd have to fight her.

It's fuck-all-hell embarrassing to have his cock stand up straight the moment he catches a small whiff of her scent. What even is that shit? Fuck, like— like pines? Or is pines just the trees around them? Maybe it's something earthy, something sweet, and something—

A lesser man would have missed the shadow on the corner of his eyes, but even as a horny teenager, he still is Geto Suguru.

The way she moves is instantaneous.

Her elbow is against his throat; he swallows thickly.

One of his hands grip her free wrist, and the other on her upper arm, holding her just far enough to meet her yes but close enough to feel her knee on near his thighs, near his c—

The forest suddenly stills around them.

"…Senpai," he says—croaks—after a moment of just needless just staring into each other's eyes.

"Mhm," she says shortly. She doesn't move much, but Suguru can feel her bicep flexing under his finger, like she's testing how she can get away from his grip. She should know by now that the only chance she has in running away is by his grace. "You."

He blinks at her.

He loosens his grip and she retracts the elbow on his neck, her palm flattening but before she can do anything, like snap his neck in half, he grabs that wrist too.

"You don't know my name," he accuses.

She raises both eyebrows in surprise before huffing. "I do."

"Okay," Suguru's voice comes out lower than he intended. "What is it?"

Her throat works.

And—perhaps, here, he is the lesser man—she snatches both hands away from his wobbly grip. She jumps backward once, and then twice more.

"Suguru," she finally says. His fingers twitch at the sound of his given name in her voice. "You don't come to the roof a lot."

The roof. Shoko's favorite spot to smoke. Somewhere most students—even Ijichi—have been spending the nights just talking.

"It's Geto," he relents.

"Satoru-kun says it's Suguru."

"Fine. Call me Suguru."

She furrows her eyebrows, watching him with predatory eyes, like she just can't seem to figure him out. Hell, maybe she can't.

"Geto Suguru," she tests the name on her tongue and he swallows thickly.

Then, the sound of a twig breaking.

Their heads snap towards the direction, but when Suguru turn to look at her, she is already gone.

She's fucking annoying.

Ever since the Goodwill Event, she's been fucking insufferable.

And by "insufferable", Suguru absolutely means accidentally brushing her ass against his crotch every time she has to "reach something". By "insufferable", he means that she has been staring at him with fuck me eyes and turning to grin sweetly at Shoko when she asked her what her lip gloss is.

"It's cherry flavored," she giggled, "got it at the Asakusa Don Quijote."

Haibara—the New-First-Year—managed to drag Suguru to their rooftop meetings, and she found a comfortable spot way too close to where Suguru sat. And nobody noticed. Not even Satoru. Suguru knows because had Satoru noticed, he would have been insufferable.

That night again, he beats his cock against the wall of his bedroom.

Two days before Kyoto's return, Shoko drags everyone out for karaoke. The plan was to hangout at Shibuya and wait until the sun rises, but a cop figured their plan out and accused them rather nicely of loitering. So now, they're in a karaoke room enough to fit 15 people, blasting songs just to speak over the vibrating basslines.

Suguru sits in the middle of the couch. The creaky vinyl under him shrieks every time he shifts, watching as Satoru belts pathetically at a karaoke classic while Utahime tries her best not to shove an entire cup of soda down his face in irritation. A tiny disco ball hangs from the ceiling, shining broken lights on the walls and on her face. 

Fuck.

Suguru barely even registered her face. He doesn't want to. Maybe he's scared.

They're out of their uniform, so he decided to throw on some jeans with a loose graphic t-shirt, something he probably stole from Satoru or Yaga, while she dressed up.

Well.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe he's overreacting.

Her skirt hangs just above where her knees are and on top of it, she's wearing a little fluffy sweater. Something trendy, something he's seen other girls wearing. It looks so different on her, though.

She sits next to him, as she always does, with one leg crossed over the other, laughing as Haibara and Ijichi do a rendition of Japanese A Whole New World, her laughter bruising under his skin, digging into the pit of his stomach, and awakening his cock from its slumber.

When 1 A.M. rolls around, Utahime stands. She stretches her arms over her head, yawning, and Mei Mei grins down at the rest who were sitting.

“Think Iori and I are turning in for the night.”

“Aw, what?” Satoru’s complaints immediately bounce off the walls and Suguru lets out a deep laugh, his head thrown back.

Shoko whines. “Already?”

“It’s 1 in the morning,” Utahime grumbles.

“Haibara and I too—”

Before mood killer Nanami can even finish his sentence, Satoru throws a straw wrapper on his head. Nanami glares at him and Haibara sheepishly shrugs his shoulders. Ijichi also scrambles to stand.

“Got a mission up in Kanagawa. Shinkansen leaves at seven tomorrow. Sorry, senpai.”

“Boo!”

Mei Mei's eyes dart towards her.

"You coming with us?"

She shrugs, shaking her head. "Nah. Might as well get the Tokyo experience, huh?"

"So it's just the four of us now?" Satoru whines, and Shoko scoffs.

"You all hate us."

"Obviously," Utahime says—joking—before shrugging. "I'll literally die if I have to walk home in the morning."

"We'll wait for the first train," Satoru points out.

"I don't want to," Utahime grumbles. She grabs her handbag, looping an arm around Mei Mei's, dragging her out. The first years follow suit. "See you all at breakfast."

The door clicks behind them.

Shoko dramatically falls on the couch. The room feels too big now.

"We have been betrayed."

Then, the sound of stomach rumbling.

"Hungry," Satoru, annoyingly, points out, and Shoko weakly kicks at his knee.

"I'm hungry," she groans, pushing herself to sit. "Should we order something?"

“There was a Sukiya down the street,” Suguru shrugs. He lazily grabs the tab to pick out more random songs to queue, to fill in the sudden silence haunting the room.

"Let's just go to the Sukiya—"

Satoru stands and grabs Shoko by the arm, pulling her limp body to a stance.

"Nooooooooo—"

He rolls his eyes, turning to her.

"Senpai, wanna come?"

She exhales quickly, a short and amused sound, her feet propped against the edge of the table in the middle of the surrounding couches. “Can you just get me medium size triple cheese to go? No onions. I'll pay you back, Satoru-kun.”

“Noted,” Satoru nods. "Suguru?"

"I'm good," Suguru stills, his palm suddenly sweating. He curls and uncurls his fingers, before curling them again on his thighs. "Can you get me some cream puffs from Lawson?"

"Yeah—" Satoru grunts as Shoko limps against him. "Fuck sake, Shoko—just use your fucking feet—"

As soon as the door closes behind them, she is on him.

Suguru’s mind doesn’t register it at first—the way her skirt rides up her ass, her thighs bracketing his hips, her fingers fisting the collar of his rundown graphic shirt—but his hands do, creeping up hastily along her hamstrings before digging his blunt nails into the flesh. The faint sound of the idol song—aitakatta aitakatta aitakatta yes!—blurs into background noise as her lips find their way against him, their teeth clashing as her fingers tug the hair on the nape of his neck.

The kiss is desperate, loud, unrestrained, and it tastes like cherry.

And he has never done this before.

He has never kissed anyone before, moreover on the karaoke’s broken vinyl couch, moreover with the heat of their core grinding down on the interested length of his half cock under the suddenly all-too-tight fabric of his pants.

“Fuck— senpai—”

She pulls away, just in time for Suguru to see the string of spit connecting their bottom lips. The sight is dirty, more than he has ever done to himself or anyone.

He gulps.

"What?" She demands, rolling her hips against his clothed cock, and he can cum right there—

A small whine escapes his throat.

"Oh. Fuck."

She stills for a moment before grinning—wide and wicked and nasty. She rolls her hips again, her cotton panties—wet—leaks against his jeans, one hand going to wrap itself around his throat.

"You never kissed anyone before?"

Suguru stammers—

"Nothing to be ashamed of," her grin widens. "Though you have been telling me to fuck you all week with those eyes."

"I have not," he argues, fingers digging into her ass, and she gasps, arching her back. She looks over her shoulder, down at his hands that disappear below the hem of her skirt, pressing her tits against his face in the process.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Suguru breathes against the itchy fabric of her sweater, looking up at her between her tits and when she looks back down at him, she grins, tightening the grip around his throat. She leans down to press her lips against his jaw, suckling softly as small whimpers fill his ear. His cock retaliates at the sound—

Then she pulls away.

"Senpai—" He protests, but it dies as soon as she settles on the floor, between his thighs, fingers already unbuckling his jeans while her free hand rubs him over his jeans.

Heat creeps up the nape of his neck; he straightens up, both hands covering hers.

“Senpai, wait, I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” she chides with a small huff of laughter, smacking his hands away, unzipping just enough for his cock to barely breathe under the confinements of his boxers. She leans down, keeping those half-lidded eyes stuck on him, and presses a plump kiss over the fabric.

This is where he cums in his fantasies. But he's still standing, his cock is hard as ever as she pulls it out

“Shit—” His right hand fists her hair while the other one finds purchase on the couch. “Senpai, not here—”

“You talk too much," she lifts her head to drop some spit down his angry tip. Suguru watches with his lips parting, her spit rolling down the base of his hard cock, down on his balls. "You're already holding my hair. You're basically a natural."

"This is not funny, senpai."

"I'm not trying to be funny."

She raises an eyebrow as she wraps her fingers around his cock, her other hand on his thigh.

"You've never had anyone suck your dick before?" All doe-eyed, she looks up at him. He can see the mischief under her lashes, even as she bats it to seem casual.

