sana

a small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. it’s gone as fast as it appears. he leans in, not to talk over the music, but to talk to you. the movement is a slow, deliberate invasion of your personal space. you can feel the heat from his chest. his breath ghosts over the shell of your ear.

“i’d argue the company is exactly what makes it dangerous,” he murmurs, the words a low hum against your skin.

he’s close enough that you could turn your head and your lips would brush his jaw. you don’t. you hold your breath instead, feeling the thud of the bass in your throat, a frantic, messy beat that’s a stark contrast to the steady, calm rhythm of the man beside you. he straightens up, but he doesn’t move away. he just watches you, hazel eyes dark in the flashing lights, a silent promise of something more to come. the tension is a wire pulled taut between your bodies, humming with a potential that makes the air crackle.

. ۫ ₂

you see him across the kitchen the next night, a different party, one at his abode. the same bass, the same sticky floors. you pretend not to see him, focusing on the complicated process of pouring jungle juice into your cup without spilling. but you feel his gaze like a physical touch, a warm point of pressure on the back of your neck.

when you finally turn, he’s already moving, weaving through the crowd with an unnerving ease, as if the drunken bodies part for him. he stops in front of you, blocking your path to the cooler. another deliberate choice.

“having trouble?” he asks, nodding at the near-empty bottle in your hand. his tone is light, almost teasing.

“just admiring your interior decorating,” you say, gesturing with the bottle to the water-stained ceiling. “very… collegiate.”

he laughs, a quiet, deep sound that seems to vibrate in your bones. “we aim for authenticity.” he takes the bottle from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. the touch is fleeting, but it leaves a trail of heat in its wake. he refills your cup, his movements economical and precise, and hands it back to you. “careful. it’s a dangerous game, accepting drinks from men like me.”

you take a sip, the cloyingly sweet liquid a poor substitute for the sharp tension coiling in your stomach. “is that so? i thought you only dealt in long-term investments.”

his smile is slower this time, a genuine upturn of his lips that reaches his eyes. “even the best investors are known to take a risk now and then. test the waters.” his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “see if the temperature is right.”

he moves to the side, finally letting you pass, but as you do, he leans in, his lips a breath from your ear. “let me know when you’re ready to dive in.”

you walk away without looking back, but you can feel his eyes on you, a heavy, confident weight that follows you into the throng. the words echo in your head, a challenge and a promise all at once.

. ۫ ³

the library is supposed to be a sanctuary. a silent, hallowed space of hushed tones and the rustle of turning pages. but not today. today, the top floor is closed for a “private event,” which means you and a dozen other scholarship students are crammed into a tiny study room designed for four. the air is thick with the smell of old paper, stale coffee, and anxiety.

the door opens and nanami walks in.

he looks as out of place here as he did at the party, but for entirely different reasons. here, it’s the casual denim jacket that clashes with the serious academic air, the easy way he carries himself in a room full of tense, hunched-over students. he scans the room, and you know, you just know, he’s looking for you. he spots you in the corner, wedged between a bookshelf and a nervous-looking freshman.

he makes his way over, each step a deliberate act of encroachment. there’s nowhere for you to go. he stops directly in front of you, close enough that your knees are almost touching. he’s holding a book, some dense-looking text on architecture. he sets it down on the small, cluttered table in front of you.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, his voice a low murmur, meant only for you. “though i suppose even saints need a place to repent.”

“or sinners need a place to hide,” you retort, not looking up from your notes. you can feel the heat from his body, smell the clean scent of him that cuts through the stuffy air.

he chuckles, a soft, breathy sound. “i’m not hiding.” he leans down, bracing a hand on the back of your chair, caging you in. his other hand comes to rest on the table next to yours, his pinky finger a hairsbreadth from your own. you freeze. “just getting a better view.”

the silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. you can hear your own heartbeat, a frantic, trapped thing against your ribs. you can feel the electricity where his finger almost touches yours.

he leans closer, his lips near your ear, his breath a warm puff against your skin. “you seem tense,” he murmurs, the words a soft vibration that travels down your spine. “all this studying. you ought to take a break. stretch your body.”

he shifts, and his knee brushes yours. a deliberate, slight pressure that is both a question and an answer. it’s not accidental. it’s a test. a spark ignites where he touches you, a tiny, controlled fire that threatens to spread. he watches your reaction, his eyes dark and knowing, a predator that’s just scented its prey. he knows the effect he has on you. he knows the game he’s playing, and he knows you’re playing it right back with him. the tension is no longer a wire pulled taut; it’s a coiled spring, ready to snap.

. ۫ ₄

you find him on the frat house porch, long after the party inside has died down to a dull throb. the night is cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the humid chaos of the past three days. he’s sitting on the top step, looking out at the empty street, a single beer resting on the wood beside him. he doesn’t look surprised to see you.

“i was wondering when you’d show up,” he says, without turning. “i was starting to think i’d have to come find you.”

you move to stand beside him, close but not touching. “don’t flatter yourself, kento. i just needed some air.”

he turns his head then, his eyes catching the faint moonlight. they’re dark, intense. “is that the only reason you’re here?”

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. he stands, a slow, fluid motion, and closes the distance between you. he’s taller than you, broader, and he uses his height to his advantage, looming over you just enough to make you feel small, fragile. he brings a hand up to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a touch that’s feather-light but firm.

