vivienne

He’d beg to have you again, but he knows he can’t – he knows he needs to stay distant, to be your friend. One night where he let down his guard and whimpered an “I love you” was enough – you both were tipsy, and you were cummin’ too hard to hear it, the little confession.

The next day you were back to normal, but he’d felt you quiver around him, he’d watched you drool as he drilled his cock mean into your hole – tip bruising that cute cervix. Pulling out was a tragedy – but he was happy that fucking condom snapped, sadistic as it was for sweet, nerdy Satoru Gojo.

He wished he could have filled you with all those creampies.

“I made everything weird, yeah? That night-”

“No! No, no, it’s not that. I just…” You trail off, and he feels his heart hammering, pulse racing with nerves. “I need to tell you something.”

“Is anything wrong!?”

“No, yes – well…” You sigh again. “I’m coming over if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe um, smoke some weed first? Have a drink?”

Satoru pauses. “How bad is the news?”

“Just get… relaxed first.”

*****

“You’re… pregnant?” He manages to ask, eyes locked onto you as you pace back and forth in his living room. “You’re sure?”

“I need an official test, but yes,” you keep pacing now, shaking your head, sighing. “I was ovulating, I should have known better. Ugh! And now… Toru, you don’t have to help if I keep it, okay? I don’t want you thinking I like did this to get something, like because you’re rich or-”

“Excuse me?” He stands now, walking to you, gripping your shoulders gently, turning you to face him. “When would I ever think that about you?”

“But so many women would fucking do that to you,” you whisper, eyes full of tears. “And I know you’re scared of that. I know it’s why you’re cautious with dating anyone.”

That’s part of it.

The other part is he compares them all to you.

“I know it’s an accident, fuck I’m just as responsible, I was more than happy to fuck you without one,” you flush then, and he clears his throat. “Sorry, I know we aren’t supposed to bring it up.”

“Hard not to, now,” you sigh, letting him cup your face. “I’m so sorry. Really, I know you have so much on your plate, and-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“You’re taking this way better than I thought,” you admit softly, letting him hug you, sinking against his warmth. “I thought you’d panic, or worse… hate me.”

“I’d never hate you,” he whispers, his mind rushing a million miles a minute – of course it’s scary, and of course he has no clue about kids at all. He doesn’t even know what you’ll wanna do, but fuck if he won’t support his best friend – the girl he’s been pining for secretly for years.

He sure couldn’t bring any of that up now, not when you need support, when you need him to just be there.

“We need to make a doctor’s appointment, yeah?”

“I already did,” you sniffle, and he swipes your tears. “Do you wanna come with me?”

“Of course I do,” his brows draw together. “You’ve known me since we were babies almost, you really think I’d let you do this alone?”

“I knew you wouldn’t, but to resent me,” you trail off now, emotions burning in your throat. “I really always wanted one. Not now, but, I did.”

“Yeah, me too,” you blink a bit. “Didn’t know that?”

“You never talked about it to me,” you sniffle again, nausea suddenly hitting you, making you sway a bit. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m gonna…” you rush off then to one of his bathrooms, not one of your finer moments, and as a best friend always does, he holds your hair while you’re sick – it’s not like he hasn’t done it at high school keg parties, or the beginning of college for you – but it’s been a while since you’ve needed it. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, please,” he sighs now, standing. “I’ll get you something for your tummy, you have a toothbrush you can use under the sink, okay?”

“Thank you, Toru,” you hang your head as he walks out, soon you’re on his couch with your legs over his thighs, you all frequently sit like that – but now everything is different. He’s got you nibbling on saltines, and a ginger ale – he’d door dashed them so fast you were surprised.

Then you found out it wasn’t doordash – it was just Ijichi.

Poor Ijichi, really, but you suppose he’s paid well to be at Gojo’s beck and call all the time.

“Eat it,” Satoru commands quietly, studying you. “It’ll help.”

“I’ll throw it up again.” You nibble, little teeth marks on the cracker as you try to chew it a bit. “I keep getting sick.”

“How will you grow a baby if you don’t eat, hmm?” His words hit hard, the sweetness in them, the way he’s looking right at you. “Chew.”

“Yes sir,” you mumble, chewing again.

“Swallow.”

“Don’t say that!?” You’re choking almost on that cracker now as he snorts, smirking just a bit and leaning close.

“Oh, why not? Mind somewhere?” He teases, as if it’s just another day, and watches you get all flustered, playfully shoving him. “Perv.”

“Me!? You got me pregnant!”

“Well, you told me to keep going.”

“You little shit,” he shoves the ginger ale can in your hand again, narrowing those baby blues.

“Drink.”

“Just don’t say swallow, god,” he snorts and rolls his eyes a bit, leaning back on the couch, you see it’s getting dark outside now. “I need to head back soon.”

“Just stay,” it was normal to stay, before that night, before you knew how good his lips felt on your shoulders, his teeth sinking into the nape of your neck, cock railing your cunt from behind.

It was not normal anymore.

You look at his lips, wondering what it would be like to press yours on them, they were soft on your skin, but things were so hasty you both didn’t do that. Probably for the best, they were too plump and glossy, unfairly pretty like all of Satoru Gojo was, really, best you don’t even think of it.

“I should go,” you finally manage to say, and Satoru frowns. “I really have a lot to do tomorrow with work.”

Work.

He forgets you have your summer job, concern hitting his features then. “In your condition?”

“I’m barely pregnant, silly,” you playfully push him again, standing now. “I will see you at the appointment?”

“Of course,” he hugs you a little too long at the door, he can tell you’re fucking terrified as you hug him back, but…

Satoru’s not upset, at all actually.

Instead, he orders anything and everything a baby could need, and a million baby books, studying everything there was to know, picturing it all.

No, he was…

Excited.

Terrified but fucking excited to think of it – of the one girl he’s always loved carrying his baby, but he tries to rein it all in, the last thing he needs to do is pressure you either way with any decision. So instead, when you text him the details and a little good night with a heart, he simply writes back –

See you then. Night, sweetheart 

Before studying again like a little psycho all night – by the time your visit comes, Satoru Gojo is an entire fucking expert on everything pregnancy related, in fact. What else was a best friend for, really, if not to support you with everything?

And if in the next week he jerks it hopelessly to the thought of fucking you and cumming in you, well…

He can’t really help that.

*****

The next week

The gel is cold against your skin as the doctor spreads it across your stomach with the little wand, your shirt slid up to your chest, showing a tummy still mostly flat.. Gojo sits beside you, his hand clenched in yours, his face paler than usual despite how supportive he is being.

You've both been quiet since arriving at the doctor, even in the back of his car as his driver brought you, there was not much said. He tried to lighten the mood by showing you videos of dumb things, but when it didn’t work, and he knew you needed the quiet? He gave you it, just keeping a hand touching your thigh the entire ride.

Comforting, he was comforting you – as the reality of this situation was sinking deeper with each passing moment.

A baby.

Would you have it? Would you keep it? Part of you has always loved kids, but you never expected to be a mother yet, especially not being married or at least with someone. Not your best friend – and was he still going to be that? Would he resent you for your decision, would-

"Alright, let's see what we can find," the doctor says, moving the wand across your belly and thankfully cutting off your thoughts. “Hmm… let’s try here.”

You stare at the screen as he delves lower, pressing a bit on your pelvis – your heart is pounding so quickly you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. There's just static for some time, and you feel yourself getting sick as Satoru watches with you, seeing the shape of your uterus right on the screen.

Fuck - what if something’s wrong!? What if…

“Hey,” Satoru smiles at you, feeling your panic – he’s always known you so fucking well, and now is no different. He runs his thumb across your knuckles softly. “Hear that?”

“No I…” There it is.

A flicker. A tiny, rapid fluttering on the screen, and the sounds, little whooshes quickly echoing in the room, it’s so fast, you can’t take what it does to you in that moment, feeling tears in your eyes. “See?”

“A heartbeat…” You whisper, he grins all big, his teeth white and bright, that smile fucking ruining you.

Another pregnancy symptom?

Apparently being too fucking horny – and being around Gojo made everything a million times worse. Did he have to be so attractive? Did he have to smell so damn good? Did he have to hold your hand like this with his pretty blue eyes glittering, like he’s got it all together when you don’t?

How were you ever just his friend before, you always had something for him, sure. High school crush, college crush, puppy love – but through it all you always knew that friendship was the most important thing. Yet now you know what it’s like for him to grip your hips, to hold you, to bend you over and break you apart on him. To have his body on top of you.

How could you forget it when you’ll be seeing him constantly for years?

"That's the heartbeat," the doctor says with a smile, shaking you out of your heated thoughts. "Strong and healthy. Looks like you're about ten weeks along."

Tears spring to your eyes as you turn to look at Satoru, seeing his own are affixed now to the screen, his lips slightly parted. He looks from the screen to your stomach, then back again, his expression one of pure awe.

"Is that… that’s the baby?”

“Yes, it’s hard to see this early,” the doctor takes a few pictures, it’s a tiny, moving little thing, so small it’s hard to tell.

“That's our baby,” you whisper, then curse softly. “I mean…”

“Shh,” Satoru murmurs, his own heart hammering so fast he almost feels faint. He was of course nervous, but seeing it and seeing you – the girl he’s loved as long as he can remember? He can’t help his dopey fucking grin. “It is.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, all pretty, flushed cheeks, blushing when Satoru offers to clean the gel off your tummy and you sit up, it squishes just a bit, making you curse. “Ugh, already.”