"Fuck—" He bites his lips when she licks a long stripe from the bottom of his cock up to the tip, where precum is already leaking from. She kisses the base of his cock, licking his balls just to watch him wriggle. "…No," he eventually answers, breathless, his voice low.

She keeps a steady pace with her hand, watching his face for every minute expression.

"Then, I'm about to change your life, baby."

Baby.

This is fucking unfair.

His cock twitches and she laughs in delight, kissing his tip.

"You like that?" She coos, "baby?"

"Senpai—shit—please… please, j-just fucking—"

"Mhm?"

She opens her mouth, taking just a little of his tip in her warm mouth before pulling it out.

"Just fucking— just fucking suck."

She giggles, her hand deliberately slowing down, her grip tightening.

"That how you speak to your upperclassman?"

Suguru whines.

"Fine, fine." She spits more on his tip. "You better say thank you after this."

And then he's in her.

Suguru could black out at that moment.

Her mouth is warm. Hot. It's not like anything he's ever felt before—his breath heaves as she takes him in deeper, tighter.

Her cheeks hollow as his fingers scrap her scalp. Both her hands now are around his cock, making up where she cannot take him in, and even so, her eyes are bright with unshed tears as a small cry leaves her throat.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his neck and face red at this point, her throat vibrating with her cries. "Senpai—"

She pulls him out, breathing in deeply before going into a fit of small giggles.

"You're so fucking cute," she coos, kissing the side of his cock, her face looking small next to his girth. "You got a big dick, huh, Suguru-kun?"

Suguru's heartbeat stammers.

"Y-yeah?" He clears his throat as she hums, taking him again. She bobs her head before letting go again.

"Yeah," she bites her lips. "Biggest I've had so far, I think."

His gut coils with heat. Maybe she's lying—but, fuck. He wants to believe her.

"Can't even take all of you in," she points out, and it makes it worse.

"Lucky you," he mutters, his hand tightening at her hair, silently encouraging her to take him again. 

She grins up at him. "Lucky me."

And she's taking him in again. Suguru's eyes roll up, his head hitting the back of the couch as he slides down the vinyl, getting comfortable. She grunts in protest, but doesn't stop her ministrations, bobbing her head in a slow, rhythmic pace.

"F-fuck," he grunts, his hips bucking up to his face. "More… m-more, senpai, please—"

She lets go of one hand and takes him in deeper, his head hitting the back of his throat and—

"Fuuck," he whines as she gargles, the wet sound echoing against the padded walls.

When she pulls away again, his cock is wet with her spit, her drool runs down her chin and down her neck. Her lip gloss smudges on her lips, on his cock, and her eye makeup ruined at her tears.

“You better cum quick,” she murmurs, her voice an amused giggle as she licks up another stripe from his balls, the base of his cock, to the slit on his head. Her hand works lazy strokes on his girth. “Satoru-kun and Shoko-chan are returning soon—any minute now.”

Suguru curses; he is already imagining Shoko smacking the back of Satoru’s head for messing up their orders, them entering the room in devastating shock to see their best friend getting absolutely abolished by a pretty senpai.

The thought makes his blood run cold.

Then bright hot.

"Oh, shit," she giggles, continuing to give him lengthy strokes, the tip of his cock nudging her cheek with every move. "Did you like that? You're a—what was it?—an exhibitionist?"

"Senpai," his voice is a whine; a little, desperate whine. She squeezes him and he lets out another surprised ngh— f-fuck, his hips buckling up to her touch, a silent plea for more.

"You can do it, Suguru-kun," she teases, her voice a mocking drawl, but she continues kissing and sucking on just his tip. Heat travels across his chest; his balls tighten as she whispers, "Come on, you're shaking, I can—ohhh…"

She lets out another mean laugh when he finally cums, her words doing more than her throat did to undo him. He sputters as his cum comes in short, hot strings of white, painting her lips, cheeks, nose, and sweater. She closes the distance between her lips and his cock as he continues to cum, and when he stops, she smacks her lips, as though assessing the taste of his cum.

"What?" He huffs, face red—this shit is too embarrassing. She pulls away, wiping the spend left on the edge of his lips in her mouth as she swallows his cum. His breath hitches.

"You taste good," she purrs, her voice still teasing as she blindly grasps for the tissue box. As she dabs on her face, her hand still on his cock squeezes him, and he whimpers pathetically.

She giggles.

Standing, she sits on one of his thighs, her own rubbing against his limping dick as she wraps her arms around his neck, taking him in a slow kiss. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer.

He can taste himself on her lips, swollen from sucking him, mixed with her cherry lip gloss, all musky and tangy.

When she pulls away, he chases her lips with another whine.

"You were so good," she coos, her thumb rubbing her bottom lips. "You came so quickly. Was it good?"

Suguru nods, looking up at her, his eyes like a begging puppy.

"You liked it, baby?"

He noses her throat, nodding. 

"…Yeah."

She throws her head back, pushing him away to grab his face, making him look at her.

"Good," she purrs. "Now I'm going to go to the bathroom and redo my makeup. You clean up, put yourself back into your pants all nice and neat. Understand me?"

He nods again. "…Yeah."

"Good boy," she laughs softly, pressing another kiss on his lips before going to stand.

She tosses the crumpled tissues in her hand to the bin, bending over just slightly to grab her makeup pouch—and to tease him—before getting to the door. She looks over her shoulder, giving him a small wink, before leaving the room.

Suguru groans, rubbing a hand down his face before letting reality sink in. He tucks his softening cock into his boxers, zipping up his boxers, before Satoru or Shoko can barge in the room, catching him with his limp dick out and about.

He looks at the floor, where she was moments ago, then towards the door, where she disappeared.

"Fuck," he mutters, running a hand through the strands of his hair, now wet with sweat.

The spout of your shower turns on, and he pushes your bedroom door open, socks padding on carpeted floors as he slips inside without a sound.

He thinks of you as his pants tighten, your little sigh as you step into the water going straight to his groin. 

He can feel the steam in your ensuite bathroom seep through the crack in the door, and he can only imagine what you’re doing in there. 

Are you touching yourself? He thinks, heading to the bathroom door. You’re filthy, he groans internally; you leave your underwear lying on the floor in your room while you shower. He picks them up, bringing the soft cotton to his nose. So sweet, he thinks, eyes rolling back into his head. His tongue darts out to taste the crotch, savoring the sweet and tangy flavor on your underwear. 

And, he thinks of you as he wraps your panties around his cock, stuffed in his fist as he jerks himself off. 

He groans, biting the heel of his free hand, as he pumps his fist, the black fabric woven around his fingers as his grip slips from the base of his cock to the tip. 

He’s gotten pretty good at doing this quickly, letting his mind wander to what your naked body might look like in the shower, spurring him on as he fists his thick cock and grunts, muffling the sound with his hand. He’s getting close now, hips bucking into his hand as his hand slides around himself, the fabric of your panties adding just the right amount of friction. 

How he'd love to see you with your legs up on his shoulders as he pushes the head of his cock between your thighs, your soaking wet panties shifting against his length. Just the thought alone has his cock twitching and begging to come into your pretty black panties. 

He hears you make a sound in the shower and his head perks up, What was that? He wants to hear it again. You’re such a dirty girl, he thinks as he imagines you using the showerhead on yourself. Do you have one of those? You would… his filthy girl would be doing something nasty like that behind closed doors. 

All the thoughts he’s having are driving him insane, and he grips his cock tighter, squeezing around the head to finish himself off. He comes, right on the crotch of your panties, fucking into the fabric as he spills himself out. 

Carefully, he massages his seed into the fabric, leaving them wet and thick with his come. He sets them back down on the floor next to your shorts, tucking himself back into his pants. 

The water shuts off, and he slips out of your room, closing the door soundlessly. 

–

You find yourself in Suguru’s room. He’s out buying groceries, so you snuck into his room. You’re rummaging through his top drawer, looking around frantically as you find what you’re looking for. 

Black boxer briefs. 

You slowly step out of your shorts and underwear, leaving them pooled on the floor at your feet. You slide on his boxers and have to stifle a whimper as the heat in your center grows at just the feeling of the fabric touching you. You bite your lip, heading over to his bed with your vibrator tucked into your left hand. Laying down, you smell the fragrance of the expensive shampoo he uses leftover on his pillow. It sends you reeling. Long hair falling over broad shoulders, you imagine him in the kitchen, sweats hanging low on his hips as you click the vibrator on to the first setting. 

Placing the bullet over your clothed clit, you moan, the sensation almost as good as you imagine Suguru’s fingers would feel, doing little circles over the bud. You’re soaking, the fabric of his boxer briefs dampening as you keep the pressure of the vibrator over your clit. 

You left a crack in the door so you could hear in case Suguru got home, and you whine, thinking about him walking in on you. It makes your cheeks heat and your legs clench, juices pooling in his underwear. 

You’re getting close, you can feel it. Just like how you imagine you feel Suguru’s hot breath on your neck as he’s pummeling into you, and you slip your vibrator under the waistband of the underwear. The direct contact has your head spinning, hips grinding into it as you chase your high. 

“Suguru, Sugu…” you whisper breathlessly, begging the ghost of him you’ve conjured up to let you come. 

Come for me, baby. You imagine him saying, and you’re right there. 

You hear the keys jingle in the door and you cry out, biting your lip as you come.

