hello...

sukuna: you're quiet. what are you doing tonight?

you: most people start with a greeting and small talk, ryomen.

sukuna: i like getting to the point but i'll humor you.

sukuna: hello, sweetheart. how are you?

you: hey. i'm pretty good and you?

sukuna: good too. back to my first question.

you: rude. going out with my friends to some new club.

sukuna: what are you wearing?

you: it's impolite to ask a lady what she's wearing, ryomen.

sukuna: you're right. i won't ask. tell me what you're wearing.

and that had sparked a brilliant idea in your head to send him a totally innocent picture of you in your dress before you left your apartment.

there is a delay that you count with the beats of your heart until your phone buzzes with his response.

sukuna: you're going out in that? careful, some guys might try to grab your ass.

eyes widening, you feel the heat creep up your neck. you know exactly what he’s doing—marking his territory from miles away.

you: why would they do that? lol

sukuna: because they're idiots. stick close to your friends, yeah?

you: okay. any drink suggestions?

across the city, sukuna leans his head back against the locker, his phone heavy in his hand. he stares at the photo you sent—the curve of your bare spine, the way the fabric clings to your hips. his jaw tightens. he can practically feel the texture of your skin under his calloused palms. he’s already straining against his shorts, the visual of you walking into a dark club with all that skin exposed making his blood simmer.

the picture gave sukuna a thrill. he'd been waiting for you to make the first move for a while now. to him, woman are like cats. no one in their right mind goes up to a cat, be it a stray or homed, and reaches out to touch it. it will attack you, look at you crazy or run away. the feline will let you know when you can touch it very much like a lady. so he's bidding his time with the patience of a saint for when you do, when you come out of your shell and show him what you want.

sukuna: i'm usually a whiskey on the rocks kind of guy, two fingers. you seem like you enjoy fruity cocktails though.

you: i do but i'm willing to try new things.

sukuna: think you can handle two fingers?

your heart skips a beat. you know it’s a double entendre, and the mental image of his large, tattooed hands—the ones that grip a rugby ball with such care—doing anything else to you makes your breath hitch. you’re rubbing your thighs together now, the friction the only thing grounding you.

stealing a glance at the driver through the rear view mirror, you feel silly about your shame. it's not like your screen is cast on the dashboard for the middle-aged man to see. he's focused on the road.

you: of whiskey, right?

sukuna: what do you think i mean?

you: well, we're talking about whiskey so i'm going with that.

sukuna: obviously.

you: you give drink recommendations to everyone like this?

sukuna: not in this manner.

you: in what manner?

sukuna: stop texting and being asocial. go have fun with your friends, silly girl.

the dismissal feels like a physical shove, making you huff in frustration. but then, your phone vibrates—a heavy, deliberate pulse.

it’s a photo.

harsh gym lighting. sukuna is shirtless, his jersey gripped between his teeth, pulling the fabric up to reveal a sunkissed torso that looks carved from granite. his tattoos snake around his obliques and dip dangerously low into the waistband of his shorts. crimson eyes pin you in place as he stares into the camera.

greedily, you zoom in until the ink blurs into pixels, your pulse drumming in your ears as you stare at the sheen of sweat on his skin. a dusty pink, neatly trimmed happy trail disappears into his shorts like an ‘x’ marking the spot of a pirate's treasure.

sukuna: it'd be unfair to not return the favor.

you: you’re a horrible man.

sukuna: you want to kiss this horrible man.

you: bite him actually. hard enough to draw blood btw.

sukuna’s eyes darken as he reads that. he imagines your teeth against the ink on his shoulder, the sharp sting of it and it makes the burgeoning bulge in his shorts pulse. a string of dirty messages aren't enough to get him worked up but he'd been wanting to palm himself for twenty minutes, trace the tip of his half-mast erection while he imagines dragging his fingers down the dip in your naked back and feeling you shudder.

sukuna: hmm, i bet you're a biter.

you: i bet you'd like that.

sukuna: this isn't about me.

you: oh yeah? i bet a hundred bucks that you're hard right now.

he doesn't try to deny it. he hits the banking app, the notification popping up on your screen instantly.

sukuna: [attachment: a notification of a $100 transfer]

you gasp, the sheer audacity of it making your stomach flip.

he’s winning. he knows he’s winning.

you: enough. i'm gonna get horny.

sukuna: my bad. i was gonna send you a voice note of me doing inappropriate things while staring at that picture of you but i don’t want to bother you. stay safe. bye.

you drop the phone into your clutch like it’s made of live wire. your mind is a mess of static and cotton and the driver has to call out to you a few times before you embarrassingly realise you've arrived at your destination.

as you step out of the cab and into the thumping bass of the club, you’re a ghost even as you beam at your friends and hug them. you stand at the bar, ordering his whiskey, but all you can hear is the voice note he didn't send—the imagined sound of his gravelly voice breaking as he took himself to the edge while looking at your body.

you’re wet, you’re haunted, and the worst part is knowing that tomorrow, he’ll see you during your planned hangout and just nod casually, like he didn't just ruin your entire night from a locker room across the city.

the club is a blur of strobe lights and muffled bass, but you move through it like a woman possessed.

every time the silk of your dress brushes your thighs, you think of his "two fingers" comment. every time you catch your reflection in a mirrored pillar, you see the version of yourself he’s currently imagining—a mess of smudged eyeliner and tangled hair fanned over his pillow.