“you’ve been playing hard to get,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your lower lip. “i admire that. but the game is over now.”

he pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors your own. he’s not smug, he’s not triumphant. he’s just… focused. a man who’s been waiting patiently and is finally ready to unwrap his prize. he takes your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and leads you inside, past the remnants of the party, up the stairs, and into his room. it’s clean, orderly, smelling of him—clean linen and woodsy soap. a single lamp casts a warm, golden glow over the space.

he closes the door, the click of the lock a final, decisive sound. he turns to you, and the controlled facade he wears in public begins to crack. you see the raw desire underneath, the barely leashed hunger. he pushes you against the door, his body a hard, warm line against yours. his hands are on your hips, gripping you tight, pulling you flush against him. you can feel him, hard and insistent, through the thin fabric of your jeans.

“i’ve been thinking about this,” he says, his voice a low growl against your ear. “about you.” his hands move, sliding up your sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “about how you’d feel. how you’d taste.”

you arch into him, a silent invitation. “then stop thinking and find out.”

that’s all the encouragement he needs. he lifts you, his hands gripping your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist. he carries you to the bed, laying you down gently, almost reverently. he follows you down, bracing himself above you, his body a cage of warm muscle and intent. he kisses you again, a deep, devouring kiss that steals the air from your lungs. one hand stays planted by your head, the other trails down your body, a slow, possessive caress that leaves a trail of fire in its wake. he slips it under your shirt, his warm palm flat against your stomach.

you moan into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. you’re tired of his games, tired of the teasing. you want more. you want all of him. you break the kiss, your breathing ragged. “nanami,” you gasp, your hands moving to the hem of your shirt. “take this off.”

he smiles, a slow, predatory grin. and with one fluid motion, pulls your shirt over your head. he tosses it aside, his eyes taking you in, a dark, hungry gaze that makes you feel powerful, desired. he reaches behind you, unhooking your bra with a practiced ease. he slides the straps down your arms, his fingers grazing your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

he leans down, his breath warm against your breast. “so beautiful,” he murmurs, before taking a nipple into his mouth. he sucks, hard, a sharp, delicious pull that sends a jolt straight to your core. he uses his tongue, flicking and teasing, until you’re writhing beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders. he gives your other breast the same attent, a slow, torturous worship that has you panting, begging for more.

“nanami, please,” you whimper, your hips rising to meet his, a desperate, silent plea.

he lifts his head, a triumphant glint in his eyes. he’s enjoying this, enjoying the control he has over you, the power to make you beg. he slides a hand down your body, deftly undoing your jeans and pulling them down your legs. he kisses your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs, each kiss a promise, a tease. he’s taking his time, savoring this, savoring you.

he spreads your legs, his gaze fixed on the most intimate part of you. he leans in, and you feel the warm puff of his breath against your slick folds. you tremble, anticipation coiling in your stomach, a tight, hot knot. he doesn’t make you wait long. he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, and you cry out, your hands fisting in the sheets. he does it again, and again, each pass of his tongue a slow, torturous pleasure that builds and builds until you’re sure you’re going to shatter into a million pieces.

he slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars. he sucks on your clit, a hard, insistent pressure that pushes you over the edge. you come with a cry, your body arching off the bed, waves of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

he kneels on the bed, his cock hard and proud, a bead of pre-come glistening at the tip. he strokes himself, a slow, lazy motion, his eyes locked on yours. “you still think this is just a game?” he asks, his voice a low, husky rumble.

you don’t answer with words. you push yourself up, and with a strength you didn’t know you had, you flip him over, straddling him. he lets out a surprised grunt, but there’s a fire in his eyes, a thrill at this sudden shift in power. you lean down, your hair brushing against his chest, and whisper in his ear, “the game is just getting started.”

you kiss him, a deep, possessive kiss, before starting a slow, torturous descent of your own. you kiss his chest, his stomach, your tongue tracing the lines of his abs. you take him in your hand, stroking him from base to tip, enjoying the way he groans, the way his hips buck beneath you.

you look up at him, meeting his gaze, before taking him into your mouth. he’s big, and you stretch your lips to accommodate him, tasting salt and musk and him. you start to move, your head bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the tip. he’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, a muscle ticking in his jaw. he’s losing control, and it’s the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever seen.

you feel the muscles in his thighs tense under your hands, a taut bowstring of restraint. his breath comes in ragged pants, a counterpoint to the slick, rhythmic slide of your mouth. this isn’t just about pleasure; it's a conversation, a duel. you’re not just taking him; you’re reading him, learning the language of his body, every shudder and gasp a word in a dialect you’re quickly mastering.

you pull back, a thin string of saliva connecting you to him, a gossamer thread in the dim light. he lets out a choked sound, a protest caught in his throat. you just smile, a slow, feline curve of your lips. you crawl back up his body, your knees on either side of his hips, positioning yourself above him. you take him in your hand again, guiding him to your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds. he’s so hard, so hot against you. you sink down, just an inch, a tantalizing taste, a deliberate tease.

he grits his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest. with a sudden, fluid movement that takes your breath away, he flips you, pinning you beneath him. the world spins, a blur of golden light and tangled limbs, and suddenly you’re on your back, the soft sheets a cloud beneath you. he’s over you, caging you in, his arms braced on either side of your head. one of his knees shoves between your thighs, spreading them, forcing you open for him. you feel the brush of his cock against your slick folds, a maddening, teasing promise.

he thrusts into you from behind, one deep, unforgiving stroke that steals the air from your lungs. the angle is devastating, hitting you deeper than before, a raw, primal pleasure that borders on pain. he sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of flesh meeting flesh a raw, primal beat in the quiet room. each thrust pushes you further up the bed, until your hands are braced against the headboard to keep from hitting it.

you push back against him, meeting his powerful strokes with a rebellious arch of your back, a silent demand for more. a silent war.