“You look perfect,” he says it before he can stop himself, his hand moving gently to wipe your skin clean, you look down, thighs pressing together, as his eyes flick to yours. “You’ll be pretty, all pregnant.”

“No way, my mom got huge and I will too!”

“So? It’s part of that,” you frown again. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” He tilts your chin as you slide your shirt down.

“What’s going on in your mind right now?”

“That I’m selfish, self centered to think of my body,” you pout a bit. “Stretch marks, titties getting so big, tummy huge. God, my ankles will too! My friends have all been so miserable, ugh. And I should worry less about that, and more about how I’ll raise this damn baby. Am I…”

“Shh,” he kisses your temple now, and you lean against him, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re in your early twenties, pretty normal to be worried about your body changing, I don’t think that’s selfish. Okay?”

“You always make me feel better,” you snuggle against him, loving this too fucking much, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth.

“What are friends for? Besides… getting you pregnant I mean.”

“Satoru!”

“Well…” You snort and shove at him, shaking your head. “When’s the next appointment?”

“Two weeks for a physical type check… do you…”

“I’ll be there.”

*****

The next physical went great, and Satoru’s been reading even more baby books – you’d decided to keep it and had let him know it was his choice, of course, if he wanted to be involved. Because this was both your choices.

Of course Satoru did.

There was no world he’d ever let you do this alone and not support you – though he doesn’t tell you exactly how excited he really is, he is so nervous in these moments, especially knowing how scared you still are. So he tries to be comforting, reassuring, there for you.

He was right there on time, taking you there, and fuck he looked good. He had on this sweater that was so soft you wanted to snuggle against it, that cologne in your senses, almost making you salivate.

Fuck.

As if you didn’t want him before, at three months pregnant it was worse than ovulation, it was like you needed to cum constantly. You’d played with your pussy every day to avoid this, to hope that you could act normal with him, but when he’d brushed this tiny stretch mark on your skin and smiled?

When he’d murmured cute.

When he held the door open for you, sliding in and talking about everything he’s researched on babies? Well, that’s when it’s almost fucking impossible to control, thighs pressed together with your hands between them, as if you can keep yourself from touching him somehow on the drive back.

You're impossibly quiet in the back seat of his sleek black car, Ijichi drives Gojo everywhere, you’re not even sure Satoru can drive – there’s no point really though. You don’t blame him one bit, but it was always pretty fucking cool in school to get those rides home with him – memories twist and blur just a bit as he brushes a lock of your hair back, smiling at you.

You shift uncomfortably, trying to discreetly press your thighs together even more, to not just straight up whine out from the friction, but it's no use. You're so  horny it hurts, your panties soaked to all hell, your clit pulsing with need, literally twitching from his proximity.

What sort of pregnancy thing was this? This wasn’t in a book.

"You okay, sweetheart?” Satoru asks softly now, glancing over at you. "You've been squirming, are you uncomfy? I think cramps can still happen – and your back can hurt from it. I can rub it?"

“No! I mean!? No!? I mean…” You curse, shaking your head. "I'm fine is all I meant!”

“Fine?” You nod quickly, making him sigh. “Am I being too touchy with you? Offering to-”

“No, no. God I appreciate you so much, never,” you mumble, shaking your head. “It’s not that at all.”

“Okay…” He exhales now.

“You thought that?”

“You’re so tense around me,” he brushes his hand against your thigh softly. “Like you’re clenched up, I worried I…”

“No… I’m just… not okay.”

"What's wrong?" he asks, brows furrowing just a bit. "Are you in any pain or anything? I need to know if you are."

"Not exactly," you admit, your cheeks flushing, burning fucking hot, god is this car just hot!? Is his skin burning!? "It's just... I'm really... uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable how? I can turn up the AC, and you can lean on me?”

You hesitate a bit, he’s being so fucking sweet, and you feel like a deviant right now. Your brain is on nothing but how long his fingers are, how good they’d feel inside you, fuck when you’d been together you’re not sure he touched you much. He had slipped them in for a moment but you were so needy you had begged him to put it in.

Oh and that stretch.

But they’re long, and they’re thick, thumb brushing your thigh. You sigh, shutting your eyes again.

“You know you can tell me anything, yeah? Known you since the fucking fifth grade, now is not time to get shy.”

“Right…” You take a shaky breath. “It’s embarrassing."

“Okay, how?”

"I'm horny," you blurt it out, watching his own blush, cursing a bit. "Like, painfully horny. I feel like I will jump you, straddle you, fuck your hands are so big and… Satoru, were they always this big!?”

“Were they…” He laughs nervously. “What?

“Were they always this big – and why do you smell like that?” He blushes brighter as you lean forward, your hand covering his. “I’m going to lose it, I can’t act like this, but it’s like I’m going to die if I don’t cum. I’m wet from nothing.”

Oh fuck.

He can’t take that, looking at you as you lean forward, your tits are right in his view, that sleeve falling off your off shoulder sweater, showing too much of your pretty skin. He swallows nervously, it takes everything not to just drag you on his lap and pump you full of cum.

God, what would your nipples look like dripping milk? How big and full would your tits get? He feels like he’s the pervert, and you’re over here worrying, he can see it as you pull back just a bit.

"Oh. That's... that's a thing? With pregnancy?” He tries to act calm, cock throbbing.

"Apparently," you mutter, shifting again. "And it's fucking awful right now, I am not trying to be… distant, okay? I…”

The car hits a bump and you whine out.

“Ugh!” You cover your face, Satoru is quiet for a moment, then clears his throat, taking your hands down slowly, making you look at him. “This is embarrassing!"

“Nah, it’s… just…” He swallows a bit, nervous as his fingers wrap around your delicate wrists. "I could... I mean, if it would help... I could help you out. As a friend if you um… want? As… a baby daddy… friend or-"

You blink then. "What?"

"Just... to take the edge off I could help you feel better," he murmurs, his cheeks still slightly flushed, eyes dark. "I helped you get in this state, I could at least help you with this, to make you cum, hmm?”

“Make me cum?” You’re trembling a bit at that. “Like and… it’s fine with you?”

“Is it fine with me,” he laughs a bit, shaking his head, tilting your chin up. “You askin’ if I have a problem making you cum for me?”

“I just,” you bury your face against his chest, his hand slipping up your thigh achingly slow. “Make me cum how?”

“You keep staring at my hands, do you want my fingers inside you?” You suck in a breath, burying your face again, feeling his thumb brushing your skin. “What else is your best friend for, hmm?"

“Satoru,” you laugh softly, biting down on your lip, peeking over at the partition. “Would he hear?”

“You were loud,” you gasp and playfully shove at him. “I’m kidding… kind of. You really were.”

“I’ll be a little quiet,” you whisper. “You were loud too.”

“Brat, tch,” you giggle, and it feels perfect.

Satoru is your best friend.

Satoru got you pregnant.

Now Satoru Gojo’s fingers are sliding up your thighs, his fingertips tugging at the waistband of those leggings, you love wearing them lately, with your body already changing just a bit. “Are you sure you want me to?”

“Yes,” you whisper, a hand slipping up his chest, shaky just a bit as his fingertips slip lower. “Helping me as my friend.”

“Best friend.”

“Best ever,” you whisper – delusional – nodding so he has the okay, his fingers are just a bit hesitant at first, gently tracing the edge of your panties before slipping underneath, finding you. “Mnh!”

You gasp as his fingers brush against your folds, already slick with arousal, embarrassingly so in fact – so wet the squelch is loud as he darts it up your slit, Satoru moans softly, looking into your eyes and slipping lower. His fingertip dips in, and even more slick drips out, your panties already sticky, he lets out a little hum, running them up, studying you.

"Fuck," he murmurs, voice breathy. "You weren't kidding, you’re soaked, sweetheart, hmm?”

You shake your head in response, spreading your thighs wide for his fingers to explore you, he finds your clit easily, circling it gently and all teasing, making you whine out in frustration before applying more pressure, drawing patterns like he had that night months ago.

“Satoru!” You whisper it, trying to keep quiet as you arch against his hand, a desperate whine escaping your lips again, hands gripping at his sweater too tightly.

"Like that?" he asks, his voice soft, god does he have to sound like that? You’re trying to keep it together, but the faster his fingers rub your twitchy lil clit, the worse.

"Yes, y-yes like that I…. mhm!”

He knows your body, he has no problem sliding two in deep, curving up and letting the heel of his palm graze your needy clit, squishing noises even louder as he watches you, waiting for you to fall apart for him.

“So wet,” he murmurs, moving faster. “You’re close, hmm?”

You nod quickly, letting him lean forward – as if he may kiss you, just hovering a centimeter away as he works your cunt, lifting his chin and looking down at you, eyes hungry and bright blue.

“Then cum, let go,” he whispers, and you do it like on command, earning his soft, murmured praise, orgasm rushing through you until you’re high from it, resting your face against his neck.

“Toru,” you breathe out, eyes shutting, the orgasm so much better than what you can do yourself.

"Better?" he asks softly, pulling his fingers back just a bit, eyeing that slick and moaning. “Fuck…”

"Much better,” you mumble, seeing that amount of slickness and panicking. “Oh god sorry…”

“For what? Being soaked?” He smirks a bit. “No need.”