by the time you stumble back into your apartment at 3:00 am, the whiskey buzz has settled into a warm, defiant glow in your chest. you’re tired of him winning. you’re tired of his nonchalant "stay safe. bye" while you’re left reeling.

you kick off your heels and head straight for the back of your closet. there it is. his red rugby jersey, heavy and smelling faintly of his detergent and that distinct, woody scent that clings to his skin.

in the bathroom, the lighting is soft, blurring the edges of the room. your hair has mostly escaped the claw clip, hanging in messy, dark waves over your shoulders. your dark eyeliner is slightly smudged, giving you a sleepy, wrecked look of a woman who's been thoroughly ravished.

you pull the jersey over your head. it swallows you, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the thick sleeves hanging past your elbows. just the thought of him wearing this has a delightful shiver crawling down your spine.

standing before the mirror, you hike up the left side of the heavy fabric, bunching it in your fist until the curve of your hip is exposed. you’re wearing lacy panties—the ones with the delicate silk bow right in the middle—that contrast sharply against the plush, doughy curve of your thighs.

your heart hammers against your ribs as you slide your free hand beneath the hem of the jersey, hiking it up on one side. your manicured fingers find the weight of your bare breast, cupping the plump swell of it, pushing the curve upward so it teases the edge of the lens.

you look flushed, your lips parted, your eyes heavy with the lingering effects of the liquor and the sheer audacity of what you’re doing. the phone hides your face.

click.

you don't look at it twice. if you do, you’ll lose your nerve. you open the chat—making sure it's his so you don't have an embarrassing mishap—attach the photo, and type a simple caption.

you: i found this in my closet. it’s a lot more comfortable than the dress.

you: goodnight, ryomen. sleep well.

across the city, in the silence of his dark apartment, sukuna's phone lights up the room. he’s finally managed to cool his blood with a cold shower, coral hair damp, lying shirtless on top of his sheets, staring at the ceiling.

he reaches for the device, expecting a "home safe" text.

the red of his jersey catches his eye first. then he sees your hand—your delicate, soft hand—all cozy in his clothes even as you taunt him with everything he can’t touch. he sees the plushness of your torso, the bow on your panties, the way the fat of your tit spills into your palm and his hot all over again.

sukuna knows that his big hand would easily engulf your breast. his fingers twitch at the thought of squeezing it.

his breath hitches, a low, visceral grunt rumbles in his throat as his groin tingles.

the "typing..." bubbles appear on your end almost instantly, but you don't stay to watch. you toss the phone onto your nightstand and crawl into bed, a smug, satisfied smile on your lips.

you: 1 sukuna: 0

actually—

sukuna: cute.

sukuna: bet what's underneath is even cuter.

no, he's not talking about your underwear.

sukuna: you should let me give her a goodnight kiss some time.

anddddd, you're screaming into your fucking pillow.

"choso—" you start, already feeling guilty, already reaching for the hem of his sweater.

he catches your hands and pins them gently above your head. his fingers twine with yours, pressing your palms into the pillow.

"no, sweetheart." he says, his mouth brushing your ear. his voice drops, rough and reverent. "you don’t do the work. you never do the work. you just lay there, princess, and let me take care of you. let me please you. let me—" he grinds his hips down, and you feel how hard he is, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and you gasp. "—let me do everything."

he releases your hands only to finally pull his sweater over his head. you watch the muscles of his back shift in the warm light of your tablelamp, the old scars, the lean strength. when he turns back to you, he’s already unlacing his trousers, pushing them down, kicking them off.

he kneels between your thighs, his dark eyes raking over you. "open up," he murmurs, his hands sliding up your legs, pushing your shift higher. "be good for me, okay?"

you spread your legs, trembling. he’s already so hard, the pink tip flushed and wet, and he wraps his hand around himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes never leaving your face.

"you don’t even have to move," he says, leaning down, caging you in his warmth. "i’ll do all the work. i’ll get you ready. i’ll make you feel so good. all you have to do is look at me. can you do that for me, princess? can you let me love you?"

"yes," you breathe, your voice cracking. "yes, choso, please—"

he kisses you then, deep and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. his hand slips between your legs, his fingers finding you already wet, already aching. he doesn’t make you ask, nor does he make you work for it. he just pushes two fingers inside you, curling them, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit.

"that’s it," he praises against your lips, feeling you clench around him. "that's my girl. just lay there and take it. let me get you ready for my cock."

you moan, your head falling back against the pillow. he’s relentless, his fingers pumping in and out, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. you try to rock your hips, try to chase the sensation, but he stills you with his free hand on your hip.

"no, angel." he says, his voice firm. "don’t move. let me. i want to feel you squeezing my fingers while you just lay there and let me fuck you open."

you whimper, your hands gripping the sheets because he won’t let you touch him. he’s leaning over you, watching your face, watching the pleasure overwhelm you, and his expression is something almost feral. like this—serving you, controlling your pleasure, doing all the labor—is exactly where he wants to be.

"look at you," he breathes, his fingers moving faster, harder. "so pretty. so perfect. you're doing so well, baby. letting me make you cum. can you do that for me? can you cum on my fingers like a good girl?"

"choso!" you sob, the pressure building, your body tensing.