“still think you’re in control?” he growls, and then he brings a hand down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that echoes in the quiet room.

the shock of it, the bright bloom of pain-pleasure, makes you clench around him, a spasm of pure, unadulterated sensation. you feel him swell inside you, a pulse of pure need.

“is that all you’ve got, nanami?” you manage to gasp, your voice a breathless taunt. you turn your head, a defiant glare in your eyes.

he chuckles, a dark, rich sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. he grabs a handful of your hair, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to hold, pulling your head back just enough. he’s a puppeteer, and you’re on his strings. he slows his pace, changing from a frantic rhythm to a slow, deep grind, a torturous slide that makes you feel every inch of him.

“patience,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips a ghost of a touch against your skin. “the best things are worth waiting for.” he nips at your shoulder, a sharp, possessive bite that makes you gasp.

he releases your hair, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, holding you steady. he picks up the pace again, a brutal, relentless rhythm that builds a fire in your core, a tight, hot coil of pleasure. you can feel it building, higher and higher, a wave threatening to crest and break. you’re close, so close, your knuckles white where you grip the headboard, your breath coming in ragged sobs.

“that’s it,” he pants, his voice a raw, husky sound. “come for me.”

and with a final, devastating thrust, you do. you shatter, a kaleidoscope of light and sensation, your body convulsing around his, a silent scream on your lips as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you boneless and shaking. he follows you over the edge with a low groan, pulling out of you as he comes, a hot, pulsing flood that marks you as his.

he collapses on top of you, a heavy, warm weight, his breath ragged against your neck. for a long moment, you just lie there, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction, the only sound the frantic race of your hearts slowing to a steady, synchronous beat.

you both come down from the high, a slow, gentle descent. he shifts, pulling out of you carefully, a sudden, hollow ache in his absence. he doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his side. you’re boneless, sated, a pleasant weariness settling into your limbs. you listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your ear, a counterpoint to the quiet of the room. he traces lazy patterns on your back, a slow, soothing caress.

he shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at you. the lamplight softens the sharp angles of his face, makes him look younger, almost vulnerable. “so,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “who won?”

you don’t answer with words. you just reach up, tangling a hand in his hair, and pull him down for a slow, deep kiss. it’s a kiss that’s different from the others. it’s not a duel, a fight for dominance. it’s a truce. a concession. an acknowledgement of the stalemate. when you pull away, you’re both breathing a little harder.

he smiles, a genuine, easy smile that transforms his whole face.

the door to the room swings open with a loud, obnoxious creak, revealing a figure leaning against the doorframe.

“kento, my man, you seen my—holy shit.”

it’s gojo satoru. another legend on campus, for entirely different reasons. all white hair, a blindfold pushed up on his forehead, and a smirk that could curdle milk. he’s not looking at nanami. he’s looking at you, a slow, appreciative once-over that makes you want to pull the blanket tighter around yourself.

nanami’s body tenses beside you, the easy intimacy of a moment ago vanishing, replaced by a cold, hard fury. he sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, a naked, formidable barrier between you and the intruder. “get out, satoru,” nanami says, his voice laced with unamusement. it’s not a request. it’s a command.

“does he really have to leave?” you ask, your voice laced with a sweet, venomous amusement. you look at nanami, a direct challenge. “the night’s still young, after all. isn’t it, ken?”

© pinkomen on tumblr

body!builder gojo who has a thing for tight, form-fitting clothes that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination,

especially after a long day at the gym when he’s still pumped and every vein is standing out in stark relief against his skin. he’ll lounge on your couch in a stringer tank top that’s basically a glorified net, the fabric clinging to the sweat-slicked planes of his chest and abdomen, and a pair of joggers that sit so low on his hips you can see the deep v-lines that disappear under the waistband.

he knows you’re watching, he can feel your gaze like a physical touch, and he’ll stretch his arms above his head, a deliberate, sinuous movement that makes his shirt ride up even higher, exposing the hard-packed muscle of his obliques. the fabric is stretched so taut you can see the dark shadow of his nipples, and he’ll catch your eye, a lazy, teasing smirk playing on his lips as he lets out a soft groan that’s half exhaustion, half pure, unadulterated invitation.

body!builder gojo who uses his strength in the most casual, domineering ways that never fail to make your knees weak, like he’s not even aware of the sheer power he wields.

you’ll be washing dishes, and he’ll just lift you up with one arm, set you on the counter, and start washing them himself, all while telling you some stupid story about his day, his other hand resting proprietorially on your thigh. or he’ll decide the couch needs to be vacuumed underneath, and instead of moving it, he’ll just deadlift the entire thing—with you still on it, screeching and clutching the cushions—like it weighs nothing more than a child’s toy.

the ease of it, the casual, almost thoughtless display of raw, controlled power, is more intoxicating than any grand gesture, a constant, humming reminder of the physical reality of him, a reality you can feel in the solid wall of his chest when he pulls you against him for a hug, in the iron bands of his arms when he wraps them around you from behind.