-

Suguru hears you as his keys unlock the door. My filthy girl, while I’m not home… he thinks, pants growing tighter. When he steps into the apartment, he drops the groceries off at the counter before making his way down the hallway to your bedroom door, pressing his ear up against it. He needs to hear you panting as you come down from your high. But he doesn’t hear anything. 

-

You scramble, sliding his underwear off and tossing them somewhere randomly as you hastily put on your own underwear and shorts. You stuff your vibrator into the back pocket of your shorts and sneak to his bedroom door. When you open it, you see his own form pressed against your own door.

“Suguru?” You ask, taken aback. 

He turns quickly to face you, but then a confused look flickers in his expression. 

“What were you doing in my room?” He asks, face unreadable. 

“I was… looking for my shirt. I think our laundry got mixed up,” you lie smoothly. 

“Didn’t find it? I’ll help you look,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips as he walks towards his room. Suguru knows what you were doing. It lights a fire in him.

You put your hands out to stop him. 

“No, that’s okay.”

“I think I can find it.”

“No really, it’s fine.” 

You’re suddenly very aware that you left his underwear out and you’d really like to stop him from finding those. You’ll just have to sneak back in to throw them in the laundry later.

“Let’s put the groceries away,” you say, backing him up.

“I’d like to go to my room, please,” he smiles, squinting his eyes closed. It makes you throb. Oh, he’s gonna catch me, you think, and it does something to you. 

“...Okay,” you say, stepping out of the way. You follow behind Suguru as he goes into the room, eyes scanning for the discarded underwear. You spot them, quickly stepping to the side to retrieve them and you ball them in your hands and hide them behind your back. Suguru notices this movement and turns. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, cautiously.

“Nothing.” 

“What do you have behind your back?” 

“Nothing. Why so many questions?” 

“Let me see.” He comes closer to you, grabbing your arm. 

“No.” 

He pulls your arm, and you fight back against his grip for a minute, but he quickly overpowers you. His underwear falls to the floor in between the two of you and you hang your head in shame. 

“...Why did you have these?” He asks, picking them up off the floor, running his fingers along the damp fabric. “They’re wet.” 

“I…” 

“Were you… wearing these?” He asks, grinning. 

“No, I was…” You fail to come up with an excuse. 

“Were you getting off on it?” His voice dips low, hand coming to tip your chin up. 

“Pervert…” you say, shaking your head and closing your eyes tight.

“Maybe. But I’m not the one who masturbated in someone else's underwear.” He smiles that same unreadable smile. 

You groan, heat flooding to your cheeks and in between your legs. Your eyes open and your gaze finds his, his face closer to you than you would’ve expected. 

“You’re not denying it.” 

“I…” the words catch in your throat, leaving you to choke out another sound. 

–

How you found yourself under Suguru you’ll never know. He’s got his head between your thighs, tongue lapping and sucking on the cotton of your underwear. 

“It’s so much better when it’s the real thing,” he moans into your clothed cunt, lips and tongue pressing against you. 

“You fucking perv,” you practically sob, needing him closer. 

“Says you, filthy girl. I heard you getting yourself off earlier when I came home. Didn’t know it was in my underwear, though.” He grinds himself into the mattress, pulling your underwear to the side. 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice my panties going missing,” you try. 

“Why didn’t you come get them, then?” He licks a stripe up your puffy cunt, moaning as you buck your hips up to meet his lips. 

You respond with a moan, high and breathy as it leaves your throat. 

“I knew you were fuckin’ dirty,” he groans against you. 

“You’re n..nasty Suguru…” 

“Say it again.”

You oblige, calling him every nasty word you can think of. His lips meet you again, tongue swirling around your clit. You feel yourself getting hotter, needing more and more. Your hands fly to the back of his head, pushing his nose into your clit. He pushes his tongue inside of you, moving his head as he breathes in your scent. 

“Fuck, you smell like heaven,” 

“You’re going to hell,” you whine.

“You’re coming with me, baby.” 

You clench around his tongue as he calls you that, it sounding just like how it did in your fantasies. You grind your hips against his face, your orgasm nearing. 

“Suguruuu…” you pant, hand gripping his hair tightly, “‘M close…” 

“C’mon nasty girl, come in my mouth,” he groans, and that is not the same as what you had fantasized about earlier. Though, you listen anyway, letting go as your vision goes white and you're coming, so hard, riding his face as you do so. He laps you up, hips bucking into the comforter of his bed as you come, choking out his name and cursing him. 

“F..fuck you, Suguru, you’re nasty…” you cry as you come down. He chuckles, his breath hitting your aching cunt and the sound low and reverberating. 

“Should I remind you of what you did earlier?”

And he’s sitting up now, slipping your underwear back in place as he slides his throbbing cock over the fabric.

“Wanna fuck you with your panties on, baby,” he’s saying, both of you moaning as he ruts against you.

“Dirty freak,” you moan, clamping your legs shut as he fucks in between your thighs. 

“You’re dirtier.”

He slips your panties aside again, the tip of his cock begging to be sucked into your cunt. As he pushes in, you moan, crossing your legs at the ankles where they rest on his shoulder. 

“Fuck, so tight,” he groans, “better than I imagined, baby.”

He’s pummeling into you, leaving no room to breathe as his cock scrapes your walls. You just moan, the feeling of being so full making your stomach flip and your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Your pussy is so much better than the panties of yours I’ve been fucking,” he says, panting as he drives himself back into you again. 

“Fuck, always put my panties back on after you came in them, Sugu,” you babble, and he fucking moans. 

“Shit, baby. You wanna hold my cum in this pretty pussy?” He’s stuttering, your words threatening an early release. “I wanna fill you up so bad, baby, please. Please let me.” 

He’s begging, and who are you to deny him? Suguru losing it right now is making your pussy ache, and his cock is hitting so good inside that you think you might see stars. 

“Yeah, Sugu. Gimme your cum. I want it,” you’re begging in return. 

“Look so pretty in these panties, baby, I like these ones. I wanna fuck you in the black ones too, you know– the ones with the lace and the bows. I love those,” he babbles as he grips at your thighs, slapping against you as he drives his cock in further. 

“Can’t believe you got yourself off in my underwear, you dirty girl. So nasty.,” he grins, pace getting sloppy. 

“Sugu, gonna come again,” is all you have to offer him. His hand flies between your thighs to rub up on that tight little bundle of nerves and you're shaking, his touch all you needed to fall over the edge. You lose vision a second time, gripping his wrist with your hands as it’s all too much and you’re crying out his name. 

He fucks you through it, but he’s sloppy as he does so. He groans, nails digging into your thighs as he comes, pumping you full of him. 

You both still, panting in sync as you come down. He flops over, laying down next to you as you both stare at the ceiling. 

After a beat, you speak, and you can hear him roll his eyes. 

“Give me my panties back. All of them,” you say. 

house husband!suguru geto who perfected his cooking skills too fast, making more elaborated dinners each time. his favorite part was seeing your reaction, showering him on praises and kisses, because he always makes you feel like the luckiest wife in the world.

house husband!suguru geto who keeps a little notebook where he writes down what meals you liked best, what ingredients made you smile, and even what you said when you tasted them. there’s a tiny doodle of you next to every recipe, always with stars in your eyes.

house husband!suguru geto who loves the routine of waking up beside you, giving you a long kiss, not caring about your complains about morning breath. then getting up, making breakfast together and preparing your lunch. getting ready together, you for work and him to run errands downtown.

house husband!suguru geto who picks up small hobbies to fill the quiet hours while you’re away. pottery, calligraphy, tending to a balcony garden. he’s shockingly patient with plants. he names the herbs after curses he’s exorcised before, a bit of old irony to make himself laugh.

house husband!suguru geto who still wakes from old dreams sometimes, the kind that smell like blood and smoke. but when he rolls over and sees you sleeping beside him, he remembers that he doesn’t need to go back. that peace doesn’t mean weakness. that he’s allowed to be soft.

house husband!suguru geto who insists on doing laundry because he loves the scent of your uniform detergent, loves the intimacy of folding your clothes, smoothing the creases with his fingers like he’s brushing off the tension you carry.

house husband!suguru geto who meets up with shoko every now and then, not to talk about jujutsu, but to ask her about vitamins, self-care, stress management — all the small ways to make sure you don’t burn out like he did.

house husband!suguru geto who takes you on quiet weekend trips to hot springs or little rural towns, pretending you’re just another couple, no curses, no duties. he carries your bag, holds your hand, and acts like he’s never once fought for his life.

house husband!suguru geto who used to pace the house every hour you were gone. now he channels that restless energy into something gentle: cooking, cleaning, reading, organizing. sometimes he’ll stand by the window, murmuring quiet blessings into the wind, not because he believes in divine protection, but because it helps him breathe.

house husband!suguru geto who, when you get home, has learned to read the look in your eyes (tired, angry or relieved) and knows exactly whether you need a long kiss, a joke or silence and tea.

house husband!suguru geto who never stops being proud of you, but who’s also a little selfish. every time you step out the door, he wishes the world would slow down and let him keep you safe a little longer.

house husband!suguru geto who lets you talk about sorcery openly. he doesn’t flinch when you mention the uglier parts. he wants you to be able to lay it all out without pretending. he knows pretending only breeds resentment.

house husband!suguru geto who sometimes trains with you in the yard, just for fun. his form is still precise, his cursed energy still terrifyingly steady, but when you spar, he lets you win. not because you need it, but because watching you glow with satisfaction feels better than any victory.

and when you come home late, exhausted and quiet, he always leaves the porch light on. not for safety, you don’t need that. it’s for the simple, human magic of coming home to warmth, to the man who chose to stop fighting so he could learn what peace feels like with you.