“I um…” He sucks your cunt off his fingers, making your lips part at the filthy little act, something you’ve never seen with any other partner.

He just tasted your cunt, his cheeks hollowing.

“I um… you uh…” Words. Use words. “I… th-thhank you?"

"Anytime," he says with a small smile, chuckling a bit as your flavor hits his tastebuds. “What sort of friend would I be if I let you hurt like that?”

“Right, you’re winning the best friend – baby daddy award,” he snorts, and the two of you act fine, act as if this was just that.

You’re both too fucking scared to admit what it really is.

*****

A month later

You're staying over at Gojo's place again – it's become more frequent since the pregnancy was confirmed. The two of you spend a lot of time together, preparing a bit or just enjoying each other’s company. You had to tell your families, which was not an easy conversation, especially with Satoru’s parents.

They’d been appalled quite frankly, Satoru was supposed to marry who they wanted him to, they were anything if not distant and terrible as long as you knew him. You’d held his hand that night during that dinner, and asked if he wanted you to stay over again, quiet as you both drove home.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured softly, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine, I expected much worse.”

“I still want to,” you had said, kissing his cheek, your eyes fluttering shut, his hand had instinctively touched your tummy, getting rounder now, something so intimate and sweet it almost broke you.

You hated going home alone.

There were plenty of rooms – but tonight you couldn’t just sleep in one, tossing and turning until you got up in the middle of the night, peeking to see Satoru asleep, sprawled across his bed with his lankly limbs – the sheets tangled around his waist. You watch him for a moment, you’ve seen him asleep countless times, but everything lately has felt so different.

“Toru?”

“Hmm?” He opens his eye and turns, peeking at you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

His voice is all raspy with sleep, making your heart flutter. God he’s even cuter, leaning up in the dark, brushing a hand through his hair with a sleepy smile. “Could I sleep in your bed?”

“You want the comfiest one, hmm?” He teases, holding up the blanket for you to crawl in beside him. “Come closer.”

“You sure?” He nods, tugging you against him and sighing, burying his face in your neck. “Will it be too much?”

“No, not at all,” he feels so good, he’s so warm, his body against yours. “Get some sleep.”

But sleep still eludes you, you instead can’t stop thinking of how badly you crave not any kind of food or drink like a normal pregnant girl.

You’re craving Satoru.

God, thinking of that hardness pressing against you in your mouth, to taste him for once, feel him harden on your tongue and pulse. Swallow him down, suck him till he’s whimpering, cumming over and over?

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, hmm?” He teases you again. “I feel your brain whirling over there.

“I’m having an odd craving,” you mumble, turning over to him now, he raises a brow at you, yawning.

“I’ll order whatever, what is it?”

“You can’t order it,” you bite your lip now, and he laughs.

“You want me to make you cum again?”

“No.”

“No?” You slide down the bed, gently pulling back the sheets a bit, and his breath catches in his throat. He's only wearing boxers, and you can already see the outline of his cock, thick and growing, a little dark spot where pre is slipping. “Oh you… you’re craving…”

“I really want your cock in my mouth.”

Is Satoru fucking dreaming!?

He wonders as he blinks rapidly at you, your fingertips trailing his abdomen, making them tense. “You want my cock in your mouth?”

“Yeah, that sounds insane. I want…” You sigh. “Cum.”

“Cum!? Is that even safe!?”

“I don’t know, that’s not in a book!” You pull back now, sighing. “God I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t go,” he catches your wrist quickly, tugging you against him. “I would never turn down your mouth, you fuckin’ kidding?”

“You sure?”

“Am I sure,” he shuts his eyes, trying not to act as eager as he really is, and completely failing. “In what world does anyone turn that down? Especially from you.”

“You want it then?” You whisper, reaching out to trace the length of him through the soft fabric, he whimpers just a bit, the sound making you ache.

“You really wanna suck me till I cum? You don’t want like… ice cream with pickles or something?” You laugh softly, shaking your head, and he tugs you more, your hair falling against his skin, brushing his thigh. “Yeah, go ahead then, sweetheart. You can suck me any time you need.”

“Oh can I?” His hand brushes your hair back reverently as he tugs his cock out, he’s close to telling you he’s in love just when you kiss his flushed tip, tongue lapping to grab a little bit of white.

“Anytime,”he murmurs again instead, watching as you gently take the tip of him into your mouth, hot and wet. “Fuck…”

“Mnh,” you’re aching as you eye him, and his hand entangles gently into your hair, easing your head down so you can taste him – clean and slightly salty with the white coating your tastebuds. You moan softly as you take more of him in, your tongue swirling around to hit his frenum, making his hips buck up.

“God… so this is really your pregnancy craving?"

You hum around him in response, which makes him groan, thickening in your mouth as you move up and down, reaching for your pussy and touching it, letting him fuck into your throat, pausing then.

“Is it too much?”

You pull back with a messy pop, shaking your head. “I want it.”

“Fuck you’re pretty like this,” he whispers, his hand gentle but firm on the back of your head as you work him with your mouth, taking him deeper with each pass until he's hitting the back of your throat, and you’re gagging on him. “Takin’ me like that? So fucking good, doin’ s’good I…”

He’s mumbling, stuttering as he fucks your throat – just like you were dying for, making you suck harder, aching to taste all of him. Him whispering your name as you drool down his balls, his tip gliding past your uvula, while your fingers fuck in and out of your needy cunt.

“You’re touching her?” He asks softly, you hum in response, he’s lost at how good your throat feels, how tight with every little gasp. “Sucking me has you that needy, hmm?”

“Mhm,” you suck even harder, and he fears he won’t last long, not when you’re cumming, shaking and your throat is contracting, his thick length stretching it so good.

“Want all of that cum in your throat?” He whispers hoarsely, you moan again, eyes looking up under your lashes as he holds your hair in a ponytail. “I’ll give you all of it, then, sweetheart.”

He is not quiet when he cums, no, Satoru Gojo moans – husky and fucking loutd as his hips buck up, and he’s busting his creamy release. It’s spilling down your throat, and you greedily swallow every drop, slurping it all as he gently fucks your throat a few more times, whining out, sensitive.

You take your fingers of your cunt, slick and messy, sucking him up and down, still semi hard, eyes locked on his.

You just sucked Satoru Gojo’s cock.

Your friend since fifth grade.

You pull off, a thick string of saliva and cum dissolving from your licks, as your little pink tongue then gently licks him clean.

“You’re so perfect I…” He trails off, swallowing nervously and then tugging you up. “C’mere.”

You gasp as you land on his chest, and he wraps an arm around you, kissing your lips, tasting his own cum right off you.

You haven’t even kissed Satoru yet.

That’s what’s insane, you’ve gotten pregnant, you’ve fucked him, came on his fingers, but it was as if you both knew the kiss would ruin you, and it does, desperate, needy and sweet. How his hand tangles in your hair, and his lips move, plump and soft against yours.

That’s when the inevitable fact hits your heart – you didn’t just crave cum in your mouth, you wanted to make him feel good, wanted him to fall apart for you, his tongue glides on yours and you can’t help but sigh into his mouth. You lean up a bit, hands on his chest, a smile so big and goofy on his face you melt.

“So, was that just a craving?”

“Were your fingers just helping a friend out?” You ask, he laughs and shakes his head, cupping your face.

“What do you think?” You bury your face nervously, letting him hold you against his body, your heart racing.

“I think everything is insane. And scary and… I don’t ever, ever want to lose you, Satoru.”

“You won’t,” he whispers, kissing gently across your cheek, to your temple, but the words still don’t make it from his lips.

I love you.

It’s like they’re stuck, until you’re fast asleep, and he murmurs them like he did that night you conceived your baby.

*****

It goes on like that, sucking Satoru for your oral fixation, and fuck he’s not complaining, but soon it’s not enough, neither is you letting him finger you when you’re aching. You’re so sexy with your tummy swelling, and your tits so full, your face is glowing and your goddamn eyes are glittering.

You are sinking to your knees after work at your place when he halts you, shaking his head, making you pause.

“Oh um, not today?”

“You stand here,” he says instead, kneeling and making you blush, looking up at you under his snowy lashes. “I want to taste you this time.”

“Toru, you c-can’t… I’m getting big already and-”

“You’re perfect,” you melt when he gently slides up your dress, groaning when he sees your slick, pretty pussy. “Call it my pregnancy craving.”

“You got ‘em too, hmm?” he laughs softly, tickling your skin.

“Why don’t you sit down and spread your thighs,” you obey him – how can you not – sitting at the edge of the bed, eyeing the reflection of you both in your mirror for just a moment, the sight as filthy as it is sweet, worshipping you when he kisses up your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

“You can’t just say that, Toru,” he doesn’t know what it does until this very moment, when he spreads your plump lips, watching the slick pool down, so fucking pretty. His hand brushes up the curve of your tummy, tongue gathering that mess and drinking it with a greedy bob of his Adam's apple. “Mnh!”

“Fuck,” Satoru’s lost now – hand adjusting his straining erection, his other slipping higher, squishing a tit, feeling the weight of it in his palm as he looks up at your body, your face, head falling back.

You’re too pretty pregnant.