body!builder gojo who smells like clean sweat and expensive cologne.

a combination that should be jarring but on him, it’s the most intoxicating scent in the world. it clings to his skin and clothes, a heady musk that’s uniquely him, and you find yourself burying your face in the worn fabric of his gym hoodie more often than you’d care to admit. he notices, of course he notices, and he’ll just chuckle, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours when he’s holding you.

he’ll press a kiss to your hair, his lips warm and firm, and whisper, “like what you smell, baby?” in that teasing, husky tone of his that sends shivers down your spine. it’s a question, but it’s not really a question, it’s a statement, a confident assertion of the effect he has on you, and the worst part is, he’s not wrong. you do like it, you crave it, the primal, masculine scent of him that grounds you and makes you feel safe and desired all at once.

body!builder gojo who has a gaze that’s as intense and focused as the rest of him.

a piercing, knowing blue that seems to see right through you, stripping away all your defenses until you feel bare and exposed. he doesn’t just look at you, he observes you, and the weight of that attention is a physical thing, a pressure that builds and builds until you feel like you might combust from the sheer force of it. he’ll watch you from across the room while you’re reading, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting on his knee, his fingers tapping out a slow, deliberate rhythm.

he won’t say anything, he’ll just watch, and the silence becomes charged with unspoken words, with the promise of things to come. and when he finally moves, when he pushes himself up and crosses the room to you, the tension snaps, and you’re left breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as he cages you in, his hands braced on the armrests on either side of you, his face so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

body!builder gojo who treats your body like it’s his favorite piece of equipment.

effortlessly lifting and moving you with a playful dominance that’s both infuriating and incredibly arousing. during one of your rare but heated disagreements, you declare you’re sleeping on the couch, storming out of the bedroom with all the righteous fury you can muster. you’re almost there, hand reaching for a throw pillow, when you’re suddenly hoisted into the air, unceremoniously thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. you squirm and beat your fists against the solid muscle of his back, but it’s like hitting granite.

he just chuckles, a deep, amused rumble, and lands a sharp, stinging slap on your ass that stills you instantly. “not a chance, baby,” he says, his tone final. “we’re not going to bed angry.” later, the fight long forgotten, he carries you to the kitchen for a midnight snack, again hoisting you over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. this time, you’re laughing, dangling upside down and watching the world go by from this new, strange perspective as he rummages through the fridge.

body!builder gojo who doesn’t always know his own strength, not because he’s careless, but because this level of power is simply his baseline, his normal.

he’ll come up behind you while you’re bent over the dryer, folding laundry, and give your ass a playful slap, a gesture meant to be a light, affectionate tap. what you feel, however, is a sharp, stinging crack that echoes in the small room, leaving a burning handprint on your skin. he freezes, a comical look of wide-eyed horror crossing his features as he realizes what he’s done, the playful confidence instantly evaporating.

“oh, shit, baby, i’m so sorry,” he’ll murmur, his voice suddenly soft and full of genuine remorse as he gently turns you around, his hands impossibly gentle now as they cup your face. then he’s dropping to his knees, pressing his lips to the smarting skin, his breath warm and soothing as he peppers the area with soft, apologetic kisses. “let me make it better,” he whispers against you, and the sight of this mountain of a man on his knees, apologizing so sincerely for a mistake born from the very thing that defines him, is so endearing, so ridiculously gojo, that you can’t even be mad.

body!builder gojo who makes you feel weightless in his arms.

even when you know you’re anything but. he loves to fuck you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his thick waist, his hands gripping the swell of your ass as he drives into you, each thrust powerful enough to rattle the pictures on the wall. you’re completely at his mercy, suspended in mid-air, your only anchor the solid muscle of his body and the iron grip of his arms. he holds you like you’re nothing, a feather in his grasp, and the sheer, unadulterated strength of it is a dizzying, heady rush.

he’ll look up at you, his blue eyes dark with lust, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face, and say, “look at you, taking me so well,” his voice a low, guttural growl that vibrates through your entire being. “so good for me, aren’t you, baby?” and all you can do is moan, your fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck as you hold on for dear life, your body a willing vessel for the storm of pleasure he’s unleashing upon you.

body!builder gojo who takes his sweet, sweet time when he’s eating you out.

like he’s savoring a five-star meal after a long day of training. he settles between your thighs with the same focused determination he brings to the gym, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wide open, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable to him. he doesn’t rush; he explores, his tongue tracing the delicate folds of your flesh with a surgeon’s precision, tasting, teasing, learning every secret your body has to offer. he’ll use the strength in his neck to hold you down when you start to squirm.

his forearms pressing firmly against your hips, a silent command to stay still and take what he’s giving you. “don’t move,” he’ll growl, the words a warm puff of air against your clit, and the vibration alone is enough to make you see stars. he’s in complete control, a master craftsman working you into a frenzy with nothing but his mouth, and you’re putty in his hands, a trembling, whimpering mess, completely and utterly consumed by the pleasure he so expertly administers.

body!builder gojo who gets a particular, primal thrill from manhandling you into exactly the position he wants,

a playful, dominant display of his superior strength that leaves you breathless and aching for him. he’ll flip you over with one easy motion, your body moving as if you weigh nothing, and you’ll find yourself on your hands and knees before you can even process what’s happening. then he’s grabbing your hips, his grip like steel, and pulling you back onto him, the force of it making you gasp.