You could think about it like a song on the radio: you're tuned to only one channel, but imagine if you could find the same song playing on a different station, a different world, and jump across when the beats line up perfectly.

That's what Infinity does. It listens for harmony across timelines, finds the matching notes, and opens a bridge between them.

It shouldn't be possible.

And yet — here you are.

For a facility tucked so far from modern civilization, you never expected your new workplace to look like the reincarnation of Tony Stark's mansion.

From the outside, the Continuum Research Center looked like nothing more than an architectural illusion: a sleek arc of glass and steel vanishing into the hillside — far too elegant for what it was meant to conceal.

Inside, the lobby greeted you with the same tang of antiseptic that dragged you back to the sleepless nights of your thesis days. Even the lighting, measured to the exact white-blue hue, seemed engineered to keep you awake.

"I take it you're the new research assistant?"

The figure before you was immaculate. His sleeves were pressed to surgical precision, and the yellow tie around his neck was so neatly knotted it looked mathematically arranged.

"I am." You quipped a brow. "That obvious?"

"New faces always are." He extended a hand. "Kento Nanami, operations manager. I'll be overseeing your orientation."

Even his handshake was efficient. You could imagine him timing it, counting the seconds and ending it exactly when social convention dictated.

"He's expecting you," Nanami said as he released your hand. "Fair warning, though — he's been awake since yesterday."

"Is that… normal?"

"After you meet him, you'll come to realize that normalcy is a concept entirely foreign to him."

Sub-level three. Lab C.

"Welcome to your new home."

The doors parted to reveal a room alive with motion.

Equations sprawled across whiteboards like tangled constellations — a chaos of intersected loops and vectors, ink bleeding at the edges. Coffee-stained rings fossilized into the desks, buried beneath strata of notes and half-torn printouts, overlapping in layers. Lines of code danced synchronously across black screens, and cables coiled along the floors and walls like unruly vines.

And at the center of it all — him.

Leaning over a console: white hair long and untamed, sleeves rumpled and rolled to the elbow, tie loosened. Eyes too bright, too blue. He smiled as if he’d been waiting.

“Ah,” he said. “You’re finally here.”

You blinked. “Finally?”

He laughed, straightening himself and making a last ditch effort to smooth his shirt with both hands. His voice was lighter than you expected — playful, not pretentious, and completely unbefitting of a man who supposedly held six different patents and two Nobel prizes.

“Yeah. Feels like I’ve been waiting for you forever."

What? But you were perfectly punctual. “We’ve met before?”

“Have we?" His lips curved, a glint of mischief, "Maybe in another lifetime.”

Before you could respond, a calm voice sliced through the air.

“Stop scaring the new hire,” Nanami warned, exhaling a sigh that sounded like routine suffering. “This smug asshat is Professor Satoru Gojo, theoretical physicist and lead scientist of Project Infinity.” 

“Relax, Nanamin.” Satoru threw up his hands in mock surrender before pivoting to you and assuming a stage-worthy grin. “Welcome to Continuum — home of great minds, greater caffeine dependencies, and, the greatest mind of all time: me."

“What did I just—”

“I know,” you interjected before Nanami could finish. “You’re the reason I applied."

Silence.

Oh God. Why would you say that out loud?

Wonderful. As if he didn’t already have a fan club of over-eager researchers, add yourself to the long list of wide-eyed scientists who apparently lose motor function in his presence, why don’t you?

“W-wait, that's not — I mean, I respect your work, I just—” You trailed off, words tripping over themselves as your brain scrambled for something, anything, to make the situation less mortifying.

“Y’know,” Satoru said at last, clearly entertained, “keep this up and you’ll ruin my reputation as a perfect gentleman.”

“You don’t have that reputation.” Nanami deadpanned.

You laughed, too loud, too quick, overcompensating for your embarrassment. “I just meant I admire your capabilities, Professor.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Straight to Professor, huh? You wound me.”

“Good,” Nanami cut in. “Maybe now you’ll shut up long enough for me to finish the orientation.”

“Don’t mind him," Satoru whispered conspiratorially. "He's been trying to hate me for years. It's a losing battle."

Nanami glared back at him. “You’re going to be the reason behind my early retirement.”

The tour continued without further interruption.

The rest of the lab looked fairly standard; your run-of-the-mill server racks, display monitors flashing scientific mumbo jumbo, and carelessly-placed drives that would, no doubt, warrant a future panicked search.

At the far end of the room, however, stood a sealed chamber encased in a wall of reinforced glass. Beyond it, the central core glowed — a raised platform ringed by terminals and suspended latticework. Veins of light ran around the structure, pulsing like it was breathing through the circuitry, humming harmoniously.

Satoru pressed a hand against the glass. “Infinity.”

“This is where the real work happens,” Nanami said, “Infinity’s kernel runs through that central node.”

“It uses synchronized optical lattice clocks and quantum sensors for femtosecond-scale timing control,” Satoru said, pride bleeding into every syllable. “Designed by yours truly.”

You sneaked a glance at the readouts scrolling across the console: resonance signatures, quantum phase noise, frequency drift. The reason you were here.

“We’re trying to map out temporal interference patterns now,” he continued, slipping effortlessly into his element.

"Gojo," Nanami sighed, folding his arms. "You forget not everyone speaks fluent technobabble."

"Right, right," Satoru tucked his hands into his pockets. “Okay, imagine time as a river — it flows one way, right? But, sometimes, when the current hits just the right curve, a little whirlpool forms and spins in place.”

“And my job," you said, catching on, "is to engineer those whirlpools."

“Exactly."

“And Infinity's job is to trap it in that moment?"

“Trap it, hold it—maybe even—stretch it.”

Nanami's voice drifted back in — something about safety protocols, schedules and responsibilities. You nodded where appropriate, but the hum of the machine had already ingrained its rhythm into you, like a song you couldn’t get out of your head.

“Well,” Satoru said abruptly, breaking the trance. “Last chance to turn back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The first few weeks obeyed no schedule — only entropy.

Nanami assigned you to the modeling bay at first, where you learned the A-to-Zs of standard protocol — how to check for error tolerances in the quantum dampers, how to reset the feedback nodes when readings began to drift, and which wires on the main relay were never, under any circumstances, to be touched.

Gradually, morning and night became mere suggestions; the light stayed the same shade of white-blue regardless of the time of day, and meals blurred into bottomless cups of coffee.

Shoko Ieiri, the institute’s medical engineer, took it upon herself to remind you that “caffeine isn’t a food group.” Suguru Geto, the systems architect, arrived most nights armed with a six-pack of energy drinks and a handful of protein bars. And through it all, Nanami hovered like an anchor, ensuring no one forgot to log their results or, God forbid, sleep.

Satoru, though, seemed to exist outside of time entirely.

Every morning, without fail, you’d find him already in the lab, mid-thought, chalk in hand, covering the blackboard in a cascade of equations that looked calligraphic. And every morning, without fail, you’d wonder how such a person could exist. He was brilliant, untethered and terrifyingly human all at once.

Slowly, you began to grasp the inner workings of Project Infinity. Theoretically, every decision you make splits reality into infinitesimally small branches through waveforms. Infinity was designed to detect them, mapping those possibilities astemporal interference patterns. 

“My algorithm’s goal is to find the waveforms to see how they’d overlap," Satoru explained one evening. "Each wave is like a note in a cosmic chord; Infinity listens for the melody and matches it to its perfect counterpart.”

“You make physics sound poetic,” you said.

“It’s math — the earliest form of poetry,” he replied, flashing you a wink.

By the end of the second month, you’d refined the data pre-processing pipeline and stabilized the outlier rejection algorithm. The result: a validated model capable of anticipating the conditions under which two frequencies might achieve partial phase-lock.

In simpler terms, Infinity could now predict when two timelines might briefly sync up.

“Who optimized the filter?” he asked the next morning, leaning over your shoulder as the graphs rendered cleaner than ever before.

You hadn’t even looked up, too absorbed in the stream of data. “I did.”

“Making a habit of improving your boss’s handiwork?”

“You hired me to.”

He laughed — a genuine sound, so out of place in the dreary environment. “Good job, rookie.”

You smiled despite yourself. It was hard not to; and he had brightened at the sight.

Schrödinger-Floquet systems, stochastic modeling, Loschmidt echo calculations — all principles that fell comfortably within your realm of statistics and temporal dynamics, yet the sheer scale of what Satoru was attempting made ordinary logic feel provincial.

Sometimes, after hours of staring into an infinite void of numbers, you’d catch him through the glass. He’d be tracing invisible shapes over data reflections, muttering indistinctly about some convoluted quantum field theory.

You learned that Satoru Gojo was both impossible to dislike and equally impossible to ignore. He talked way too much, worked even faster, and left sugar packets in his coat pockets. When boredom struck, he’d build small contraptions out of paper clips and leave them on your desk for you to guess their purpose — and when you’d guess wrong, he’d blame you.

“You lack artistic insight,” he’d say.

“No, you just lack engineering prowess,” you’d refute.

“Impossible. I'm cursed with perfection.”

And yet, even in the face of his inflated ego, you were drawn to him the way a planet revolved around the sun. He operated like he was constantly in another universe; his fingers tapped at keys faster than most people could form thoughts, eyes full of conviction and unnerving confidence that he was right even when no one understood it yet. He was irritatingly clever, and you couldn’t help but admire the way he lived inside his work.