All he can think is how he’s almost glad you are right now, he knows it was an ‘accident’ but he’s so fucking happy, having you with him all the time, having your touch, your nearness. Seeing all the changes and knowing in this way the two of you are connected, a toxic little thought nagging at him that he’d love to do it again, next time on purpose.

Maybe he’s very happy pulling out didn’t work, and that the condom broke, when his fingers press into your thighs, and he’s greedily slurping at your cunt now. All gentleness lost as your flavors hit, ones he’s had little hints of at best, watching you suck him was amazing, but Satoru thinks he loves this just as much if not more, drinking your cunt up as you tremble, as you fall apart.

“I’m c-close, fuck I’m…” You’re pressing your thighs on either side, he pulls back, your wetness making his face glisten.

“Hold ‘em open,” he murmurs softly, you prop your feet up on the bed as he sinks further onto the plush of your rug. “Just like that.”

“I’m spread wide though…”

“And you were when I got you this way,” he grins as you blush. “You wouldn’t let me touch you, it was just – in me.”

“Well I wanna say it again,” you admit softly. “But also…”

You tug his hair, bringing his face against you, his moans vibrating on your messy, sensitive clit. Satoru slides two fingers in and fucks them in your hole, slick and drooling onto the carpet with every thrust, his mouth sucking your little clit inside it. A few more flicks and hums, and you’re shattering, cumming so hard you squirt all over him, soaking his shirt.

“Fuck…” He looks at you in wonder, you gasp, covering your face.

“Oh god!? I’ve never…”

“Good,” he is possessive then, as he stands up, sliding your dress until it’s off you completely, leaning forward and kissing your lips. “I’m glad if I made you first.”

“Are you getting possessive of your ‘friend’?” You tease – you both know the word is nonsense at this point, but you’re also scared to say more.

That you’re in love with him.

“Maybe I am…” He admits, his voice breathy and sensual, as you taste yourself, the sweetness from his mouth mixing with your own flavor, addictive. “Maybe I wanna pump you full of me, hmm? Maybe I’ve been wanting to.”

“Then do it,” you whisper, eagerly tugging down his zipper, seeing just how hard and thick he is. “Cum in me.”

“Fuck, seriously!?” You giggle a bit at that, nodding. “What position though? Can you… be on your back? Can you…”

“You didn’t read that part, hmm?” You tease him then, laying back and seeing how his eyes darken, his pretty tip leaking. “I can, but no weight on the tummy at this point so…”

“Got it,” he whispers, hands on your hips, standing between you as you lay there, thighs wide, your mess dripping in rivulets still from your thighs, when his tip hits your slit you both take a breath.

“Ah!” You’re so sensitive during this stage of pregnancy, you almost cum from a rub, embarrassing as it was to squirt on his damn face, you can still see where you soaked his shirt as he leans down, careful not to put weight on you. “Sensitive…”

“Yeah, are you, baby?” You nod quickly, he keeps rubbing it, like to torture you, kissing you while holding himself up and standing, achingly sweet even as his fat cockhead is going faster between your folds. “Yeah you are – gonna cum like this, hmm? Like that night?”

“You r-remember?” You mumble, losing control of your senses, clinging to his biceps, nails pressing over his shirt, Satoru sighs, kissing you again, as you feel your body tense up.

“Of course I remember,” your eyes meet, and you can’t help but shatter with another glide of his tip against your slit, impossibly more squirt spraying him. “God you’re wetter than before. Is that even possible?”

“In me, fuck… stop teasin’ me…” You are already cockdrunk from his tip, and he knows it – smirk on his handsome face. “Toru!”

“Lemme take my time, know how long I’ve waited?” You can’t answer, not when he glides his cock in, careful when in three thrusts he bottoms out, waiting for you to adjust. “Feel so fuckin’ good… you’re soaked…”

“Mhm,” your thighs tremble, he is easing back, his hands trailing down your changing body in a way that should make you nervous.

But you just want more.

“Beautiful…” He whispers, easing back and looking at the mess with every slow stroke, how your puffy lips are moving around his thickness, coated his raised veins till they’re glittery. “Look at you, sweetheart. These tits, so full, I can’t wait till there’s milk dripping.”

You whine out then, eyes rolling back as he begins to move, standing and lifting you just slightly, angling your hips so his cock can rub right on your sweet spot, hitting the little sponginess of it over and over in sweet little kisses. You shatter again, and again, cumming so much you get dizzy, your ears ringing, his cock filling you and stretching you more than you thought you could take.

He’s whispering your name in a way that’s nothing like ‘a friend’ or even a baby daddy, the way he says your name as he rests a hand on your ribcage, the other on your hip, fucking into you? It’s filthy, it’s loving, it’s everything and anything but how he’s said it your whole life, and yet…

It’s still the way he said it the day he met you.

When he first learned your name, the two of you became friends, and he shared his lunch with you because you forgot to make your own. The way when he took you home after school, and when he’d hold open that umbrella, the two Satoru Gojos meld – that one, and this one, a man fucking you up, holding you, his shirt half slid up from your hands.

“Off, off,” you tug impatiently and he laughs, doing just that, letting you touch his abdomen, his chest, gripping his obliques when he starts to move faster. “Ah!”

“Y-you okay, sweetheart?” He manages, pausing then. “Am I too…”

“Love it,” you mumble instead, shaking now. “Love it, please… more…”

“I’ll give you anything when you ask so sweet,” he eases out and you gasp, scowling at him. “I’m just going to make you more comfy, don’t you glare at me.”

“I said more and you… oh…” He’s gently putting a little pillow underneath your hips now, and you sigh, lashes fluttering. “That is better.”

“Mhm, impatient girl,” he glides back in, hitting your spot even better, every drag of his tip having you closer and closer. “You sure you want my cum? You wanna be so full of me it drips out all day?”

“Yes,” it’s automatic, your answer, Satoru whines out then, his cheeks all flushed, his eyes lidded and heavy – you feel him pulsing inside, he’s so big in your slick, messy walls. “Please… cum inside I… mnh!”

“Fuck,” Satoru gives you just that – all his milky cum, coating your walls in white, trembling as you milk him for every drop.

Oh, and when he sees that mess pouring from your pretty cunt? Well he can’t help but fuck it back inside, but this time with you on your knees, your head resting on the bed as he holds your body up. Watching the thick coating of his own white release slipping down his cock, his balls heavy again.

He gives you more of it – more of him, desperately whimpering in your ear, cum getting fucked back inside, whispering those treacherous words that you didn’t hear last time. But this time you do, you turn your head, drool spilling, eyes all fucked out – Satoru swipes your drool as he busts his load deep in you again, three now just getting fucked deeper, slipping from the mess you both are.

“You l-love me?” You mumble, brows drawn together. “Is that like… just talk during it or…”

“I love you,” he whispers again, a little louder, seeing your eyes glimmer. “Not just because I’m buried inside you and pussy drunk, no. I do love you. God I do.”

“I love you too, Toru,” you whisper, letting him kiss you, drinking his sighs and moans in as he gently rocks his still hard cock inside, in the stuffed full, creamy mess he’s made of you. “I love you too.”

It’s whispered over and over, when he’s showering you, helping you shave, being so gentle and sweet – like he wasn’t just railing your pussy, like he wasn’t fingering his cum back in. No, it’s perfect, the way you can finally not call Satoru Gojo just your friend anymore.

*****

You had a baby with your best friend by accident – but it’s anything but a mistake, in fact when you’re holding her in your arms and smiling at her, seeing the same blue eyes you’ve loved your whole life? When Satoru’s making a bottle downstairs and you’re rocking in the chair in the nursery he had made?

When she’s all milk drunk later in your arms and Satoru is laughing at her little face, brushing her cheek with his thumb? You know it was all for some reason, even if it’s a little too soon, and even if you’re not fully ready yet – you know it’s perfect here, having him kiss your head, sighing and looking at her.

“She’s so cute like this,” he says softly, brushing some of her downy hair that’s forming, you ease the bottle and she is still sucking. “She needs a binky?”

“Mhm,” he hands you one, and you slip it in her mouth, grinning all big up at Satoru now. “She looks so much like you. I’m not sure my genetics tried.”

“Well, I do have Gojo genes,” he’s all puffing his chest, you can’t help but giggle, before wincing a bit at the pain. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Still sore,” you admit, he gently takes her and places her in the pretty little bassinet, swaddling her up tightly before coming to you, helping you up. “Thank you… Toru, thank you for everything. I was scared at first, but…”

“I was too,” he admits, peeking down at you – still so beautiful, but the strain of having her has taken it’s toll. You’ve got dark circles, and your color isn’t all back yet, he picks you up before you can stop him.

“Toru!”

“You’re taking a nap.”

“I can walk!”

“I know,” he holds you anyway, you yawn and bury your face against his neck, lashes tickling his skin. “I love her so much.”

“I do too,” you admit, giggling. “So much I almost want another.”

“Another, hmm?’

“Not any time soon!” He just grins as he lays you down. “You deviant, don’t even think about it for at least two years!”

“Sure, I wasn't thinking about it at all,” he sighs as he sees your nipples dripping though, thumb brushing over one, tasting it. “Oh it’s sweet.”

“You little freak,” you tease, but you let him have just a taste, a little flick of his tongue before he tugs up your top. “Take a nap with me.”

“All right,” he is tired too, just trying to keep wide awake for you, but when he cuddles you to him, and feels you against him, he can’t stop his grin.