he’ll set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips against your ass powerful enough to make you rock forward, your palms sliding on the sheets. “stay still,” he’ll command, his voice a low growl, and when you inevitably lose your balance, he’ll just laugh, a deep, rumbling sound that’s equal parts amusement and arousal, before using one hand to press down on the small of your back, holding you in place. the feeling of being completely overpowered, of being used for his pleasure, is intoxicating, a heady mix of vulnerability and trust that makes your blood sing.

body!builder gojo who loves to test the limits of your flexibility, and his own, in ways that blur the line between workout and foreplay.

he’ll have you lie on your back and then just lift one of your legs, guiding it up and over his shoulder with an ease that’s almost insulting, the stretch in your hamstring a delicious burn. he’s watching your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and intense, gauging your reaction, making sure you’re comfortable even as he’s bending you in half. “you can take more than that, can’t you, baby?” he’ll murmur, his breath warm against your calf, and then he’s pushing, just a little more, until you’re folded almost in two, your knee damn near touching your ear.

the new angle allows him to sink deeper into you, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he feels how tightly you’re wrapped around him. he’s holding you there, his body a solid, immovable object, and the stretch, the deep, overwhelming fullness, is almost too much, but not quite. it’s a perfect, exquisite ache, a testament to the strength and control he wields so effortlessly.

body!builder gojo who sometimes forgets that not everyone is built like a tank of solid muscle, especially when he’s lost in the heat of the moment.

he’ll be fucking you from behind, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll have fingerprint bruises in the morning, and he’ll get a little too enthusiastic. one particularly hard thrust sends you pitching forward, your head nearly colliding with the headboard, and he stops instantly, the spell broken. “shit, are you okay?” he’ll ask, his voice laced with concern, his hands releasing you immediately to gently rub your lower back. he’ll pull out, turning you over and cradling your face in his hands, his earlier dominance replaced with a fierce, protective tenderness. “

i’m sorry, i got carried away,” he’ll whisper, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your nose, your lips. and you’ll just nod, your heart swelling with a dizzying mix of emotions, because even in his moments of carelessness, his love for you shines through, a constant, unwavering presence that grounds him, even when he’s at his most powerful.

body!builder gojo who finds an obscene amount of pleasure in simply holding you down.

not to hurt, but to possess, to make you feel the undeniable weight and reality of him. he’ll stretch out on top of you after he’s already made you come once, his body a hot, heavy blanket of muscle and sweat that pins you to the mattress. he’ll capture both your wrists in one of his massive hands, stretching your arms above your head, the sheer difference in size a potent aphrodisiac. with his free hand, he’ll trace the lines of your body, a feather-light touch that’s a stark contrast to the iron restraint holding you captive.

“look at you,” he’ll breathe, his gaze roving over you like he’s committing every detail to memory. “all mine.” the words are a possessive caress, a branding, and the feeling of being so completely overpowered, of having your mobility taken from you by a man you trust implicitly, sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly. you’re trapped, beautifully and thoroughly, and there’s no place you’d rather be.

body!builder gojo who has a favorite way to wind down after a competition, and it always involves you and a mirror.

he’ll carry you to the full-length mirror in your bedroom, your legs still trembling from your earlier orgasms, and position you so you’re both reflected in the glass. he’ll stand behind you, one arm banded around your waist, pulling you back against the solid, sweat-slicked wall of his chest. “look at us,” he’ll murmur, his lips brushing against your ear. “look how perfect you look against me.” and you do. you see the stark, beautiful contrast of your smaller, softer form pressed against the hard, sculpted lines of his body.

he’ll guide your hand to his bicep, letting you feel the dense, unyielding muscle there. “that’s all for you,” he’ll say, his voice thick with emotion and pride. “every fucking inch.” it’s a vulnerable, arrogant, and incredibly intimate confession, a moment of pure, unfiltered connection where he shows you not just the body he’s built, but the reason he built it, and the reflection in the mirror becomes a portrait of a love that’s as powerful and enduring as the muscles he’s so painstakingly carved.

© pinkomen on tumblr

“no,” he said, the single word quiet, yet it landed with an unfamiliar weight. “no wife.”

oh. you blinked, a strange little jolt going through you. all this time, you’d just assumed. a handsome, put-together man like him. you felt a blush creep up your neck and quickly looked down, busying yourself with wiping a stray smudge of frosting on your apron. “oh. i… sorry. i just thought…”

“it’s a reasonable assumption,” he cut in, his tone gentle again, as if to smooth over your mistake. “your work is beautiful, by the way. you have a very steady hand.”

your fingers stilled. the compliment felt different this time. more personal. “thank you.”

he paid with a crisp bill, and as you reached for the change, your fingers brushed against his. his skin was warm, calloused in a way that surprised you. not the soft hands of an office worker, you thought, but then he always seemed so professional. the touch was fleeting, a static spark in the sugar-scented air, but you felt it long after you’d handed him the coins.

he didn’t leave right away. he lingered, the box of cupcakes resting on the counter between you. “do you enjoy this?”

you looked up, meeting his gaze. it was focused, intent. “baking? yes. very much. it’s… calming.”