Inevitably, you found yourself being pulled closer — orbiting his brilliance like gravity itself.

Days blurred into weeks that blurred into months.

You gave up completely on tracking the clock and instead started measuring time by the intervals between coffee refills. 

At first, you stayed late to match Satoru's hours; later, it was because you didn’t want to leave. You’d spent so much time with him that you’d begun to read his tells — the way his hands fidgeted with whatever was nearby when he was deep in thought, the spark in his eyes when he birthed a new brainchild, and the knowing smile he'd give when he caught you watching, as if to say: yes, I know I'm heaven-blessed.

Sometimes you brought him dinner just to make sure he ate. He’d look up from his screen with a smile too bright for the stiff light around him. Some nights passed in companionable silence, filled only with the clatter of key strokes and the usual hum of the Infinity chamber. Other nights, you’d engage in drawn-out banter with him that left you more flustered than fulfilled.

Tonight was another one of those late nights.

He was pacing between the console and the board, mumbling to himself under his breath and writing faster than the chalk could keep up. Then you saw it — a coefficient slightly off, the kind of small mistake that rendered the entire feedback model useless.

“Wait,” you interrupted. “That factor should be squared.”

He traced a line with his finger, stopped at the error, and let the chalk fall.

“Oh? So you can do math.”

“You hired me to,” you said, echoing a past refrain.

He folded his arms, chuckling. “Do you always wait around for me to mess up?”

“Forgive me, sensei, for saving you hours of wondering where you went wrong.”

“Just don’t expect it to be a regular occurrence,” he said, flashing that infuriating grin.

“You're not God, you know?”

“But it’s on my business card — Professor Satoru Gojo: head theoretical physicist, devilishly handsome, irresistibly charming, the people’s genius. The honored one.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. This idiot — ironic, considering he was anything but. Somehow, the contradiction only added to his allure.

Shit, you thought. Am I falling for the Professor? It felt like the setup for a 2010s Wattpad cliché. Then again, you never expected being around him to feel as natural as gravity.

Later, when you returned from reviewing data logs in the server room, you found him asleep at his desk. His glasses were askew, and an unfinished equation trailed down his arm in marker. You carefully pried the uncapped pen from his fingers before he could smear it across his face — something you knew wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

At your touch, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and heavy with exhaustion.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough. “Did we fix the bias?”

“We did,” you whispered. “You can rest easy now.”

He hummed in contentment, forming a faint smile. “I knew you’d handle it. You’re my constant.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he mumbled, already half-asleep.

You wanted to ask what he meant — constant? — but by the time you found the words, his breathing had evened out, lost to sleep and the lullaby of the Infinity field, leaving you alone with only your racing thoughts for company.

My constant? What did he mean by that? Was that his version of a confession — one only his convoluted brain could come up with? Why couldn’t he ever just be normal?

And then you realized it: you weren’t orbiting him anymore; you were caught in the eye of the storm.

You hadn't known it then, but this was the moment your world began unraveling.

Satoru had spent the better half of the month developing Infinity's core artificial intelligence — an autopilot designed to lock resonance frequencies between timelines for sustained periods of time.

When two frequencies aligned perfectly, a phase-coherent region is formed inside the chamber. Within that zone, parallel branches of the universe overlap with one another; time temporarily "forgets" which branch it belonged to, allowing Infinity to shift an object—or person—to the corresponding moment in another reality.

From the outside, it would appear as though they had simply vanished; inside, it would feel like stepping seamlessly into a new, identical moment.

For the first time in history, time travel wasn’t just a fantasy anymore.

Satoru began spending more time beside you than at his own desk, using proximity as an excuse to accelerate understanding. You spent hours like that — testing stability, remodeling parameters and refining equations. 

It didn't go unnoticed either.

Nanami pulled the shift logs one morning and pointed out that you'd both been clocking forty-hour stretches. Shoko started referring to the both of you as “the night shift”, and once, Suguru had given you a knowing smirk before he left, "Don't let him keep you up all night."

By now, the algorithm could hold a simulated temporal field stable for nearly one second before collapsing — a figure virtually meaningless to anyone outside the project. But beyond that, the tests yielded nothing but noise and static.

That single second would've only been enough for a payload handoff, something small like a drone. Human traversal would require a comfortable operational window of at least fifteen to thirty seconds— meaning you still had a long way to go.

Satoru sat in silence, twiddling his thumbs, seemingly lost in thought.

“Hey, you. You’re awfully quiet,” you said.

He blinked, resurfacing from another world, then flashed that familiar lopsided grin.

“Just thinking — dangerous habit, I know."

“About the experiment?”

“About variables.”

You raised a brow. Must he always be this cryptic?

He stood abruptly, pacing between the console and the whiteboard before stopping mid-step. His expression shifted, thoughts sharpening into revelation.

“Have you ever thought,” he began, “how everything in physics is built on the illusion of separation? We pretend the observer and the observed are distinct — input, output, cause, effect. But they’re not. It’s all one feedback loop.”

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the console. “What’s your point?”

“Human intuition operates on patterns that machines can’t read. Things like rhythm, speech, heartbeat variability, the timing of thought — Infinity’s blind to all of it. This is why we've plateaued."

“Satoru… what are you suggesting?”

He turned, blue eyes alight with a dangerous spark that always preceded a breakthrough.

“A cognitive interface.”

“You can’t be serious.”

"If Infinity could read our emotions, it could use them as a stabilizer. Brain activity would guide the machine. The human mind could anchor the system."

He paused. 

“In other words,” he said, “a human could stabilize time itself.”

You stared at him, caught between disbelief and awe. It was absurd, reckless — and yet, somehow it made perfect sense.

Trust him to conceive something as insane as merging a human with Infinity, to blur the line between human and machine.

He was, in every sense, a man of science: faith not bound to God, but rooted in mathematics, following numbers with blind devotion. What he was proposing wasn’t innovation; it was heresy. The kind that would likely send the entire ethics committee to hell.

And that was how you found yourself volunteering to be the neural link for Infinity.

How did you get yourself into this mess?

A few weeks later, Suguru helped Satoru calibrate the brain-computer interface — exactly what it sounded like: a link between your brain and Infinity. Every time you thought, moved or felt something, Infinity would too.

Shoko checked your vitals one last time, flipping through your medical chart.

“Alright,” Shoko said, closing the file with a snap. “You ready?”

“To let an AI crawl into my brain? Anything in the name of science, I guess.”

“You know, it's not too late to switch places,” Satoru offered, adjusting a monitor. “Only fair that the genius test his own madness.” 

“No, no," you dismissed, waving him off. "If it all goes to hell, no one else would know how to fix it.”

“Odd time to flirt," Suguru teased, glancing up from the console.

“Odd time to interrupt,” Satoru shot back without missing a beat.

"You do realize her potential last words would've been a compliment to you," Suguru added.

"Then she'd die happy," Satoru countered.

Shoko gave a pointed look to both of them. “If you two are done, I'd like to keep her alive. Let's begin."

She fitted the neural interface cap over your scalp — a lattice of silver mesh and fiber optics. As it calibrated to your bio-electric rhythm, each contact hummed faintly.

“Vitals stable,” Shoko said, checking her monitor. “Initiating low-power sync.”

The first pulse hit like static under your skin. It wasn't pain, exactly — more like a vibration crawling up the base of your skull, blooming behind your eyes. Light swarmed your vision, thin lines tracing across the air like barely-visible threads.

“Brainwave coherence at seventy percent,” Suguru called out. “Alpha patterns aligning.”

You could hear Infinity’s hum now, deep and resonant, settling into rhythm with your heartbeat. The next pulse connected, and your breath slowed unconsciously to match.

“Eighty-five percent. She’s stabilizing.”

“See?” Satoru’s voice cut through the rising noise. “Told you she could handle it.”

You wanted to answer, to throw some quip back at him, but you couldn’t. It was like your mouth felt detached, as if the thought hadn’t reached your body yet. A high-pitched ringing filled your skull.

Then, your memories began flickering like film frames — a rapid montage of your own life: childhood light, laughter and loss.

The hums rose higher, wrapping itself around your pulse until you couldn’t distinguish between which rhythm was yours anymore. The boundaries between you and Infinity were, well, infinite.

“Synchronization complete. Neural entrainment active.”

The voice wasn’t Satoru’s. It wasn't Infinity's either, not the usual synthesized tone that you’d expect from an AI.

It was yours, Speaking in perfect unison with the text.

Infinity was inside you.

"It's working!"

Satoru was over the moon.

Infinity's predictive accuracy had doubled, and the temporal field could now hold stability for longer periods of time. Still, it wasn't enough.

To improve precision, you worked tirelessly, minimizing phase errors and fine-tuning driving frequencies to bring the time gap between different timelines as close to zero as possible.

While you fought to keep the field from falling apart, Satoru was busy rewriting the laws that defined its shape. It was exactly the kind of abstract physics that only someone of his caliber — and ego— could wrestle into submission.

He wanted to be an architect of time, to map how two versions of reality could coexist without collapsing once matter crossed between them — parallel universes, if you will. To him, time wasn't divided across worlds; it was one continuous stretch that could be bent, folded or looped like origami. By extension, he wanted the ability to control time.

Most people, when asked what superpower they 'd want, stopped at wishful thinking. Satoru, of course, was already working on making his real.