"there she is," he croons, his thumb pressing down. "cum for me, make a mess of the sheets."

you break, your orgasm crashing over you, your walls clamping down on his fingers as you cry out. he rides you through it, his hand moving slower now, drawing out every wave until you’re shaking, boneless, your hair fanned out across the pillow.

before you can catch your breath, he’s moving. he hooks his arms under your knees, spreading you wide, his hands sliding up to grip your hips. he positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your still-pulsing heat.

"now," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "i’m going to fuck you, and i’m going to make you cum again. and again. until you can’t think. until you can’t even remember your name."

"please," you gasp, your hands reaching for him again, wanting to touch, to hold.

he catches your wrists and presses them back into the mattress. "no," he says, his eyes dark. "be good, or i'll stop. understand?"

you nod, dizzy, your body still throbbing.

he pushes in with one long, smooth thrust, filling you completely. the stretch burns so perfectly you cry out, your back arching off the bed, but he holds you down, his grip tight on your hips.

"fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "so warm. so tight. and you’re just— letting me use you— shit—"

he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has you seeing stars. he’s doing all the work—his hips rolling, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls, his hands holding you exactly where he wants you. you try to move, try to meet his thrusts, but he growls and pins you harder.

"stay still," he orders, his voice strained. "let me do this for you. you had a hard day. you smiled at people who didn't deserve it. now you just get to lay here and take my cock. that’s all. that’s your only job."

"ch-choso!" you sob, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. it’s too much, the pleasure, the devotion, the way he’s using his body to serve you. "i love you— hic!— i love you so much—"

"i know," he breathes, his thrusts speeding up, becoming harder, more desperate. his skin slaps against yours, the bed creaking, but he never lets you move. he holds you open, holds you down, fucks into you with a single-minded focus that’s entirely about your pleasure. "and i love you more. god, i love you so much more."

his hand slides between you again, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. you’re so sensitive from your first orgasm, every touch is electric, overwhelming. you can’t move, can’t do anything but lay there and take it, exactly like he wants, and the helplessness of it, the sheer luxury of being cared for so completely, sends you over the edge again.

you cum with a scream, your walls clamping down on him so hard he chokes, his rhythm faltering.

"that’s it," he gasps, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now. "atta girl. just— shit— i-im gonna—"

he thrusts deep one last time and stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a broken groan against your neck. you feel the heat of it, the way he spills into you, marking you, claiming you, all while you lay there trembling, his hands still gripping your hips, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

for a long moment, neither of you moves. he’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. slowly, carefully, he pulls out and collapses beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms. he’s still panting, his heart hammering against your ear.

"okay?" he whispers, his hand stroking your hair again, back to the gentle, domestic touches.

you nod, boneless, drifting. "more than okay," you murmur. "felt so good."

"that’s the point," he reminds you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything."

you smile against his chest, your eyes already closing. "then i guess i’m just going to have to let you do it again tomorrow."

You can feel the glimpse in his eye — the way it shines for you around the corners, widening when you open your mouth to fire back. It's like, nothing you do can scare him away. Something about it is oddly comforting, like staring death right in the eyes. So, you let him hold you.

Standing at his kitchen island with a spoon in his hand, prodding at the omurice leftovers from last night, Satoru hardly regards you as he eats. "What did you eat before you came to see me this morning?"

You don't respond, sitting behind his polished marble with your knees crossed. Bare legs, ankles jumping as you scroll through your phone with hunched shoulders, you don't answer him.

"Am I speaking to a brick wall?"

"No… you're speaking to me." You reply, still not offering eye-contact, chin in a fisted hand as you stare down longingly into your phone.

He chuckles, oddly endeared. "I'll make you something then."

"I don't want your forty year old man meal prep, actually."

"You think you're so funny today." It's an accusation, not a question — one spoken around his mouthful of sticky egg. Satoru's cheeks are full of it, glossy lips pursed as he glances up at you.

That comment makes you disregard your phone, brows furrowed as you stare your older situationship head-on. Satoru blinks like he's innocent, then offers you a shrug.

"A little bit." You shrug right back, sighing and defiantly making a show of averting your attention back to your dimmed screen. "Not as funny as you, though. I don't go to the mirror and give myself affirmations about how smooth of a jokester I am, like you do, every morning."

"You got that right, baby's got a lot of learning, and a lot of affirmations to repeat."

The banter is light, and never lost on you. He makes you smile, too caught up in his silver stare to even really care about what's happening on your phone. You sigh again, locking it and peering back up at him with a gaze so wide and expectant, that he can't help but stand up straight.

"You're looking at me like you want something." He murmurs against his bite, sharp jaw working against stewed meat and wilted greens. "And I know it's not this food."

You raise your brows, so does he. Entire conversations based on mutual lust are shared with just a look. Satoru grins around his stupid, stuffed cheeks — eyes bright like he knows something you don't.

"We haven't done it in the kitchen, yet." Satoru's voice is low and measured, just like his footsteps as he walks backward into the kitchen with a finger in your waistband. You follow along, rolling your eyes as you stumble right where he wants you to be — lower back pressed into the counter, right next to his half-finished meal.

"Want to bend me over the hot stove? Kinky,"

"I like this…" He chuckles, voice so fucking deep that it sends a lustful wave of wetness between your thighs. "You're not thinking as much when you're with me, now." He whispers, pulling you chest-to-chest, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. He smiles, and it's slow. Everything is so slow…

You nod, unsure of what to say, or what even should be said, right now. All you know is that your heart feels like it's going to beat straight through your chest. Of course, he had to point out the obvious — how you think you love him, now.