He got his best friend pregnant by accident – but the next time will absolutely be on purpose.

patreon <3 comms

you stop talking. your eyes drop to his hands, to the sketchbook open on his knees, to the exact page he's on—the shirtless one—and your face goes white for a second before turning bright red.

"oh my god."

he looks up at you, a grin already pulling at his mouth. "you draw me?"

"give it back." you reach for it, but he just lifts it out of your reach, way too entertained by this.

"wait, wait, wait." he flips back a page, holding it up. "are these abs? i don't think i actually have abs like this."

"satoru—"

"i mean, kind of," he says, grinning even wider, "but you really went all in here. there's shading. you gave me a six pack i don't fully have."

you try to grab it again. he holds it just out of reach again, smiling down at you.

"you drew my hands three times. why does a hand need three tries."

"because hands are hard, okay? that's not weird, hands are literally one of the hardest things to draw, ask anyone—"

"never said it was weird." he finally lowers the sketchbook, though he doesn't hand it back yet. he just looks at you for a second—your face completely red, your arms crossed tight like you're trying to disappear. "it's flattering."

you groan and cover your face with both hands. "it's for class. i'm not being weird about it."

"didn't say that either." his smile softens a little, more curious now than teasing. "but seriously. why me?"

you peek at him through your fingers, like maybe if you don't fully participate in this conversation it'll just end on its own. "we started a new unit," you mumble. "figure drawing. like, anatomy, proportions, the whole body. they bring in models for class and it's just—it's so awkward, satoru. you're sitting there for three hours trying to draw a person you've never even talked to."

"so you draw me instead."

"my professor said it's easier when you draw someone you actually know," you say quickly, like talking fast will make this less embarrassing. "like, it helps to already be familiar with the person. and you're a sports major, you're literally built like the examples in our textbook, so i thought... i don't know. it made sense."

"so you thought, 'oh wait. i've got a pretty handsome friend. i'll draw him.'"

"i did not think about it like that."

"you basically did."

but he's not really laughing at you. there's something kind of warm in the way he's looking at you now, the sketchbook still resting on his knee like he's in no rush to give it back. "you know," he says, his voice a little quieter now, "you could've just asked me."

"i didn't want to make it weird."

he raises an eyebrow. "weirder than it already is?"

you groan and bury your face in your hands again. "stop it."

he chuckles, finally closing the sketchbook but still not handing it back, just holding it loosely against his chest like he's claimed it now. "so what's the assignment actually for? like what's due."

you hesitate. this is the part you really didn't want to get into. "it's, um. it's a full figure study. like, a finished piece, not just sketches."

"okay. so like what you already drew?"

"kind of. except—" you stop, feeling your face heat up all over again.

"except what?"

you sigh, giving up on hiding it. "it has to be a nude study. that's the whole point of the unit. like, the body without clothes, the way the muscles and proportions actually work without fabric getting in the way."

his eyebrows go up, surprised, but he doesn't say anything teasing this time, just listens.

"and everyone else in class already has their reference done," you continue, the words spilling out faster now that you've started. "they've all been going to the model sessions for weeks. i missed like three of them and now i'm behind. i don't have anything to actually work from, and it's due monday, and i don't know what i'm gonna do."

he's quiet for a second, turning the sketchbook over in his hands like he's thinking. then he shrugs, easy, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "so draw me."

you blink at him. "what?"

"draw me," he says again, like he's repeating himself for someone a little slow. "for the assignment."

"satoru, i don't think you understand what i just said—"

"i understood it fine." he leans back against the table, arms crossed now, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "you need a body to draw. i have a body. solves your problem."

"that's not— you don't have to do that."

"you didn't ask. i offered."

"satoru."

"what? you already drew me shirtless without even asking," he points out, smirking. "feels like i should at least get a say in it this time."

your mouth opens and then closes again, no actual argument coming to mind.

"so," he says, holding the sketchbook out to you now, finally, "when do you want me."

you stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the joke to land, for him to laugh and say he's kidding. it doesn't come. he just watches you, sketchbook held out between you, patient in a way that's almost worse than if he were still teasing.

"you're serious," you finally say.

"dead serious." he wiggles the sketchbook a little, like he's reminding you it's still there, still yours to take. "i mean, unless you don't want it to be me. i get it if that's weird."

"it's not that i don't want it to be you," you say quickly, before you can think better of it, and then immediately wish you could take the sentence back the second you hear how it sounds out loud.

his grin widens. "oh?"

"shut up. you know what i mean." you finally take the sketchbook from him, hugging it to your chest like it might protect you from the rest of this conversation. "i just don't want you to feel like you have to. it's a big ask."

"could just say thank you, you know." he checks his phone, then looks back up at you. "okay, so. when's good. you said it's due monday?"

your stomach does something complicated at the thought of this actually happening, of him actually meaning it. "i mean—if you're really down, friday night could work. gives me the whole weekend after to finish the piece."

"friday night works. come by my dorm, like, eight?" he says it so casually, like he's inviting you over for a movie and not offering to sit there while you draw every inch of him. "more privacy than the studio anyway. don't gotta worry about randos walking in."

"right." your voice comes out a little higher than you mean it to. "yeah. that makes sense."

"bring your stuff. pencils, whatever you need." he's already turning to go, slinging his bag over one shoulder, looking far too unbothered for someone who just volunteered for this. then he glances back at you, smirk creeping in again ""and hey—make sure you get the good angles. i have a reputation to maintain."

"i make no promises."

he laughs at that, walking backward a few steps before finally turning around fully and heading off down the hall, leaving you standing there with your sketchbook clutched to your chest and friday suddenly feeling very, very far away and not far away at all.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

you knock on his door right at eight, sketchbook tucked under your arm. when the door swings open, you almost forget how to speak entirely.

he's standing there in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, hair still damp and pushed back messily from the shower, a few stray drops sliding down the side of his neck. he looks completely unbothered by it, leaning one arm against the doorframe like he just answered the door for a pizza delivery and not for you.

"hey," he says, grinning at the way your eyes immediately snap up to his face. "you're early. or i'm late. one of those."

"you said eight," you manage, voice coming out a little strangled.

"yeah, and it's eight." he steps back to let you in, completely at ease, while you do your absolute best not to stare at the water still tracking down his collarbone. "wanted to shower first. figured you'd want clean reference material, not sweaty me."

"right. that's—considerate." your face is heating up fast, and you hate how obvious it probably is.

he notices, of course he notices, smirk pulling wider as he shuts the door behind you. "you're already red and i haven't even dropped the towel yet."

"i'm not red."

"you're very red." he says it gently, almost fond, like he's enjoying this a little too much. "relax. you're gonna see me naked in like, five minutes anyway. no point getting shy now."

"that's—that doesn't make it less weird, satoru, that makes it more—" you cut yourself off, setting your bag down on his desk a little too forcefully, mostly to give your hands something to do that isn't fidgeting.

he just laughs, clearly enjoying every second of your suffering. "you're the one who's been secretly sketching me for who knows how long without even telling me. i'm just catching up to the project at this point."

you need something to say, anything, because the silence stretching between you feels too loud, too charged, like it's just waiting for you to do something stupid like keep staring at him. "so, um." you clear your throat, eyes darting anywhere that isn't directly at the towel. "how was practice?"

he glances at you over his shoulder, clearly clocking the fact that you're filling dead air for the sake of filling it, but he humors you anyway, padding over to the little kitchenette tucked in the corner of his dorm. "long. coach had us running rounds for like two hours straight. my legs are gonna hate me tomorrow."

"sounds rough."

"it was fine." he pulls a shaker bottle down from a shelf, dumping in a scoop of protein powder with one hand while the other holds the towel in place at his hip. "you get used to it after a while. body adjusts."

"right. makes sense." you nod way too many times for someone agreeing with such a simple statement, perching yourself on the edge of his desk chair, flipping your sketchbook open.

he adds water, screws the lid on, and shakes it, the muscles in his forearm shifting in a way you absolutely do not need to notice right now and notice anyway. then he tips his head back and drinks, and you watch—you can't help it, your eyes just go there on their own—the long line of his throat moving as he swallows, a bead of water from his still-damp hair sliding down the side of his neck and disappearing somewhere past his collarbone.

you realize you're staring a full two seconds too late.

"you're staring," he says, lowering the bottle, that slow grin spreading across his face like he's been waiting for an excuse to call it out.

"what?" your voice comes out a little too fast.

"you heard me." he sets the shaker down on the counter, leaning back against it. "staring. at me. just now."

"i wasn't staring," you say, way too quickly, your face heating up all over again as you fumble to look anywhere else—the ceiling, the floor, the stack of textbooks on his desk, anywhere that isn't him.

"you were so staring." he pushes off the counter, walking closer with that unhurried way he moves, like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it to torture you. "it's fine. i get it. i'm a lot to take in."

"oh my god."

"i'm just messing with you." he laughs. "relax. you look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine."

"uh huh." he doesn't push it further. he turns and heads toward the open space near his window, where the evening light is still soft and golden enough. he glances back at you over his shoulder. "okay. so how do you want me. like, pose-wise."

"oh—right." you fumble for your sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page, grateful for something to focus on besides the fact that he's still only in a towel. "um. standing's probably easiest to start. maybe just—natural. however you'd normally stand."