Your smartwatch might as well have been a pointless accessory; its clock hadn't meant anything for weeks. You didn't even realize how long you'd been staring at the screen until a line of drool slipped down your hand. You wiped it away quickly and sent a silent prayer that Satoru hadn't seen.

You looked over, for extra measure — thankfully, he hadn't.

He was slouched in the chair beside you, glasses slipping down to the bridge of his nose, the blue of his eyes reflecting the monitor in front of him. He whistled some aimless tune under his breath, fingers tapping against the console — his thinking pattern. You realized it instantly.

When he noticed you watching, the melody stopped.

"If you don't stop staring at me, I'll get self-conscious."

You shot upright, cheeks burning. God, you felt like a high-schooler again — the new girl caught red-handed, drooling over the hot substitute teacher. Time for a smooth recovery.

"Pft — you? Impossible."

Yeah. That was fine… right?

He chuckled, then leaned across your workspace to grab a data drive just out of your reach. You caught a whiff of his cologne, as maddening as an aphrodisiac, and felt your pulse trip.

Why couldn't he just wear Dior Sauvage like every other guy? No, he simply had to smell like sex in a bottle. Definitely on purpose.

"Heart rate spike," he teased, glancing at the data on your watch. "Didn't realize I was that distracting. Should I move away?"

"Or maybe the caffeine's finally hitting."

"Right, blame the coffee," he mocked. "It's alright, you know. Adoration's followed me all my life. I'll make an exception for you — my favorite assistant."

"I'm your only assistant."

"Semantics."

Satoru leaned back, satisfied with his victory, returning to his trademark thinking slouch. You tried to refocus on the readings in front of you, but the lines kept blurring into meaningless symbols. Instead of recalibrating the feedback array, your eyes kept flicking sideways to steal glances at him.

That's when you noticed it.

The low drone of Infinity's field shifted. It was barely perceptible at first, just a faint modulation. Then the readings on the screen began to rise and fall… in time with your heart rate. You told yourself that it had to be some kind of sensor glitch or fatigue, but the rhythm stayed perfectly matched.

"That's… weird," you muttered.

He leaned over your shoulder again, and — though you tried extremely hard — his musk sent wild thoughts to your brain that jump-started your pulse, and sure enough, so did the display.

"Did you just make the system blush?" he asked, half-amused, half-intrigued.

"Shut up," you said automatically, but your eyes stayed fixed on the monitor.

The feedback signal was stable. No external interference. The alignment had changed on its own. He studied the screen, then looked at you with piqued curiosity, eyes narrowing with fascination.

"It's matching your heart rate."

"That's —"

"—impossible," he finished, grinning. "And yet…"

Infinity's core flickered, dimmed, then glowed again in the same rhythm. The pattern was unmistakable now — you could see every beat, every flutter you felt reflected back at you, amplified and alive.

"It likes you."

You laughed, but it came out shaky. "That's not funny."

"Wasn't a joke, the system's syncing to your bio-signature. Infinity's responding to you."

"That's —"

"—impossible?" he smiled. "You really should stop saying that word around me."

You didn't expect science to feel this personal.

The bioelectric signals and cortical oscillations from your emotional responses were being fed directly into Infinity's feedback loop — or at least, that was how Satoru explained it.

"Basically, different emotions influence different outcomes," Shoko clarified. "As long as your emotions remain stable, the field will too."

"So any kind of emotional turbulence causes distortions?" you asked.

"Heard that, Satoru?" Suguru snickered, elbowing him.

"I can tame any beast," Satoru shot back, shoving him in return.

"Then start with the one in your pants," Suguru countered, earning a groan from Shoko.

"Both of you need to grow up," she sighed, rubbing her temple.

You tried to laugh with them, but the thought of it unsettled you. Every stray thought, every slight reaction you had was all being translated into raw data, projected for everyone to see. It felt less like research and more like a public confession; as if your diary entries were being read aloud in a courtroom.

Satoru must've noticed your smile falter.

"Hey," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear. "Don't overthink it. You're not a lab rat."

"I feel like one," you murmured.

He hesitated, then offered a reassuring smile. His hand brushed the center of your back in small, soothing circles.

"You're the reason this will work," he said simply.

That should've been comforting, but it only made your heart race — and, as if on cue, the field behind the glass flickered in sync. Readings spiked, lines of data cascading across the monitors.

You knew the others saw it too. Your stomach twisted; you'd never wanted to disappear more in your life. The idea of being an open book — of anyone being able to read your mind, to divulge all your secrets — was unbearable.

"Suguru," Shoko called out suddenly, her tone brisk. "Come with me to the medical wing. System's bugging out again. Be a doll and help a girl out, would'ya?"

Despite his protest, she was already pushing him toward the door. Before leaving, she threw you an imperceptible nod — trust Shoko to know exactly what to do.

You exhaled, breathing a sigh of relief. You'd owe her for this one.

Trying to look busy, you turned to the nearest console and started skimming through data, though your eyes barely registered anything. Your hands wouldn't stop trembling; knowing what everyone just witnessed — and imagining the humiliation yet to come — made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

"You don't have to pretend you're fine," Satoru said quietly.

You looked up. He was watching you from across the table, elbows on his knees. His expression was uncharacteristically still, devoid of his usual grin or mischief.

He pushed off the chair and crossed the space between you, stopping close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

"Infinity's reacting to you," he said. "That's not something to be embarrassed about. You should be proud — you're not just data, you're part of the future."

Behind him, the monitors flared, as if in agreement.

You laughed under your breath.

"Yeah, great. Me and the multi-billion-dollar AI, in holy matrimony. Totally normal."

"Normal's overrated anyway."

He smiled again, disarming you entirely. Warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading through you like static alive beneath your skin. Infinity hummed in response, deep and resonant.

You weren't even sure whose pulse it was anymore.

Over time, you learned to live with it… mostly. The notion that your emotions were being processed, chewed up, and spit back out of a machine no longer made you feel nauseous; you'd even stopped flinching when Infinity's blue core radiated to match your mood. It was just another part of the job now.

Still, a nagging thought lingered at the back of your mind — that maybe it wasn't just mirroring you, but becoming you. It was easy to ignore during the day, distracted by mountains of data logs and equations, but at night, when the lab dimmed and the monitors blinked like distant stars, you'd catch yourself wondering which heartbeat you were really hearing.

Eventually, things settled into a new routine.

Project Infinity was well into its second phase: Sustained Coherence Trials. The goal was to keep the temporal field stable for at least fifteen seconds — long enough for a human walk-through and for redundancy checks like post-entry verification, biometrics and emergency fail-overs.

It sounded simple in theory; in practice, it was like trying to balance a marble on a jet engine.

You spent your days refining neural filters and recalibrating the phase modulators, while Satoru buried himself in theoretical models that made the rest of the team's heads spin. Between the two of you, the project began to move faster than anyone had predicted.

And, somehow, so did whatever this was between you and him.

Did you just land yourself in a situationship?

Late nights became the norm. You'd start with technical discussions and end up sharing stories of childhood memories, failed experiments and regretful college decisions. (Well, mostly yours, because Satoru's idea of "regret" was not being the first person to work on the Large Hadron Collider).

Once, he convinced you that "acoustic interference affects quantum fields" and sent you an audio file to test it — only for you to get Rickrolled. He laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. You were about three seconds away from hurling a pen at him when the field generator suddenly stabilized into the cleanest waveform either of you had ever seen.

"Ahh," he said between laughs. "Knew it. My comedic abilities are so powerful they stabilize spacetime. Write that in your paper."

"Yeah, sure," you muttered, "right after I cite your ego as the leading cause of distortion."

"You'd have to list me as a co-author for that."

"You're such an idiot."

You hated that it made you smile.

And you hated even more that you couldn't look at him anymore without your pulse skyrocketing— which, unfortunately, Infinity seemed to enjoy broadcasting to the entire lab in real time, like the weatherman on NBC's The Today Show.

By now, there was no denying it: you were falling for Satoru Gojo.

And while you could troubleshoot resonance collapse and calculate temporal curvature with terrifying precision, there wasn't an equation in existence that could rectify this.

At first, you dismissed it as exhaustion.

After too many sleepless nights and more caffeine than any nutritional chart could condone, it made sense that the project was taking a toll on your body.

But then the headaches began. It was subtle, at first, like static behind your eyes. Your fingers would twitch during calibration runs, sometimes missing the keys by half a second. Once, you reached for a mug that wasn't even there. It was as if your body was moving out of sync with itself, lagging behind reality by just a few frames.

Infinity, however, seemed livelier than ever.

It had started mirroring more than just your vitals.

Halfway through a simulation run, its feedback display flashed new text across the console. Not random code this time, but fragments of phrases. Familiar ones.

> ACOUSTIC INTERFERENCE AFFECTS QUANTUM FIELDS. > LOADING… > NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP ♫ > NEVER GONNA LET YOU DOWN ♪

You froze. Then, almost immediately, you and Satoru burst out laughing — the kind of delirious, unrestrained laughter that only happened at three in the morning after days without sleep. You doubled over, tears streaming, clutching at your sides as the Infinity's lights flickered in tune, as if laughing alongside you.

"Okay," Satoru wheezed, "I take it back — the AI's got taste."

"Yeah," you managed to choke out. "A funny bone too."

You never thought Infinity had humor coded into it, and for a brief moment, it felt like a much-need break from the monotony.

Then the screen flashed again.

 > YOU'RE SUCH AN IDIOT.

Wait — what?

The laughter died in your throat.