First and foremost, he loves eating pussy. Fucking starves for it. Begs, pleads with you whenever you come home from work, the gym, or shopping. Follows you around like a lost puppy until you finally give in and then proceeds to spend hours between your parted thighs—licking, suckling, dragging his wet, hot tongue from your drooling hole up the length of your slit, circling your puffy, swollen clit until you tremble and cry with overstimulation.

Though, one thing is true for almost all positions he's taken you in.

Toji can't stop himself from squeezing your tits with his huge, calloused hands—each time he has you bent over the dresser or kitchen counter, pounding into you from behind, he has one hand wrapped around your delicate throat. Not to choke you, though—not really, at least—primarily to keep your back flush to his chest, not allowing you to slump forward onto whatever surface he fucks you against just so he has access to your pretty tits bouncing so perfectly with every brutal thrust.

They fit perfectly in his wide palms, and while sometimes he prefers just holding them—especially when he's trying to be soft with you—more often he kneads them, squeezes them, rolls your hardened, aroused nipples between his thumb and index finger and watches you squirm beneath his touch.

Toji not only loves touching, no—he sucks on them too.

When you're trying to watch your show on Netflix—some crappy girly stuff, as he calls it—he won't bother paying any attention to the TV and gossip with you about the characters like some other boyfriends do.

Toji's hands sneak underneath the hem of your shirt a maximum of five minutes after you hit the play button. First, he leaves it splayed across your tummy, big, rough hand spreading pleasant warmth throughout your entire body. But he doesn't leave it at that, ever. It'll wander upwards mere minutes later, find the soft, round flesh and knead—really knead. He plays with them until he's so hard it hurts, then pulls your tank top downwards far enough to free one of your perfect tits.

The cold air makes you shiver—and so does the feeling of his lips closing around your perky, hardening nipple. You gasp, flinching away from the unexpected sensation—but Toji is stuck to them as though he were a freaking leech. Once he's got your tits in his mouth, not even the strongest sorcerer could pry him from you.

"To— Toji! I am trying to watch my show," you whine, eyes drifting from the TV to your boyfriend glued to your tits, suckling and flicking his rough tongue over your sensitive bud whilst his second hand cups your other breast, watching you through hooded eyelids, his cheeks hollowed as he suckles.

"Stay still for me, dollface. Lemme touch you up, hm?" he murmurs, humming with approval when you sigh in defeat and finally relax fully beneath him. "Yeah, that's right, good fuckin' girl."

Toji is obsessed, to say at the least. A fucking goner, to be exact. For you, for your perfect tits, for everything you give him.

And really—it is no wonder that just six months into your relationship you end up pregnant. Honestly, you are surprised that it's taken this long. He's left you so full, dripping with his cum nearly every single day, and you haven't exactly been responsible with taking your birth control, either.

Telling him goes better than you anticipated. You were anxious at first—after all, it'd been merely six months you two have been together, and your future was still somewhat uncertain. Yet, Toji beamed with joy when you confessed. His face lit up, and he truly was excited to become a father—supporting you with everything and anything.

Groceries—don't you fucking think about carrying them. Driving? He'll bring you, don't bother worrying about it. Sex? Surprisingly, Toji's soft side comes out even when he's got you folded in half, fucking his big, veiny cock into your warm, velvety walls, making sure to give you enough, but not all of him.

And you'd think he'd go softer on your tits, too—after all, they are not solely his much longer—however, you are gravely mistaken.

If anything, his adoration for them only grows—grows with them, so to say.

Toji doesn't say anything at first. He observes, watches you the whole duration of your pregnancy. He notices every single change—your increased mood swings, back pains, headaches—all of the typical pregnancy symptoms.

What he notices too—most of all—is how certain parts of you seem to expand in size alongside your belly. Your pretty tits, for example. He overhears you complaining to your friend on a phone call about how you've needed to go up two entire cup sizes since the start of your pregnancy and how sore and tender they are all the time.

He can't deny that he secretly fucking loves it. Loves how plump and big they've become, how much more they weigh whenever he cups them as he hugs you from behind, how you'll slap his hand away when his natural instincts once again guide him to your pretty, round boobs.

In your third trimester towards the end of your pregnancy as they begin feeling awfully uncomfortable and sensitive, he devotes most of his time literally fucking staring if you don't let him touch them. It's hilarious, at the least. How he's nearly drooling while gawking at you, fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides.

One night, no excuse is quite enough to keep him at bay. Five weeks, he growls in your ear as he ruts into your clothed ass, pinning you to the kitchen counter. For five weeks he hasn't been allowed to touch you properly, feel you up.

Five weeks, poor guy.

You give in. Not because he's coercing you or bothering you, but because they do feel somewhat better that day, and you can no longer bear the sight of your poor, tits-deprived boyfriend who's been looking almost sickly these past few days.

You hope that letting him have this will satisfy him enough until Megumi—as you decided your son will be called—is born. And you pray to whatever God may listen that after that, the sensitivity will decrease, and Toji won't have to starve any longer. Because seeing him like this, all frustrated, pouting all day, staring at your tits as though they are a picture of a deceased family pet, will surely drive you insane at some point in the very near future.

・・・

LATER THAT EVENING

He's got you pinned against the wall of your shared bedroom, his knee lodged in between your thighs, one hand securing your wrists above your head while the other cups your breast over the cotton of your shirt.