"natural how. like this?" he straightens up, shoulders back, doing this exaggerated, stiff superhero pose that's clearly meant to make you laugh.

it works. a small laugh escapes you despite everything. "no, not like that. just—relaxed. like you're not thinking about it."

"hard to not think about it when you're staring at me with a pencil." but he loosens up anyway, settling his weight onto one leg, one hand coming up to rest at the back of his neck. "this work?"

your pencil is already moving before you fully register deciding to start. "yeah. that's—that's good. don't move."

"wasn't planning to." his voice has dropped a little, quieter now, watching you work. "you gonna tell me when the towel needs to come off, or am i supposed to guess."

your pencil stutters against the page. "right. um. whenever you're ready, i guess. it's—it's for the assignment, so."

"so professional," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting back a grin. "okay. you ready?"

"yeah." you swallow, gripping your pencil a little too tight. "ready."

he reaches up and tugs the knot of the towel loose, and it drops to the floor without any of the fanfare your racing heart seems to think the moment deserves. he doesn't flinch, doesn't make a big show of it—just steps back into the same easy stance from before, one hand resting at the back of his neck, weight settled onto one leg, completely at home in his own skin in a way that makes your nerves feel almost silly by comparison.

you keep your eyes on the page for a long moment before you let yourself actually look, telling yourself it's just reference, just anatomy, just the same thing you'd be doing with any model in class.

but it doesn't feel like just anatomy. it feels like every line of him is something you've already know from the sketches you didn't think anyone would see, except now the soft pencil shading has nothing on the real thing—the actual shape of his shoulders, the dip of muscle along his stomach, the lean lines of him standing there like an italian renaissance sculpture.

and god, he's better than you imagined. better than he looked in your head late at night when you couldn't sleep, which—not that you dream about him, obviously, that would be ridiculous, that's not a thing that happens—but if you did, hypothetically, this would still somehow be better than that.

it's almost unfair, really. the way his body looks like it was carved out of stone, like michelangelo himself spent way too long getting the proportions exactly right—shoulders broad and strong, the muscle down his arms, the curve where his waist narrows into his hips.

it's the kind of body you'd expect to see behind glass in a museum somewhere, with a little plaque underneath, except this version breathes and makes dumb jokes.

you let your eyes trace lower, the way you would with any reference, you tell yourself, purely for the sake of the assignment. his cock rests heavy between his thighs, thick and full, and bigger than you thought it would be (not that you'd ever thought about his dick, obviously, that's not a thing you do.)

the head shows a soft flush where it brushes against his leg, and the fair hair trails down from his navel and gathers in pale curls at the base. the sharp v of his hips frames it all in clean lines that make your fingers itch to draw every shadow and curve.

"you still with me?" he says, a little amused, like he's clocked exactly how long you've been staring without actually drawing anything.

"yeah—sorry, yeah." you blink, snapping your eyes back up to his face, pencil finally moving again.

"should i have, like, shaved or something?"

your face goes instantly red all over again. "what? no—it's fine. you're fine. it's not—that's not a thing you need to worry about."

"figured i'd ask." he shrugs. "usually i shave when i've got a girl coming over, but i was running late today, so."

"oh my god." you cover your face with one hand, pencil still somehow managing to keep moving against the page with the other. "i did not need to know that."

"only wanted to clear the air."

you peek at him through your fingers, deciding two can play this game. "so what you're telling me is you haven't had anyone over in a while, huh?"

a short surprised laugh, like he wasn't expecting you to fight back. "wow. okay. didn't think you had it in you. but—i mean, i have someone over now."

"to draw you. that's different."

"you're still seeing my dick or whatever."

"that's not the same thing and you know it."

"feels pretty similar from where i'm standing."

"so, the other girls sit across the room admiring you for twenty minutes with a sketchbook before anything happens? is that what you're telling me?"

"oh, so you're admiring me."

"that's not what i—i meant artistically."

"sure you did."

"i hate you."

"just so you know—they're not usually sitting across the room admiring me for twenty minutes. they're usually under me about thirty seconds after they walk through the door."

"oh my god, satoru."

after another ten minutes or so, your pencil finally slows, then stops altogether, hovering over the last few finishing strokes before you sit back to actually look at what you've got. it's good. better than good—the proportions feel right in a way they never quite did with the strangers from class, like having an actual person in front of you instead of just a body made all the difference.

"okay," you say, clearing your throat. "i think i've got what i need. you can relax."

"oh thank god." he drops the pose immediately, shoulders slumping, rolling his neck out with an exaggerated groan like he's been holding some kind of intense athletic stance this whole time and not just standing there looking effortlessly good. "puhhh. finally. you have no idea how hard it is to stand still that long."

"you literally do athletic training for two hours a day."

"that's different, that's moving. this was just—" he shakes out his arms, grabbing the towel off the floor and wrapping it back around his waist, "—standing there being stared at. way more exhausting than it sounds."

"you're so dramatic."

"i'm a very dedicated model, is what i am." he flops down onto the edge of his bed, finally looking properly relaxed for the first time all evening, then immediately perks back up, craning his neck toward your sketchbook. "okay, lemme see it."

you instinctively pull the book a little closer to your chest. "it's not done done. it's just the reference sketch."

"i don't care, i wanna see." he's already getting up, padding over. "c'mon. i posed for, like, twenty minutes straight. i've earned a peek."

"fine. but you can't make fun of it." you hold the sketchbook out, a little reluctant, watching his face carefully as he leans over to look.

he goes quiet for a second, which is rare enough on its own that you almost want to comment on it. his eyes move slowly over the page, taking in the lines of his own shoulders, the careful shading along his stomach, his easy stance you'd worked so hard to get right.

"huh," he says finally.

"what? is it bad?"

"no, it's—" he tilts his head. "it's really good, actually. like, you made me look good good. not just accurate good."

"that's literally just what you look like."

"i don't know, i feel like you're being generous with the shoulders." but he's smiling now, something a little softer underneath the teasing, still looking at the drawing instead of you. "you're actually talented. like, properly. i wasn't expecting it to be this good."

"you say that like you thought i was bad."

"i didn't know what to expect! you draw secret abs sketches of your friends, forgive me for having questions about your technical skill." but he says it gently, nudging your shoulder with his again, and when he finally looks up at you there's something warm in his expression that wasn't quite there before, something that makes your stomach flip a little. "seriously, though. this is really good. you should be proud of it."

"thanks," you say, feeling a little warm under the actual sincerity of it, fumbling slightly for something to do with your hands besides just standing there basking in gojo satoru's approval like it means something. "i mean, it's still rough. i've gotta clean it up before monday."

"still." he's still looking at it, then glances up at you with a grin starting to spread. "can i take a picture of it?"

"what? why?"

"i don't know, for personal use." he's already reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "this might genuinely be the most insane nude i could ever send to a girl. like, nobody's topping that."

"satoru, oh my god, no." you yank the sketchbook back against your chest, half laughing despite yourself. "you are not sending this to anyone."

"think about it though. any other guy sends a regular picture, basic, boring, zero creativity behind it. i send this and i'm instantly the most romantic man alive." he's grinning, clearly enjoying how flustered you've gotten all over again. "it's basically a love letter. you put thought into this."

"it's an anatomy assignment."

"a very thoughtful anatomy assignment." he reaches for the sketchbook again, more playful than serious about actually taking it. "c'mon, one picture. i won't even send it to anyone. probably."

you let him, mostly because you know arguing further is a losing battle, and he snaps a quick picture before setting his phone back down, looking entirely too pleased with himself about the whole thing.

"okay," he says, dropping back down onto the edge of the bed. "anything else you need from me? more poses, weird angles, you want me to flex my biceps?"

"no, it's fine." you start gathering your things. "i think i stressed you out enough for one night."

"you didn't stress me out." he watches you for a second, head tilted, clearly not buying the way you said that. "spill it."

"what?"

"you've got a face. the 'i want to say something but i'm not gonna' face." he leans back on his hands. "what is it."

you hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your pencil case. "i mean—maybe we could do one more pose? like, a different angle or something. just so i actually have options when i sit down to finish it properly. i don't wanna hand in the first thing i drew if there's something better i could've gotten."

he blinks, then grins, already pushing himself back up off the bed. "yeah. sure. why not." he rolls his shoulders out, stepping back toward the open space by the window. "you're the artist. tell me where you want me this time."

he settles into the chair this time, leaning back with his head tipped against the top of it, one leg stretched out, the whole thing far more relaxed than the standing pose from before. one hand comes to rest loosely in his lap, fingers resting near his cock without much thought behind it.

"oh, this is way better. way less work than standing there like a statue." he glances down at where his hand landed, a flicker of realization crossing his face, and he laughs a little, shifting like he's about to move it. "oh—sorry, that's just habit. didn't even think about where i put my hand."

"no, it's—" you hesitate, voice catching, face going hot all over again. "it's, um—it's fine. really. genuinely fine. do whatever's, uh—whatever's comfortable for you. i'm not—this isn't a big deal."

he looks at you for a second, like he's checking you actually mean it, then shrugs, settling back into exactly the same position, hand staying right where it was. "okay. if you're sure. i'll stay like this, then."

your pencil is already moving, eyes flicking between him and the page. it takes you a few minutes to notice that he's stopped looking out at nothing and started watching you instead, head tilted slightly against the back of the chair.