“it must be,” he said, his eyes dropping to your hands again, where a new dollop of pink frosting had landed on your wrist. “to create something so… delicate.”

it was the way he said it. the slight pause, the way his voice dropped an octave on the last word. it made your breath catch. the bell above the door chimed for another customer, and the spell was broken. nanami gave a small, polite nod, picked up his box, and left.

but the feeling of his eyes on your skin lingered, a warm phantom touch. you looked down at the smear of pink on your wrist. it suddenly felt like a brand.

. ۫

the following thursday, the air was thick with the promise of a thunderstorm, the kind of heavy, electric stillness that made the world feel muffled. nanami came in just as you were finishing up a batch of lemon tarts, your fingers sticky with curd and powdered sugar.

you saw him before he spoke, his silhouette framed in the doorway, and you felt that strange, pleasant flutter in your chest. this time, you were determined not to blush.

“mr. nanami.”

he approached the counter, but he didn’t order right away. he watched you clean your hands with a damp cloth, your movements methodical. “that looks… difficult.”

you laughed softly. “it’s messy, more than anything. i swear, by the end of the day, i’m more frosting than person.”

to prove your point, you reached for a piping bag to finish decorating a small cake for a last-minute order. as you squeezed, a perfect white rosette bloomed on the dark chocolate surface, but a tiny bead of buttercream escaped, landing on your index finger.

you went to wipe it on your apron, but a hand on your wrist stopped you.

you froze.

it was nanami. he’d leaned over the counter, his body crowding yours in a way that was both startling and not unwelcome. his touch was firm, but not painful. you looked up into his eyes, and the calm, polite customer was gone. in his place was a man with a hunger so raw and open it made your own breath hitch.

“don’t waste it,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the white dab of frosting on your finger.

and then, before you could even process what was happening, he lifted your hand to his lips.

it wasn't a peck. it wasn't a polite, sweet gesture.

he parted his lips and took your finger into the warm, wet heat of his mouth.

his tongue was a slow, deliberate drag against your skin, a broad, flat stroke that lapped away the sweet buttercream. you felt the texture of it, the slight roughness, the way he curled it just so around the pad of your finger. a soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat. it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you. the world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on your hand, the scent of his clean, subtle cologne cutting through the sugar and citrus in the air.

he pulled back slowly, his lips glistening. he hadn't broken eye contact for a second.

“kento,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. “call me kento.”

he let go of your wrist, but his eyes held you captive. he stepped back, the professional mask sliding back into place, but it was flimsy now, a poor disguise for the desire you’d just witnessed firsthand. he paid for his cupcakes without another word, and left you standing there, your finger tingling, the ghost of his tongue a brand more potent than any frosting.

you locked the door ten minutes early, flipping the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ with trembling fingers. you leaned your back against the cool wood of the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought your finger to your own lips, but it was no use. all you could taste was him.

. ۫

saturday was a blur of nervous energy. every chime of the bell made you jump. when he finally walked in, you were mid-frosting a carrot cake, your knuckles dusted with cream cheese frosting.

he looked different today. looser. his tie was gone, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing a sliver of golden skin at his throat. he came right to the counter, not even glancing at the display case.

“i lied,” he said, without preamble. “last thursday. i didn’t come for the cupcakes.”

you set down your spatula, your hands suddenly feeling clumsy and large. “i know.”

a ghost of a smile touched his lips. “do you?”

you nodded, unable to form words.

“good,” he said, and the relief in his voice was palpable. he looked at your hands, at the smear of white frosting on your knuckle. “another one.”

you looked down, then back up at him. you made no move to wipe it away.

this time, he didn’t hesitate. he rounded the end of the counter, the space shrinking until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his chest. the air was thick, heavy with unspoken things.

he followed the faint, sweet trail your fingers had left on the back of your own hand, his tongue a hot, wet line tracing the delicate veins there. up your wrist, where the ghost of thursday’s pink frosting still felt like a memory. he nipped gently at the sensitive skin there, and a soft gasp escaped you. it was a sharp, pleasant shock that went straight to your core.

“kento…”

“shh,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and moist. “just let me.”

he was tasting you. savoring you. his other hand came up to rest on the small of your back, a solid, grounding pressure that pulled you flush against him. you could feel the hard, solid length of him through his trousers, a clear, undeniable proof of his want.

his composure was a fragile thing. it shattered the moment you tilted your head back, baring your throat to him. a low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unrestrained need.

“god,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on your throat, not tasting frosting this time, but just you. hot, open-mouthed kisses that made your knees weak. his hands, no longer patient, roamed your body, one sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you harder against him, the other fisting in the hair at the nape of your neck.

the counter was cool and solid against your back as he guided you, lifting you with an easy strength until you were seated on the edge, your legs wrapping around his waist. the fabric of your apron was a flimsy barrier. he made a frustrated sound, his hands fumbling with the knot at your back until it came loose, and he tossed it aside.

he looked at you, then. really looked at you. his hazel eyes were dark, blown wide with lust. “i’ve wanted this,” he said, his voice raw. “i’ve wanted you.”

he unbuttoned your jeans with quick, sure fingers, yanking them down along with your underwear. the cool air hit your heated skin, making you shiver. he didn't give you a moment to feel exposed. his fingers were there, sliding through your wet folds, a delicious, rough pressure that made you arch your back.