"Fuckin' hell baby," he groans, gently brushing the pad of his thumb over your hardening nipple, wetting his lips. His emerald green eyes are fucking glowing with hunger, with lust and need for you. "Missed these pretty tits so much. So fuckin' much, you hear me?"

Yes, you nod, because answering is too damn difficult when even the gentlest of his touches sets your skin on fire. It doesn't hurt—not really—instead, the sensation feels ten, perhaps a hundred times as intense as it usually does, sending tingles down your spine, moans spilling uncontrollably over your lips.

Toji groans at the fucking sight of you—arching into his touch which you claimed would hurt, moaning like the desperate little thing you are.

He intended on being patient with you today—take it slow, test the waters. Be gentle with his baby momma who is due to give birth any day now. Yet, here you are. Begging him for more, reacting so sweetly to his every touch—so eager for his hands to get rough with you.

His hands tug your shirt over your head, carelessly tossing it to the far corner of the room, and your bra follows after.

"Sensitive, huh?" he rasps, softly rolling your stiff nipple between his thumb and index finger while his darkened eyes focus on your pretty face. "But feels good, mama, doesn't it?"

"Y— Yes, Toji. God, yes!" you gasp, and he chuckles lowly beneath his breath, gradually applying more pressure until you squirm. He doesn't let go, though—let's you feel it for a little while longer. The blissful sting, the increasing sensitivity, how your legs turn into jelly just by the touch of two of his fingers.

"Fuck," he grits out. Fuck, because look at you. Tummy full and swollen with his child, tits so round and plump and big, he wishes he could keep you pregnant forever. You are glowing, so beautiful, he cannot help but admire you for a long moment. "Don't you dare hide yourself from me again. Ever."

With that, he closes the gap between you two, presses himself against your pliant body, makes you feel just how much he's missed seeing you like this. His erection pokes into your hip, and if that wasn't enough to cause your mind to short-circuit, his next move certainly does.

Toji cannot possibly hold back any longer. His head dips until all you see are messy strands of black hair, lips parting for your engorged, hardened nipple. He sucks it into his mouth with a slick sucking sound, keeping you pinned against the wall with his rough palm on your waist.

"Fuck, Toji— mmph— 's too much," you cry out, weakly trying to push him away—without success. Once his lips close on your tits like a seal, nobody and nothing can break you two apart—his mouth stays latched onto your swollen nipple, suckling tenderly, kneading you with his free hand.

"'You can take it, baby. Let me have this, let me taste you properly," he grumbles between gentle flicks of his tongue against your delicate flesh, never letting up or slowing down. "They're so fuckin' round, baby. Want to keep you like this until the end of time. Give Megumi a little sibling right after he's born."

His words make your mind spin. Spin with the thoughts of getting to carry another of his children, of the process of getting there.

How he would have you on all fours at least twice a day, pounding into you from behind, his heavy, cum-filled balls smacking right against your swollen, aching clit. Stretch your hole open with his thick cock and fill you to the brim as he has countless times before, leaving you dripping with him for the rest of the day, warm cum leaking onto your lace panties while you're at work.

A violent shiver wrecks through you—at both the thought of his cum overflowing from your pussy and the burning sensation of his teeth grazing over your nipple, slick with his spit.

"Toji!" you shriek, fingers tugging at the dark strands of his hair in a pitiful attempt to pull him off. "Please, that's—"

With a filthy plop! his mouth releases your glistening, flushed bud, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your breast. His thumb idly strokes over the other, also stiff nub, though his gaze is entirely focused on the one he's just had in his mouth.

"Baby— shit, look at yourself," Toji rasps with a thick, gravelly voice, breaths coming out laboured, his cock so hard against your stomach, twitching with neglect, you think he may come untouched any second. "Look at those pretty fuckin' tits and tell me to resist them. So fuckin' swollen and soft, begging to be sucked raw."

He flicks both your nipples at the same time with his index fingers, admiring the way your tits bounce slightly, and you nearly choke on your breath at the sting.

His head dips before you can reply, mouth wrapping around your other, neglected bud. Toji is more thorough this time, more eager—his warm tongue drags over your skin, teeth biting down gently, tugging, grazing.

They're still tender, still sore—but Gods, it no longer feels uncomfortable. The exact opposite is happening. Thighs clenched for minimal friction on your poor clit, pussy pulsing around nothing, slick with arousal. And Toji notices it too—how you're whimpering, moaning, letting him do as he pleases.

"Ji," you breathe, palming the bulge stretching the thick cotton of his grey sweats he's been grinding against you. "Want me to help you with this?"

He growls lowly at the touch, eyes fluttering closed, hips thrusting up into your hand—and you, you grin when he nods, sinking to your knees and batting your eyelashes at him.

"Baby, don't— oh fuck," he groans at the sight of you before him, his cock twitching with lust, leaking beads of precum onto the fabric of his pants. "You're so good to me, shit."

"Gonna make you feel good, 'ji," you smile, tugging on the strings of his sweats and pulling them down the length of his thighs before you flatten your hand over his erection, rubbing your thumb over his still-clothed tip.

The fabric is soaked with his lust for you, coating the pad of your finger. "So needy, hm?" you tease, applying more pressure, making his dick pulse under your touch. "I think you deserve a reward for being patient with me."

His underwear joins his sweats pooling at his ankles, and you are so needy, so desperate for his flushed, painfully hard cock right before your face, that you do not waste any more time before your lips stretch around his girth, tongue swirling over his with a precum-slick tip. You take him in further, feeling the heavy weight of him on your tongue, with which you follow the thick vein decorating the underside of his length.