"what?"

"nothing." but he doesn't stop watching you. there's something almost soft about the way he's looking at you now, the corner of his mouth pulled into a small smile, like he's caught himself thinking something he wasn't planning on. "you get this face when you're drawing. all scrunched up and serious."

"i do not."

"you so do. little furrow right here." he reaches up, tapping a finger lightly between his own eyebrows to demonstrate, careful not to actually shift out of the pose. "it's kind of cute."

your pencil stutters against the page. "don't move," you mutter, mostly to give yourself something to say that isn't reacting to that.

"i'm not moving."

he settles back again, and keeps watching you. his cock twitches once under his hand where it rests in his lap. he feels the slow thickening start before he can stop it. oh fuck. the words stay stuck in his throat but they echo in his head as he presses his fingers down a little harder. he tries to hold the growing length discreetly against his thigh but it is no use. another twitch makes the head nudge up against his palm.

your pencil pauses on the page. you see it. the subtle flex of his fingers. the unmistakable twitch that makes his cock strain despite the way he tries to keep it down. heat spreads low in your stomach and between your legs so fast it leaves you dizzy.

"sorry about that," he mutters. the flush on his neck deepens and his hand stays pressed over the twitching length like he can will it back down. but it twitches again anyway. slow and heavy and impossible to ignore. "long day, i guess. lot on my mind."

you swallow. "it's fine."

"i don't know, i normally kind of—wind down at night. on my own. you know. guess my body didn't get the memo that tonight's schedule looked a little different."

"oh! uh—i can go," you blurt out, already half reaching for your bag, face burning. "like, seriously, if you need a few minutes or—whatever, i don't want to make this weirder than it already is—"

"no, no, you don't have to go." he sits up a little. "it'll pass. it's fine. i'm fine."

"are you sure? because i really don't mind waiting outside, or coming back tomorrow, or—"

"i'm sure." he gives you a small, almost sheepish smile, the most genuinely embarrassed you think you've ever seen him. "just finish your drawing. i swear i'm not gonna combust."

"okay." you sink back down slowly, still not entirely convinced, sketchbook settling back into your lap. "if you're sure."

"i'm sure." he resettles into the chair, head tipping back again, doing his best to look casual about it even though his ears are still a little red. "c'mon. let's just—finish this. pretend it's a normal tuesday."

"it's friday."

"pretend it's a normal friday, then. work with me here."

you pick your pencil back up, trying to focus on the page instead of the very obvious tension radiating off him from across the room. for a minute or two it almost works, both of you pretending pretty hard that everything's fine.

the quiet stretches between you. you try to keep drawing but your focus slips every time he shifts in the chair. his hand presses down harder in his lap. he is trying to push his cock fully flat against his thigh now. his breathing turns heavy and uneven like he cannot quite catch it. you hear every inhale, every slow exhale. he is getting so worked up just from sitting there while you look at him. his cock under his palm thickens and twitches against his fingers no matter how he tries to hold it still.

then his fingers move slower. deliberate. he touches himself a little. just the barest drag of his thumb along the side like he is checking how hard he is getting. it twitches again under the touch. bigger this time. he presses down quick to try and calm it but it does not help. his breath catches on a low sound he does not quite manage to swallow.

your pencil stops moving. heat floods through you so fast your face burns.

"okay," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "okay, i think i actually need a few minutes this time."

"oh god, yes, okay." you're already on your feet, sketchbook nearly sliding off your lap in your rush. "i'll just—i'll wait outside, or—"

"you can stay." he says it quickly, almost too quickly, like it surprises even him. "i mean—if you want. it won't take long."

"satoru."

"what? i'm just saying, you don't have to leave the building over this."

"i'm not waiting in here while you—"

he does not look away from you as his hand slides back down between his legs. he is already painfully hard. his cock stands thick and flushed in his palm, the head dark and wet at the tip. he wraps his fingers around the length and strokes once slow and tight like he has been holding back for too long.

"i think i like it when you watch," he almost moans.

"i'm gonna—" you don't even finish the sentence, just grab your bag and bolt for the door, nearly tripping over your own backpack strap on the way. "air. i need air. i'll be right back."

"wait! you don't have to run—"

but the door already slams shut behind you, and you stand in the hallway for a solid ten seconds just catching your breath, face burning, heart absolutely pounding, before you let yourself slide down against the wall and bury your face in your hands.

you stay quiet. your breathing slows but your heart does not. then you hear it, muffled through the door. the low rough sound of his voice. a groan, and the wet sound of skin moving on skin. another sound comes through, sharper this time, and a low fuck.

you press your thighs together where you sit on the floor. the noises do not stop. they get a little louder like he has stopped holding back now that you are gone. you can picture it perfectly, his hand moving fast on his thick cock. another groan filters through the door and your body reacts hard, heat flooding between your legs.

you sit there against the wall, staring blankly at the hallway carpet while your brain refuses to move away from his door and not listen to his moans and groans anymore.

how. how are you supposed to look him in the eye after this. how are you supposed to sit across from him in the dining hall next week, or wave at him across campus, or exist in the same general vicinity as gojo satoru ever again without your whole face just instantly catching fire.

you bury your face deeper into your hands, groaning quietly to yourself. it was one thing when it was just sketches. it was even survivable when he found the sketchbook, mortifying as that had been. but this. this is a whole new tier of humiliation you didn't know existed until tonight.

you're going to have to transfer schools. change your name. move to another country, probably. there's no version of monday where you walk into the dining hall and he's there and you don't immediately die on the spot.

somewhere behind the door, things have gone quiet.

you really, really don't want to think about what that means.

though her ashes had been scattered across some salty shore years before you had even met him, she was always there—clinging to katsuki like a phantom, a sorrowful memory that refused to wither away no matter how much it hurt. from room to room, dream to waking, from a former life into the fragile, stumbling new one he tried to build with you—he carried her presence, her life upon his shoulders, heavy and bitter like a truth he was too cowardly to face. 

he saw her in everything, in the warmth of the dawning sun, the pitter-patter of rain on a dreary evening, in the way your laugh echoed through even the darkest of nights, filling the quiet nooks in every room with you, just as she used to.

her presence was an everlasting reminder of everything he once had, everything he needed, everything you weren't. 

you tried to ignore it, but god dammit it was so obvious it was hard not to notice. you caught him every so often glancing at her photo, gaze lingering a second too long, a little too much love behind those eyes. 

she was there in the photographs lining the mantel, in the box he kept in the closet, the one he thought you didn’t know about. she was there in the way he hesitated before saying your name—as if he had to remember that it belonged to you. she was there in the way he slept—or rather, in the way he didn’t.

most nights he lay still on his side of the bed, facing the wall, shoulders curled inward. you'd hear his breath hitch, quiet but sharp, and sometimes you swore you heard him whispering something—soft like a prayer, broken like a confession.

her name; never yours.

it was almost unnoticeable—under his breath, even—but you heard it every fucking time. and it never got easier, it never hurt any less, just easier to cope with.

the house felt more like a museum of the past he refused to leave behind rather than a home, your home.

there were pieces of her everywhere; tiny, innocuous things—details no one but a grieving man would hold on to so tightly. her mug collecting dust in the back of the cabinet. her bracelet hanging off the corner of a cracked mirror. her handwriting on a curling post-it note stuck inside a drawer; the ink faded, but her voice somehow still loud, echoing in your ears as if to taunt you.

at first, you told yourself it didn’t matter. removing them felt too cruel, too much like erasing a life that mattered. and she did matter—anyone could see that. you weren’t naive enough to expect him to simply forget someone he loved so deeply, fiercely. you never wanted to replace her, you just wanted him to see you. not the ghost he kept stitching over your skin. 

but as the months passed—slow, heavy, suffocating—the house seemed to shrink around her memory. your shadow was smaller than hers. your voice was quieter in the places she once filled.

you had become a guest in your very own marriage.

the first time he said her name in place of yours, you laughed.

it was almost reflexive, a startled exhale you attempted to stifle with a forced smile. he'd been half-asleep, reaching for a glass on the coffee table, muttering something under his breath. it was hardly more than a syllable, and he quickly stopped himself as he snapped back into reality and realised who he was talking to.

you told yourself it was just a slip. you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

but after the third time, the sixth time, the ninth time—it was impossible to pretend. it had become a pattern, a reflex, a carved neural pathway that still led him back to her. each time only hurt worse than the last.

the tenth time, you were in the kitchen. you heard the faint syllables, soft and warm—warmer than he’d ever said your own name. you gripped the countertop so tightly your knuckles went white, breathing through the sting behind your eyes.

you didn’t correct him. you didn’t say anything at all. you just let the moment pass like every other one. because correcting him meant acknowledging that he had said it. and acknowledging it meant admitting that deep down, you already knew where his heart lay. 

tonight will be different.

the evening starts quiet, like everything else in this god forsaken house. dinner sits between you both, untouched, cooling slowly in the candlelight you lit because you hoped, naively, that it might make the evening feel softer. more intimate. more… yours.

he arrives late yet again, shoulders tense, eyes tired, the smell of smoke lingering faintly on his shirt from training. you offer a small smile. one that feels brittle, feigned. he sits, exhales sharply through his nose, and begins eating without a word. 

halfway through the meal, you’re telling him about your day—nothing special, just mundane details, something stupid your coworker said, a story you think he might laugh at. he doesn’t.

instead, he answers with a quiet, distracted, “…yeah, okay, cassie—”

her name.

it was spoken so naturally he doesn’t even realize he’s said it. your heart drops to your stomach, a burning awareness churning till it makes you sick. your fork clinks against the plate. the room freezes. bakugou stops mid-chew. you both know what just happened; neither wants to break the sickening stillness settling over your heads. he swallows hard, jaw clenching. he looks anywhere but at you—at the table, the wall, the fucking salt shaker—before forcing out, “i—shit. i meant—”

the damage had already been done.