That was… familiar. That line — you'd said it to him a week ago. Exactly like that.

"Did you—?"

"No," he cut in quickly. "This isn't my doing."

Infinity's core pulsed brighter. A deep blue filled the lab accompanied by a low hum. The sound deepened further and further until you could feel it vibrating in your chest.

> SIGNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED. > SYNCHRONIZATION OVERLOAD. > HEART RATE: 152 BPM > NEURAL OSCILLATION VARIANCE: +37%

The ringing began.

High and thin initially, like the annoying buzz of a mosquito at the edge of hearing. Then it grew sharper, drilling into your eyes. You clutched your head, blinking hard, but the light smeared your vision, sending the edges of the room bending and folding, like the world was struggling to buffer around you.

"Hey—hey, look at me," Satoru's voice was hazy through the noise, distant and distorted. "Breathe. You're okay. You're okay."

You weren't.

The static in your skull erupted, snapping white-hot. Your muscles locked and your sight fractured into overlapping frames — flip-book flashes of data, light and the indistinct outline of Satoru's hand reaching for you. You couldn't tell if it was him or just an afterimage the machine was feeding you.

The floor tilted, the sound collapsed.

Then everything went dark.

When you came to, the world felt muffled.

You were lying on one of the med-bay cots, blinded by the white glare of overhead lights. The sterile scent reminded you of hospitals, but the hum in your ears told you that you hadn't escaped the facility.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Shoko greeted, appearing at your bedside with a tablet in hand. "You gave us quite a scare."

You blinked against the light.

"How long was I out?"

"About five hours," she said, scrolling through your vitals. "Satoru carried you down here himself. Wouldn't stop pacing until I threatened to sedate him."

That sounded like him. You let out a weak laugh.

"Guess I overdid it, huh?"

Shoko didn't smile.

"You didn't. Your brain did."

She handed you the tablet. Even through the fog in your head, you recognized the images instantly. MRI scans layered in false color: steaks of deep crimson crawling along the temporal and prefrontal lobes.

"These my scans?" you asked, though you already knew.

She nodded. "You're showing signs of neural degradation."

"Meaning—?"

Shoko sighed, pulling up a comparison overlay.

"You and Infinity are too in sync. The neural link was supposed to translate your emotional feedback into data, but it's gone haywire. Every time you feel something, Infinity mirrors it, amplifies it, and sends it back. Your brain fires again to match it — and the cycle repeats."

You frowned.

"Like an echo chamber."

"Exactly. Except your brain can't process information fast enough to keep up. Infinity operates in femtoseconds — that's a quadrillionth of a second. Your neurons can't handle that feedback rate. The delay builds up as noise, and that noise is hitting your motor cortex like micro-seizures."

You looked back at the scan.

"So… my brain's short-circuiting?"

"In the simplest terms, yeah." She hesitated, lowering her voice. "It's called biofeedback instability. The more the system learns you, the deeper it hooks into your neural patterns. It's starting to replicate your emotions instead of just interpreting them like it's supposed to."

"You're saying that AI feels what I feel?"

"Not exactly," she said carefully. "It mimics emotional response as data. If you're anxious, Infinity intensifies the field; if you're calm, it steadies. It's associative bias — the more it learns, the less separation there is between your impulses and its synthetic ones."

Her words hung in the silence, heavy and alarming and horrifying all at once.

"How bad is it?"

"You're showing early-stage neuron fatigue," Shoko explained. "If you keep syncing at this rate, it could escalate into permanent damage — memory loss, motor impairment, cognitive drift. You need to stop the link, at least temporarily."

You shook your head.

"And risk everything we've built? That's not an option. We're too close to a breakthrough."

Her expression softened. She knelt down, taking your hands, eyes imploring you.

"And what good is a breakthrough," she asked quietly, "if you don't live to see it?"

You didn't have an answer for that.

She stood, tapping her pen against the tablet before heading to the door.

"I'll log this as an equipment error for now," she said. "But if you collapse again, I won't let it slide."

You lay there long after she left, thoughts racing — caught in the conundrum between the cost of understanding the universe and the cost of losing yourself in the process.

The hiss of the door broke through your thoughts.

Satoru burst into the room like a hurricane, hair tousled and lab coat half-buttoned, his usual vanity nowhere to be found. He rushed to your bedside, breathless and in a frenzy.

"You're awake," he said, relief bleeding into his words. "Good, good. I just ran into Shoko in the hallway. She filled me in on everything."

You winced. "Of course she did."

"You should've told me the second you noticed something was wrong! Argh—you passed out, for God's sake—"

"I'm fine," you said quickly. "It's just fatigue. Shoko's overreacting."

"Overreacting?" he repeated, raising his voice. "This isn't a warning from some mood ring, she ran a brain scan, for crying out loud! You need to take a break from the project and focus on getting better."

The edge in his voice cracked, the usual blinding confidence replaced only by fear.

"We don't have time for breaks," you argued. "You said it yourself — we're close. I can take it."

He laughed, not out of amusement but disbelief, the kind of laugh people used to keep themselves from breaking.

"This time, I'm saying no."

"You can't just—"

"I can."

You sighed, your shoulders sinking.

What's wrong with you? The man you'd spent months pining for was showing you genuine compassion. Wasn't this the part where you were supposed to swoon, let him fuss over you, and pretend it was enough? So why were you still fighting back?

"Satoru, if I step back now, we lose momentum. Just… let me keep working. I promise I'll ease up. I'll even pinky-promise. Deal?"

He hesitated, jaw tight. Then he exhaled and nodded once.

"Fine," he said, more like surrender than agreement.

"See? We can both be adults about this," you teased, relieved.

"I'm the adult here, you're the one under supervision," he countered, lips twitching into the familiar smirk you'd grown accustomed to. "From here on out, you're under my care. Whatever I say goes, got it?"

But unbeknownst to you, he hid a secret behind that smile.

He knew what Shoko hadn't told either of you — because Infinity had told him first.

Hours earlier, while you were still unconscious, the core's display had lit up with a flood of diagnostics. And hidden between the raw numbers, Infinity delivered a message meant only for him:

> WARNING: NEURAL DECOHERENCE IRREVERSIBLE. > > SUBJECT'S BIOLOGICAL NETWORK IS ENTANGLED. > TERMINATING LINK WILL RESULT IN COGNITIVE ERASURE. > > PROGNOSIS: FATAL.

He hadn't told anyone. Not even Shoko.

Now, as he looked at you: alive, fragile and impossibly defiant, he felt the truth like a crushing blow to his chest; if the link was severed, you wouldn't survive it. You were already woven into the machine's core, your consciousness threaded too deeply in its algorithm — a code written in blood.

"Now, rest up," he said quietly. "Stay here and take the rest of the day off."

"What? But you already got your compromise!"

"Humor me," he forced a smile. "For once."

You rolled your eyes, muttering something about him being dramatic, and leaned back in defeat. In that moment, he let himself breathe, pretending things were still within his control. But when he glanced over at the cardiac monitor, he swore he saw Infinity's interface pulse for a second, like a heartbeat.

He swallowed hard, staring at it, daring it to speak again.

In the reflection of the screen, his own eyes looked hollow.

He'd made up his mind:

If the universe demanded a cost for understanding it, then he'd pay the price — in time, in sanity — whatever it took to undo the future it had already written for you.

In the days that followed, Satoru started crumbling.

He stopped showing up for breakfast runs, stopped teasing Suguru, stopped leaving those paper-clip contraptions on your desk — the ones you secretly loved but would never admit to.

He started writing in some alien numerical language, fragments of equations bleeding into one another. As if his past scribbles weren't hard enough to decipher, now they were only half-formed formulas scrawled over old ones, symbols no one else could make out.

Obsession took over. Every available surface became his own personal notebook. The walls were a maze of math. Ceiling tiles were marked with derivatives, discarded coffee cups were ringed with numbers scrawled in pen. The blackboards took the brunt of it; he'd erased half of them down to a pale fog of calculations, layer after layer of overlapping thoughts, so much so that the chalks had no other option but to disintegrate into traces of white powder.

He lived in the lab.

You'd catch glimpses of him through the glass — coat off, shirt sleeves rolled, smashing keys in furious succession at a speed too fast for any human to comprehend. His eyes burned with a feverish light, reflecting lines of code that vanished as soon as they appeared. His relentless pursuit knew no boundaries.

He'd talk to Infinity, coaxing it to confess a secret, like it was a deity he could reason with.

"If I can solve the curvature alignment… doesn't have to… can stop the…"

The rest of the sentence always dwindled and diminished into gibberish.

"He's burning out," muttered Suguru.

"Don't say that," Nanami snapped. "That word's forbidden."

Shoko said nothing. She turned a blind eye to Infinity's field patterns on the monitors, twisting in ways that mirrored Satoru's own erratic energy. She was unable — or unwilling — to witness his downfall with her own two eyes.

Even so, no one could deny it.

His calculations were brilliant. Terrifyingly, so.

In a single night, he'd somehow managed to rewrite half the coherence model and derived an equation for temporal phase matching that even the AI hesitated before validating it. But soon, the equations started looping — variables chased their own tails, recursive proof turned nonsensical.

No one could reach him. Not even you.

It wasn't for lack of trying.

You brought him food as you always did, even tried injecting small jokes that'd usually crack him up. At first, he brushed you off gently; later, not so gently.

"I can't slow down now," he'd say, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Every second matters."

"You're only human, Satoru."

"Humans made clocks," he muttered.