"That fucking mouth of yours—" he sighs, a throaty groan rumbling deep in his chest, head thrown back as he lets you work your magic on his cock. You've always been so fucking amazing at this—sucking him off after a long day, allowing him to fuck your throat if he's had a rough day. You look like an angel on your knees with his length all the way inside your mouth, and right now—after being deprived of your body for so long—he's already sensing that familiar knot in the pits of his stomach winding impossibly tight.

He's debating whether to tell you to slow down when your hands splay across his thighs and the tip of your nose touches the coarse, black hair right above the base of his cock—his tip sliding down the tight muscle of your throat, which contracts at the intrusion, your gags vibrating around his girth.

"Shit, mama—" Toji's hand flies to your hair, fingers twisting in your curls and yanking at the roots. "Gonna make me cum way too fuckin' fast if ya keep this up. Easy there, baby. Fuck."

What'd he say again?

He hisses, fisting your hair even firmer, to the point he's sure it must hurt—and yet, you don't let up. You choke and splutter, violent gagging sounds echoing off the walls of your bedroom. You're trying your best to maintain a rhythm, head bobbing on his cock, hand wrapped around what you can't fit. Even then, his sheer size has you struggling, your chin soaked with spit and his arousal, steadily dripping down onto your chest and between your tits.

"Gonna—gonna cum, baby— shit," Toji curses, eyes fluttering closed, thick cock twitching in your throat, pulsing with the need to come as his balls draw up tight, preparing for his climax.

But then, when he's right at the precipice of his orgasm—you pull away suddenly, his heavy, glistening cock so hard, it almost stands up right.

Toji hisses with frustration, eyebrows drawing together in confusion, ready to slam back down your throat to show you who's—even now, when you are pregnant with his child—in charge.

It never comes to that, though. Both of your hands cup each of your tits, straightening yourself to reach him, his reddened tip leaking beads of precum which slide right down the underside of his length, adding to the mess your spit has caused.

You slide his erection in between your plush tits, pushing them together tightly to create the perfect amount of friction for his aching cock.

And Toji? He thinks he may fucking pass out.

Holy. Shit.

"Mama, fuckin' hell. Give me a damn warnin' next time, aye?" he growls, shining emerald orbs glued to the way his slick cock moves up and down the gap between your swollen tits, drinking in the feeling.

The sight alone could have him come within the next seconds, he is certain of it—but the way your boobs just fit his cock perfectly, glistening with your saliva and his precum, is what does the trick.

Toji wishes he could hold out longer. Wishes he had more time to watch you fuck his cock with your perfect set of tits, hear those slick sounds when you push him up between the gap.

Not now, though. He's way too fucking close—and Toji wouldn't be Toji if he didn't want to finish on his own terms.

"Shit, baby, lemme fuck those pretty tits," Toji slurs, and you obediently drop your hands to your sides. He cups them then, squeezes them together tight 'round his aching cock—making you hiss.

 "'ji, careful, they are—" you start, but are interrupted by the sheer force of him slamming up between your boobs, nearly having you lose balance.

"— tender, I know." Toji replies, though his grip never eases—instead, his hips rut into the gap more ferociously, twisting your raw nipples between his fingers, clearly enjoying the way it makes you squirm.

He's breathing hard, chest falling and rising in quick succession—his rigid cock rubbing against your skin, your cunt clenching with neglect. You know he's close when he loses rhythm, only caring about thrusting deep, burying his cock all the way just like he does when he fucks your pussy to get his seed as deep as he possibly can.

And that's merely one of the reasons why you ended up swollen with his child so early into your relationship.

"Gonna fuckin' come, baby. Make you look so pretty with my cum all over your tits, fuck." Toji growls, pulling free from your boobs and instead wrapping one of his big hands around his length, stroking himself to the sight of you.

The muscles in his thighs strain as hot ropes of cum splatter onto your chest, painting your skin white with his release. He's never come this much, you are sure of it—a never-ending stream of his hot seed dripping down your round tits, over your stiff nipples and your swollen tummy.

"Damn it, baby," Toji breathes once he's done, admiring the mess he's made of you—and most importantly, your breasts. His finger spreads his cum where it didn't reach, sticking his finger in your mouth afterwards. "Lookin' so beautiful like this."

You shriek when his palm slaps across your tits, making them bounce with the force of the impact. Toji grins, humming in approval, kisses your forehead, and lends you a hand, helping you up from the wooden panels of your floor.

"Come on, mama. Lemme take care of your perfect little pussy now. Bet she's fuckin' soaked from sucking my cock."

thank you for reading! please feel free to leave feedback <33

masterlist comin' once I have more posts.

The opening song is soft — no drums. Satoru is to your left in the industrial stage design, plucking out a soft rhythm, staring down as he toes his pedal. He amps up the reverb when the chorus draws near, and the lights oscillate in deep magenta hues.

Suguru inches his way to you from backstage, stage-left, swinging his bass across his chest as he steps behind Satoru, and into the spotlight. The crowd's demeanor shifts at the sight of his familiar, infamous face — hollowed out, exhausted, and pale. He can't remember the last time he slept for more than an hour, and this is the biggest show of his career. For once in his life, he's nervous, hands shaking as he hikes the neck up towards his armpit, breathing out steadily through his sore nose.