“so wet for me,” he growled, the sound pure satisfaction. he circled your clit once, twice, a teasing promise that had you panting his name. “all this time… you had no idea, did you?”

you could only shake your head, your hands gripping the edge of the counter for leverage.

he freed himself from his trousers, and your breath caught. he was thick, hard, and weeping at the tip. he stroked himself once, twice, his eyes locked on yours. then he was guiding himself to your entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against you.

“look at me,” he commanded, and you did.

he pushed into you in one slow, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt. a choked moan tore from your throat. he was big, stretching you, filling you so completely it was almost overwhelming. he paused, giving you a moment to adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.

“you feel… fuck,” he choked out, his control completely gone. “you feel perfect.”

then he began to move. there was nothing gentle about it. it was a hungry, desperate rhythm, all the weeks of quiet longing released in a single, passionate storm. the counter creaked beneath you, the sounds of your bodies meeting—the slap of skin, the harsh pants, the soft cries he was pulling from your throat—were the only music in the quiet bakery.

he hiked one of your legs higher, changing the angle, and he hit that spot inside you that made you see stars. your head fell back, a cry tearing from your lips. he took your mouth in a brutal, possessive kiss, swallowing your sounds as he drove into you again and again.

“that’s it,” he panted against your lips. “take it. take all of it.”

his hand snaked between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge. the pressure built, a coiling heat in your belly that was about to snap.

“ken, please,” you whimpered, your body taut.

“come for me,” he growled, his voice a low command that shattered your control.

your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you shaking and crying out his name. he followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself deep inside you as he came, the heat of him filling you.

he collapsed against you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant rumble of the storm outside. he was still inside you, a heavy, possessive presence.

he lifted his head, his eyes soft as he looked at you. he pushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. there was frosting on your cheekbone, a pale pink smudge you didn’t even know was there.

he leaned in and slowly, deliberately, licked it off. the gesture was no longer about hunger, but something else. something tender. something real.

and maybe that’s when the rumors started — that you and rodrick were a thing. that the loudest guy in school somehow managed to get under the skin of the quietest mean girl alive. you denied it, obviously. every time someone asked, you’d laugh and say, “please. i don’t date guys who wear eyeliner worse than me.”

but everyone saw the way he looked at you. and worse, they saw the way you looked back.

one night, he showed up at your window — like some kind of knockoff romeo with messy hair and a crooked grin.

“you’re insane,” you whispered when you opened it.

“yeah,” he said. “you like it.”

you didn’t deny it.

he took you out to some half-dead diner off the highway, the kind of place where no one cared who you were or what you were wearing. he bought fries, you stole half of them. you mocked his music taste, he called you “barbie” in that tone that made your chest tighten.

“everyone keeps talking,” you said finally, swirling your milkshake straw.

“about us?” he asked.

you nodded.

“good,” he said. “let ’em talk.”

you rolled your eyes. “you don’t care what people say?”

“not if i know the truth.”

“and what’s that?”

he leaned closer, voice low. “that you’re mine.”

you didn’t say anything — just looked down, fighting a smile you didn’t want him to see.

after that, you stopped pretending.

he’d wait for you after class, leaning against your locker like he belonged there. his hand always found yours — not in a sappy way, but in that quiet, grounding way that said he knew you better than the whispers did. and for someone who built walls out of rumors, it was terrifying how easily he slipped through them.

you still rolled your eyes at him. still mocked him for every stupid thing he said. but when he kissed you behind the gym after practice, you didn’t pull away. you just whispered, “you’re trouble.”

and he said, “so are you.”

the next day, when everyone saw you walking through the hallway with his arm slung over your shoulder and his band logo stamped on your notebook, nobody even needed to whisper anymore.

after that, he was everywhere. by your locker, in the hallway, leaning against walls like he owned the building. “hey, princess,” he’d say, every single time, and you’d roll your eyes, muttering something sharp that only made him grin wider. your friends hated him, called him immature, dirty, beneath you, and yet, every time he said something stupid, you laughed when you weren’t supposed to.

the tension built slowly, like a song that refused to end.

then came the party. some overpriced mansion, too many lights, too many people pretending they had it all figured out. you weren’t drunk, just tired. tired of smiling, tired of pretending you didn’t feel out of place in your own circle. so you stepped outside, heels clicking against the pavement, phone in hand like armor.

he found you sitting on the curb, dress shimmering under the streetlight.

“what’s the queen doing out here?” he asked, dropping down beside you like it was nothing.

you didn’t look at him. “getting away from the noise.”

he nudged your shoulder. “didn’t think noise bothered you.”

“depends who’s making it.” you shot him a look, and he laughed, a low, warm sound that made your stomach twist.

there was a pause. long, heavy, but not uncomfortable. the kind that says everything words can’t.

“you know,” he said after a moment, “you don’t have to keep proving you’re untouchable.”

you frowned. “and what’s that supposed to mean?”

he shrugged, looking at the ground. “it means you act like you’ve got it all handled, but you look exhausted. maybe you just need someone who doesn’t expect you to be perfect.”

you didn’t reply, not right away. because for once, someone saw through the shine, the performance, the armor. and it scared you, but it also felt safe.

“you talk too much,” you finally said.