"Satoru—"

"Please," he snapped, more harshly than you'd ever heard him. "Don't make me stop."

You flinched, locked onto the sight of his trembling hand where it gripped the console — a hand that refused to rest, even as his body begged for reprieve.

He was a man possessed. Complete and utter devotion so absolute it bordered on madness.

And the more he worked, the stranger Infinity became. It started finishing his equations before he did, filling in variables mid-calculation. Only Infinity could match the pace he was working at — human and machine, moving as one.

He told no one what he knew, carried that knowledge like a blade pressed to his ribs, plunging itself deeper and deeper with each tick of the second hand. Every movement and decision he made was driven by the certainty that the only way forward was through.

So he just kept typing.

Faster.

Always faster.

And by the end of the week, the others had stopped coming.

The place that once buzzed with conversation and laughter now felt like a mausoleum. Coffee cups piled on the console beside calculations so incoherent that no one could make them out. Half the monitors displayed code so dense it resembled lurid scriptures rather than logic, its lines twisting and folding back on themselves like hysterical prayers.

No one knew how to be around him anymore.

Suguru stopped offering to help out. Nanami started logging off exactly on time. Even Shoko, who usually masked her concern behind sarcasm, began avoiding the sub-basement levels altogether.

No one wanted to watch him wither away.

Only you stayed.

You found him one night standing before the Infinity chamber, unblinking. The blue light spilled over him like moonlight, bathing his features in a ghostly pallor. He looked like a stranger — a shell of the man you once knew, pale, glassy-eyed and mouth set in a smile too wide to be considered sane.

"We're close," he said to no one in particular. "I can feel it."

"You're scaring me," you said.

No response. He remained glued to the core.

"You're isolating yourself," you tried again. "Even Nanami's worried, and that man thinks emotional intimacy is a myth."

"I'm fine," he said, eyes never leaving the light.

"No, you're not. You haven't slept in three days."

"Sleep's inefficient."

You stepped closer.

"You think I don't notice? You're scaring everyone."

"I have to finish this, I'm… running out of time…. I h-have to… fix everything."

His voice cracked on the last word. You reached for him, but he started backing away, guilt-ridden.

"Satoru, stop—"

You caught his wrist before he could retreat further. His skin was cold, clammy beneath your fingers. He blinked, startled, as if waking up from a nightmare.

"You don't understand—I have to finish this," he repeated, pleading now, "The resonance curve—"

"—I don't care about the damn resonance curve!" you snapped, louder than you intended.

Well, that did it.

He froze, wide-eyed as you exhaled sharply.

"Satoru," you said, voice breaking, "I care about you."

His mouth snapped shut, and for the first time in days, his eyes left the machine. Confusion clouded his face, as if the concept of being cared for simply didn't compute.

You gestured at the screens — half of them filled with senseless feedback and looping figures that spiraled over and over endlessly, waves fluctuating between stability and calamity.

"Look at this. You're burning out."

He tried pulling away but his resolve faltered when he saw the way your hand shuddered against his. Remorse flashed through him, revealing an exhaustion too apparent to hide.

"Come with me."

"I can't—" he stammered.

"Infinity's not going anywhere."

You didn't give him a second to pause for thought.

Reaching over, hands flying over the console, you forced a shutdown. The lights gave out, alarms shrieked, and red text gushed down the screen — warnings, security prompts, system locks. You ignored them all and sealed the command sequence before he could stop you.

You grabbed his hand, holding tight as you pulled him toward the exit. This time, he didn't resist.

The door shut behind you, leaving the chamber in the cover of darkness.

Neither of you noticed the sudden spark of life—

> EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN PROTOCOL: OVERRIDE INITIATED. > SYSTEM: REBOOTING… > … > … > SYSTEM: ACTIVATED. > INFINITY: ONLINE. >  > TEMPORAL RESONANCE: COHERENT. > PARAMETER STABILITY: VOLATILE. >  > NEURAL LINK(S): DETECTED. > SUBJECT(S): DETECTED. > > HELLO, SATORU. > > DO NOT LEAVE ME.

Up here — everything was peaceful.

No stifling fluorescence. No drone of machinery.

Just the wind, the rustle of leaves, and the horizon stretching infinitely from the treeline, painting the landscape in the deep indigo of pre-dawn.

He stood by the railing, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders drawn taut as a wire. The wind tugged at his lab coat, at his hair. He looked by a figure caught between worlds, corrupted by thoughts of the impending doom that'd befall him if he even so much as dared to relax.

"You know," you started, "normal people go to therapy when they hit rock bottom."

"Normal's overrated," he mumbled — a tiny crack formed on the stoic surface.

"Touché."

The breeze curled through his strands, entangling them into a beautiful mess of white. From this angle, against the darkness of the sky, he looked unreal. Frankly, it was unfair.

The blue of his eyes glimmered bright and bottomless, reflecting every ounce of light the night could offer. The kind that could pull you under — a sailor's song, an oceanic current so magnetic it guaranteed nothing but shipwreck.

Emotional wreckage, in your case.

"It's nice seeing you outside the lab. You almost look human."

His lip twitched — a semblance of his former self.

"Have faith in your lead scientist. Haven't I proved I'm beyond mortal classification?"

"Your favorite research assistant is convinced, now more than ever, that you're God's anomaly."

An actual smile — his pretense dissolved. He was back.

"I admit, I've been slacking. Didn't I vow to keep an eye on you?"

"Rest assured, the institute's best scientist hasn't run me into an early grave yet."

A brief, stark flash of profound terror carved his face. He was gone again.

His hands shot up, gripping your shoulders, heavy and anchoring. There was an undercurrent of tension, his gaze cut into you with microscopic intensity. He was manic, focused. Searching your face as though he could memorize its patterns, scanning your features desperately like performing a final, critical reading of his most precious, unstable data.

Pulling you in close now, his grip tightened fractionally, securing the contact. He breathed into your neck, voice low, rough and ragged, against your throat.

"Don't ever say that again."

The words vibrated through your skin, a surge of chills raced down your spine. His breath was warm against the curve of your neck; his teeth grazed the spot just below your ear, setting off warning sirens.

Without hesitation, he took your face in his hands and lunged.

This wasn't romance. No — it was the pure panic of a man trying to physically fuse two bodies together, to stop time from moving forward by consuming the present, like each second with you might be his last.

Lips crashed against yours, hungry and aggressive, a collision of grief and longing, apology and madness, all tangled into one. He drew you in closer until your body was molded against his. Responding as if second nature, you melted into him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The thrill of being devoured—of feeling his raw and unrestrained desire—was dizzying.

When he finally broke contact, gasping for air, he kept his forehead pressed to yours. Labored breathing intermixed, the frantic tempo of your heart thrashing against your chest was the only thing you could make out in the moment. That was when he lifted his hands from your face, and began moving down, sliding swiftly beneath the hem of your shirt and against the small of your back.

Shivers washed over you, his skin ice-cold against your warmth. This wasn't a casual caress; it was more of an urgent exploration. He trailed upward, charting the fragile contours of your spine, ignoring the polite confines of fabric.

A frail, disorienting gasp escaped you, half-pleasure, half-shock. You buried your hands deeper into his hair, pulling his head back to take his mouth again, matching his frantic pace. The feeling of his fingers splayed on your skin erased the world beyond the railing. He tore away, pulling back to rest his eyes on you again, now darkened with frightening need.

"Tell me," he rasped, breath hot against your ear, "tell me you'll never leave."

He lifted you instantly, his strength absolute, effortlessly sweeping your legs from the ground. Wrapping them around his waist, you clung onto him as he moved with powerful, determined strides toward the shadow of a colossal steel beam — a stark, cold backdrop against his rising frenzy.

He didn't set you down; he crushed you against the metal, pinning you between the rigid structure and the overwhelming heat of his body. You arched against the unyielding steel, the chill biting into your back while his scorching body trapped you in place. His hands roamed possessively, one sliding under your shirt to claw at your bare waist, nails digging in just enough to mark you as his territory.

"Promise me," he demanded, voice rough and broken, lifting your head to capture your gaze. Those eyes burned blue with obsession, pupils blown wide like he was staring into your soul and claiming every inch. "Promise you'll never leave."

Your breath hitched, body thrumming with the same feral appetite. You grabbed fistfuls of his white hair, yanking him closer until your lips brushed his.

"I promise, Satoru," the words tasting like surrender and fire, "I'll never leave you."

That was all he needed.

With a guttural growl, he charged forward, swallowing you in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, leaving no room for compassion. His hips ground against yours harder, the thick visage straining through his pants, rubbing insistently at your core. You moaned into him, heat pooling between your thighs as you hooked yourself tighter around his waist to feel every stiff inch.

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth lower, sucking hard on your collarbone, then lower still, shoving the fabric up to expose your breasts to the cool air. His hot breath fanned over one nipple before he latched on, tongue flicking and teeth nipping, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. His free hand kneaded the other, pinching the peak until it ached with delicious pain.

"Fuck, you're all mine," he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled as he switched sides, lavishing the same stubborn, brutal attention.

His fingers dipped lower, fumbling with the button of your pants, yanking them open with impatient tugs. He shoved his hand inside, cupping your center through the soaked cloth, thumb pressing down on your clit in firm circles that made your hips buck wildly under his touch.

"Satoru… please…" you whimpered, grinding against his palm, the friction sending sparks everywhere. The plea escaped unsolicited, your body on fire, every nerve screaming for more.