"Say you can hear me, baby. Tell me that you care — in a year, this love won't exist. We can't go anywhere."

Then, the drums hit — Choso giving the strings a backbone that Suguru can chew on with a solid, steady bassline. It's deep and hard-hitting, echoing through your in-ears, then the show really starts.

You stand up, limbs limp and heavy, head bowed as you work up faux emotion in the backbeat of your rasping voice.

"But, I don't wanna leave. Don't want you to leave. I can't leave, baby. Say you'll stay… say you'll stay."

The first song comes and goes, you avoid Suguru's eyes until it wraps, but once he closes off the song with a final hit, you peek over your shoulder, taking a breath as the audience erupts in chaos.

It's the biggest show of your career, and the pressure is tangible. Cameras are in your face, flying above you in drones and portable lenses. Security bustles around the barricade — water bottles are being thrown, and as you look out to the sea of ten thousand that all know your name, that nauseating, lonely feeling you've become too accustomed to, grows even hotter. Still, when the dark red lights hit your face as you fade into the performance, there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

"It's been a long time coming," You speak into your microphone, holding it like a delicate smoke, fiddling with your earpiece as you walk towards stage-left, using the little extra time you have between songs to engage with the audience. Every show follows a set schedule in your head — song one, interlude, speaking break, repeat.

You don't know why this time feels so utterly different.

"We've waited far too long to visit you, London." You whisper, voice pitched into something sweet as the crowd roars and bends at your attention. Onstage, you approach Satoru, stepping in a circle around him, keeping eye contact as he strums the same four-chord progression that leads you into the next song, whenever you're ready.

His earful of silver jewelry gleams in the light — so does his skin and pearly hair. He's an angel against them, feeling so at home in the space that he doesn't even register your call for attention until you're standing right in front of him. You want to speak — to tell him that you're excited to be in this city with him; you think about him all the time, and he's yours, but all you can muster as he stares you down is,

"Can I introduce you to my band?" It's more of a statement than a question, waiting for the crowd to cheer and fizzle before you turn back around to them, smiling devilishly as you walk to the front of the stage. Suguru is hanging about on stage right, not playing anything, just waiting, adjusting his long, falling hair. You can feel his eyes boring dark holes in your back, waiting for you to make the move to lead into the next song, but you… don't. Not yet.

You walk across the stage, back towards Satoru as he watches you drag your bare feet against the dusty, sticky stage floor. Into the microphone, you peek over your shoulder and smile, "I'm sure you're familiar… With Suguru Geto on his bass." You whisper as you walk towards him, heart hammering as his stare zeroes in on your softly covered chest. In the moment, you wonder what the audience knows — if they know, but it's fleeting.

Suguru blinks up at you as you approach, a foot cocked on one of the chain-link risers where his x-marker lives. The moment is wordless and tense; he's staring at you, and you're staring right back for the first time in weeks. The set darkens.

Behind you, Satoru is making good with the crowd — giving them winks, stuck at Choso's side like he's a stage prop. He knows you like to talk, it's your performing style — why your fans feel like they know you even with a shitty social media presence.

"But I have a few other friends with me today…" You continue, staring into Suguru's soul as you step backwards again, feet dragging. "The gorgeously talented, Satoru Gojo, on lead guitar." You turn back around to face the crowd, staring at his opposite as you utter Satoru's name in a sensitive purr. "And my sweet angel Choso on drums."

You smile, beaming diamonds as you approach them, getting so close to Satoru that you're nose to nose, smiles just inches away as his lips touch your microphone. "With our favorite girl on vocals, last but not least."

"And I call them The Good Boys."

It's not scripted, nor was it etched into your mental schedule, but as soon as you stop speaking, the heavy bass line that brings you into your next song floods your in-ears, and that natural eight-count timer starts in your head. Sparing Choso a passing glance as he rushes for his sticks, Satoru steps away, and it's like nothing happened.

With a raw voice, the only thing you could want as you run off stage is a hug.

Everyone around you is cheering, the crowd is begging for an encore — four people passed out in your presence; you kissed two of them on the head, Satoru sang with you. So much happened, you're reeling and in tears, happy and sad in ways unimaginable as you sort through bodies for a familiar, sunken frame.

"Sugu—

"Holy shit, my girl." It's a familiar voice, but it's not the one you're searching for. It hits your back like ice, shocking you awake. "You are magnetic."

"Satoru," You respond in pity, voice dipped and sad as you fall into him in a hug. He whines for you, sucking his teeth as your exhausted body melts into his strong one. It feels good to let your weight overtake him, trusting his strength to hold you in your most vulnerable moments. "Oh, Satoru."

"You just made yourself a legend out there." He breathes in your ear, body damp and warm — his hair sticking to your skin, your makeup all over his pale arms. "You're unbelievable."

 "I didn't even notice…" Choso mumbles, hands on his hips, winded as he parts through the crowd. The crew is thick, already beginning the laborious process of break-down after the headliners. "I wouldn't have counted in if you hadn't been on beat."

Suguru hums dismissively, cheeks pulled as he fiddles and picks at the bandages on his fingers, which hide the raw skin that tireless practice has driven them into. He's looking for Nanami, not you, and so is Choso, though he thinks they're both looking for you.

As you watch them dismantle your inner world piece by piece, you die a little in Satoru's arms. He holds you forever, never letting go, whispering praises and nicknames in your ear as he rocks you back and forth. He feels your tears on his shoulder. He loves it.