“you like it,” he shot back, cheeky smile returning.

maybe you did. maybe that was the problem.

you didn’t realize you’d leaned in until it happened. a kiss that wasn’t soft, or practiced, or polite. it was real. messy. a little too fast, a little too intense. his hand cupped your jaw, yours fisted in his jacket, and for the first time, your world went quiet.

after that, it was inevitable. he teased you like always, but the grin behind it softened. you rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it anymore. he walked you to class, carried your bag just to annoy your friends, kissed you in parking lots like it didn’t matter who saw.

you were the girl everyone wanted to be. he was the boy no one thought could matter. but when you were with him, none of it mattered. no reputation, no image, no pressure.

just you and him.

a queen bee and her chaos.

and somehow, it worked.

“hey! yo, it’s rodrick’s girlfriend!” he shouted over the music.

you wanted to melt into the pavement. everyone turned. rodrick nearly dropped his drumstick.

“babe?” he grinned, hopping off the stool. “you came!”

you nodded, holding up the box like a shield. “i, um… brought cupcakes. for you guys.”

the room went quiet for a second. then one of the guys—bill, maybe—blinked. “you baked for us?”

you bit your lip, suddenly regretting everything. “yeah… they’re, uh, löded diper cupcakes.”

the guys burst out laughing, but it wasn’t mean—just surprised. “bro, she made merch you can eat,” one said, already reaching for a cupcake.

rodrick looked at you like you’d just handed him the moon. “holy crap, babe. these are awesome.”

he peeled the wrapper off one and took a bite, frosting smearing on the corner of his mouth. “oh my god—this is actually good. like, really good.”

“it’s just a box mix,” you mumbled.

he shook his head. “nah, you put, like, love or whatever in it. that’s gourmet.”

the band tore through them in seconds. crumbs everywhere, wrappers on amps, frosting fingerprints on guitars. you tried not to cringe at the mess, but the sight of them enjoying something you made made it worth it.

one of the guys nudged rodrick. “dude, if she keeps feeding us, we might actually survive tour practice.”

rodrick slung an arm over your shoulders, smug. “see? i told you she’s the best.”

you could feel every pair of eyes on you. cheeks burning, you ducked your head, but rodrick just grinned and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

“you don’t have to hide,” he murmured. “they already know you’re cooler than me.”

“not true,” you whispered.

“pretty sure it is,” he said, still smiling.

after practice, the guys left one by one, thanking you between mouthfuls of frosting. the garage was quiet again—just the two of you, the faint hum of amps in the background.

rodrick leaned against his drum set, twirling a stick between his fingers. “you always do this,” he said.

“do what?”

“show up when i’m about to lose it,” he said. “like, i’ll be one meltdown away from smashing my cymbals, and then you appear with cupcakes and those shy little smiles, and suddenly everything’s fine.”

you laughed softly, brushing at the frosting still on his face. “you still have some right there.”

he grinned. “you gonna kiss it off?”

you rolled your eyes but leaned in anyway, and he caught you halfway, lips sweet and warm. it was quick—just enough to make you dizzy.

when you pulled away, he was still grinning, eyes crinkling. “y’know, you’re like… the calm to my disaster.”

“and you’re the noise to my silence,” you said quietly.

he blinked. “that’s deep.”

“yeah, don’t get used to it,” you said, smiling.

he laughed, brushing a bit of flour off your sleeve from earlier. “you’re stuck with me, cupcake girl.”

“good.”

nerd!gojo — who inhales sharply as your fingertips graze his thigh, his cock stiffening rapidly in his slacks. later, alone, he strokes his cock clumsily, craving your touch. his climax leaves him yearning for more.

nerd!gojo— whose inexperienced hands tremble as they cup your breasts, marveling at their sosoftness, drawing a shaky moan from your lips as he suckles your nipple eagerly, if not skillfully. his touch is a clumsy lover's caress, yet filled with a deep, raw desire for you.

nerd!gojo— who kneels before you, submitting to your every whim. he nuzzles your sex, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he parts your folds with clumsy yet eager fingers. his tongue delves between your folds, tasting your essence, seeking your pleasure. he is yours to command, yours to teach, yours to own. his only desire is to worship you, to bring you to climax, to hear your cries of ecstasy. use him as you see fit, for he is but a humble servant to your every need and craving.

nerd!gojo— who grips your hair tightly as you take his thick cock deep into your mouth. "ah, your mouth feels s-so good... i'm not gonna last like this!" he whimpers, hips bucking slightly as he fights the urge to thrust. "please, keep sucking just like that, i’m getting soso close... i wanna to fill your mouth, make you taste my hot cum..." his shaft pulses and throbs against your tongue, leaking pre-cum that coats your taste buds with its salty-sweet essence. the musky scent of his arousal fills your nose as you inhale through it, your lips stretched taut around his girth. "oh god, yes.. just like that, don't stop! i’m gonna... i'm gonna cum!"

nerd!gojo — who, eagerly tonguing your clit, pauses to murmur, "did you know the clitoris has over 8,000 nerve endings? that’s why it's so sensitive, why every lick and suck sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body..." he suckles harder, his lips sealing around the throbbing bud as his tongue flicks rapidly against it. your fingers tighten in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as you let out a whiny moan. "mmm, you like that, don't you? you’re doing so good for me baby" he grins against your flesh, doubling his efforts, lapping and suckling with wild abandon. your hips buck against his face, seeking more of that delicious friction as he feels your thighs start to quake around his head. he grips your ass tighter, pulling you impossibly closer, burying his face deep in your heat as he worships your clit with single-minded focus, determined to make you come undone. the sound of your moans fills his ears, spurring him on as he feels your body tensing, ready to explode in ecstasy.