“i meant you,” he says again, softer, but the softness is an apology, not affection. you wish he had yelled. you wish he had denied it. you wish he had pretended. fucking anything would hurt less than the truth hanging in the stale air. you stare at him, and the ache in your chest blooms into something heavier, something with teeth.

“katsuki…” your voice cracks, anger and pain intermingling into a sickening tangle of splintered truths in your words. “do you...still love her?”

his breath catches and slowly—so unbearably slowly—you watch his eyes flick toward the fireplace. toward her.

that single moment tells you everything. he doesn’t even notice he’s done it. you close your eyes. nausea creeps into your throat.

“you don’t have to answer,” you whisper. “i already know.” the words are cold but your voice shakes, tears brimming and breath catching.

bakugou’s head snaps toward you. “no,” he rasps. “don’t—don’t do that. don’t put words in my mouth.”

“i’m not.” you force a smile that feels like it might shatter your teeth. “your eyes said everything.”

he looks stricken. not angry—never angry with you. just guilty. so goddamn guilty. he runs a shaky hand through his hair. "i’m tryin’, damn it. you think this is easy? you think any of this is—”

“i think you’re still in love with her,” you whisper. “you’re just trying to love me because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do.”

he flinches. you’ve seen him take explosions point-blank with less reaction. “don’t say that,” he mutters. “don’t fuckin’ say that.”

“it’s true.”

“it’s not.” his voice breaks on the last word, hardly audible. “it’s not.”

“katsuki…” you inhale slowly, painfully. “you never came back.”

his eyes widen. you continue before he can speak. “you stayed where she died. you stayed in the life you had with her. you stayed in that grief so long it became home. and now i’m stuck here—loving a man whose heart still belongs to a fucking ghost.” you feel a lump surfacing in your throat as you force out those last words; it all felt too…real.

a cold silence falls upon the room—thick, suffocating, heavy with everything he can't say aloud. bakugou stands abruptly, pushing his chair back so hard the legs scrape against the floor. his fists shake at his sides. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. he looks like a man drowning.

“katsuki,” you whisper again, softer. “look at me.” he does. and the look in his eyes nearly breaks you—it’s raw, hollow, terrified, and unbearably lost.

“i don’t want to lose you,” he says. it’s not confident. it’s not fierce. it’s barely a whisper. “i’m so goddamn scared to lose you.” you swallow, throat tight.

“then start choosing me.”

he lowers his gaze, shoulders trembling. “i don’t know how.”

your chest caves in around your heart. you step toward him slowly—one breath, then another. you lift your hand to touch his cheek, and for a moment he leans into it like a man starved for warmth. but then his eyes flick—again, reflexively—toward the photograph on the mantle. you feel him retreat. just slightly, just enough. and that tiny, unconscious retreat cuts deeper than any words he’s ever spoken.

your hand falls away; he doesn’t stop you. you step back. one step. another.

“katsuki,” you whisper, voice shaking, “i love you.” his breath shudders. “but i can’t go on loving someone who keeps looking past me.”

that's what finally breaks him.

you don't have to hear his quiet, devastated inhale to know it. you don't have to watch his shoulders curl in like he’s trying to protect a wound so deep he never let heal. you don’t need to see his tears; he won’t let you, anyway. he turns his face away, wiping them quickly with the back of his hand, as if grief is something ugly he has to hide. he whispers your name—your real name, this time—like an apology, like a plea, like he’s trying to anchor himself to the present.

but the moment is already too heavy, slipping through your fingers like sand. you turn away before he can speak again. you walk to the bedroom. he doesn’t follow, doesn’t call after you. you close the door quietly behind you. and the silence that follows hurts more than hearing her name ever did.

the bedroom is dark when you slip inside, the only light a thin sliver from the hallway. you don’t bother turning on the lamp. you just stand there for a moment, hands trembling, chest tight, feeling like the house itself is pressing down on you. your throat burns. you don’t want to cry. not again; not over the same wound that won't stop reopening no matter how gently you try to treat it, no matter how long you give it to heal.

you sit on the edge of the bed slowly, mechanically, like your body is moving without permission. your fingers clutch the sheets. silence settles—thick, cold, uncertain. you hear him still standing at the table. the faint scrape of his chair. the uneven inhale he tries and fails to control. then—a soft, choked noise. one you’ve never heard from him; a sound too broken to be anything but pain. your heart lurches painfully.

before you can process it, you hear a muffled, desperate exhale—something between a gasp and a sob—and then the unmistakable sound of him sinking to the floor. your breath stutters. “katsuki…?” you whisper into the dark.

no response. only ragged breathing. you push yourself up, feet silent against the hardwood, and open the bedroom door. he’s on the floor. katsuki bakugou—pro hero, explosive powerhouse, stubborn to the point of self-destruction—is kneeling on the ground, hands braced on the floor, shoulders shaking. he’s crying. openly, violently, like something inside him finally cracked and the pieces are cutting their way out.

“katsuki—” you drop to your knees in front of him. his head sinks low, hair falling over his eyes.

“don’t—” he chokes out, voice raw, “don’t look at me—”

but you reach for him anyway. he flinches at first, instinctive, ashamed—but when your hands cup his cheeks, he breaks—truly breaks. his forehead presses to your shoulder, and a sob rips out of him so harsh it shakes your entire body. his fingers clutch your shirt like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“i’m sorry,” he gasps between sobs, every word shattering. “i’m so fuckin’ sorry. i didn’t—i didn’t m-mean to hurt you—i never—i don’t know how to—shit—”

you wrap your arms around him tightly. he collapses into you, shaking and gasping like he’s been drowning for years and finally surfaced. you stroke the back of his head gently, grounding him, anchoring him.

“katsuki, look at me.”

he shakes his head against your shoulder.

“katsuki,” you repeat, firmer this time, “look at me.” he pulls back slowly, reluctantly, eyes red and swollen, tears streaking down cheeks he never lets anyone see wet.

it knocks the breath out of you. he looks as though he’s grieving two things at once—the woman he lost and the woman he’s afraid of losing—his expression caught between yesterday’s ache and tomorrow’s dread. the sadness in him moves like a slow tide, pulling back from one shoreline only to crash into another, leaving him stranded in the undertow.

you bring your hand to his face, thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. “katsuki,” you whisper, “you don’t have to hide from me.” his breath trembles, uneven.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice breaking. “i feel like—like if i let her go, then it means she didn’t matter. and she did. god, she fuckin’ did. she was… she was everything. and losing her—” he swallows, throat tight. “losing her destroyed me.”

your chest aches at the honesty. at the vulnerability he has never shown anyone—not like this. “i know,” you whisper, leaning your forehead to his. “i know she mattered. and i’m not asking you to pretend she didn’t.” his eyes squeeze shut, another tear sliding down.

“i’m scared,” he admits softly. “i’m scared that loving you means i’m betraying her memory. and i hate myself because i want to love you. i want to so fuckin’ bad.”

your breath catches.

he continues, voice trembling: “i look at you and i feel… hope. real hope. and it scares the shit out of me. because if i let myself love you, it feels like i’m leaving her behind.”

you place your hand over his heart. “you’re not leaving her,” you whisper. “you’re letting yourself live.” he opens his eyes, gaze wet and lost.

“i don’t know how.”

“that’s okay,” you say gently. “you don’t have to know how.” you take his shaking hands in yours. “i’ll help you.” bakugou’s breath breaks again.

“you’ll… help me?”

“yes.” you squeeze his hands, firm, steady, sure. “i’m not here to replace her. i’m here to walk with you through the grief so you don’t have to walk alone anymore.” he stares at you, something soft and agonized unfolding in his chest.

“when you’re ready,” you continue, “i’ll help you let go of the guilt. i’ll help you understand that loving me doesn’t erase the love you had for her. that you have room for both.” his mouth trembles. “and maybe someday,” you whisper, brushing a tear from his jaw, “you’ll be able to look at me and see me. just me. and love me fully.”

his face crumples. a sob punches out of him as he throws his arms around you, burying himself in your warmth like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing again. his voice cracks against your neck.

“i want that,” he whispers, broken, desperate. “i want to love you right. i want to choose you. just… don’t give up on me. please. don’t fuckin’ give up on me.”

you hold him tighter. “i’m not giving up on you,” you murmur into his hair. “but you have to let me in. you have to let me help you heal.”

his grip tightens. “i will,” he breathes. “i—i swear i will.”

you guide his face back to yours, kissing his forehead gently, delicately, as if reassuring him that he still belongs here, still has something worth rebuilding. he exhales shakily, leaning into your touch. you don’t fix everything tonight, you don’t erase the past, you don’t magically mend scars years deep. but in the dark, on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms, something shifts—a small, fragile step forward, a willingness, a promise.