"Whole last song was off," Suguru mumbles, stopping in his tracks as he sees you crying in Satoru's embrace. He falters for a moment, breath still in his chest as he stares at you two. "Where the fuck is Nanami?"

"A-are…" Choso starts, wanting to say more, but caught in wanting to approach you two. "He was watching on stage-right, I don't—

Suguru doesn't let him finish, he doesn't say a word to you, he just nods and turns around, headed back towards stage-right. Choso stands frozen in space, caught between looking in Suguru's direction, then to you and Satoru's. He ponders a chase, then ponders the look on your face when he congratulates you. Of course, your smile wins him over.

"You two were great out there," He starts, pulling out his in-ears, letting them dangle over his pierced ears. Satoru pulls away from you at the sound of his voice, leaning over to pull Choso into a hug, then extending an arm for you to join. "They loved you, Jo."

"Because I love you, and her, so it translates." He breathes out a smile, leaning over to kiss your forehead, then leans his against Choso's. "Do you always cry after shows?"

"After the biggest one of my life? Yeah, this is a first."

He laughs again, leaning over to smush his cheek into the side of your head, squeezing your shoulders. "We've got it made. Good boys forever, huh?"

"Shut up."

To: Suguru the show was so great. i love you

 Three days later, you haven't heard from him. You can't hide the stupid fucking look on your face.

"Smile!" Satoru cheeses, holding his phone out to you, with bright eyes covered by dark shades. "Please? You look so pretty." His smile drops when he sees your face unchanging through the screen, caught up in the bustle of the park-goers, totally unaware of, or caring for your presence. It's a cold, rainy day in London, you and Satoru have been out since dawn, and an end has yet to show itself in sight.

For him, you don't wallow like you want to — you can't. For him, you smile, letting the wind pass over your skin and hair as you pose for the picture. He could have a mind to post them, and you don't really think you'd care.

"Gorgeous!" He smiles, jogging back up to you as you lean on the fence. "You just look so pretty today. Shame to waste it all on me."

"You're full of it." You laugh, breaking out into a soft smile just so he can have something to gawk at.

Something shifted last weekend after the show. You've begun to feel your star power a bit differently after a record-breaking performance. In a way, it's suffocating — you can feel the stares even when they're not really there. Under Satoru's arm, you're on high alert, but he makes you feel safe. He makes you see the city differently. He treasures the stares.

"Are you feeling okay? Good?" He repeats himself, reaching out to grab your chin and pull you closer. Leaning next to you on the fence, he doesn't pull his glasses down, but you can see the hidden blue hues behind the frost. "If you're tired, we can go back."

"Not tired, just…" You start, letting him lead your face closer to his, forcing a smile at the corners as he studies your shifty gaze. "A little… raw? Soft to the touch."

"Like a freshly molted spider?"

You laugh, dipping your head for him to catch. "Ha, ha." You deadpan, shoulders shivering at the mention of them. "I just feel like an idiot, I guess."

Satoru hums, letting his two-fingered grip fall from your chin. You retract, looking straight ahead, silent with the ghost of what he wants to say.

"You have the whole world laid out in front of you. I wish you could see it the way I do."

 When you finally get back to your hotel, tucked in a quiet, lush part of the city, you feel him again.

Like an omen passing through, rotten and heavy on your chest, you collapse in the doorway as soon as it draws shut and regret not inviting Satoru to stay. Not that he didn't ask — he damn near begged, but you couldn't swing it. Not after being with him for ten hours unchecked, sharing two separate meals with him, and letting him touch your heart in softly specific ways that Suguru never has.

Still, when you're alone, you're a mess. You crumple at the foot of the heavy hotel room door, barefoot and searching for an out in your phone that was your security blanket, and your only way to your guiltiest pleasure, with whom you haven't seen in days.

The message you sent him about the show has gone dry for three. Not even a read receipt, let alone an 'I love you' back. At least the message has a shiny, grey delivered tag next to it. He hasn't blocked you… yet.

Still, your finger hovers over the call button under his name, shivering and unsure, but so tempted that you feel sick with it. You don't know what you'd even say if he answers. Maybe you'd beg or ask if he's in the same city, but you're still nervous. It's a feeling that's never gone away, as long as you've known him.

You dial him like a girl in love, because you are.

Suguru answers, because of course, he can't stop thinking about you, too.

 "Are you still in London?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to come over?"

"…yeah."

 The second you lay eyes on him, you're in tatters.

Suguru's knock is soft and weak, echoing through the plaster entryway with a shake to your soul. You run up to greet him like you haven't seen him in years, hands still shaking as you pull open the door.

It's the way he's standing — back pressed to the frame, head hung, hair loose, and gaze so shadowed you're not sure it even existed at all. Before you can speak, you breathe. "H-hey."

His tone is staggered when he looks up, eyeliner-smudged lids squinting at the mere sight of you. You can imagine how much of a mess you look, it's how you feel. By the looks of it, Suguru feels the same.

Standing in this doorway, you are both broken husks of your former glory. Still, you fall right back into his arms.

It's always the same. Suguru climbs on top of you like he never left. His shirtless frame shimmers in the complete darkness. You run your hands over his sharp shoulders, thighs parted for his hips to fit perfectly between.

You're naked. So is he. Completely, blankets kicked to the base of the bed, socks discarded somewhere towards the entrance. He feels lukewarm over you, not hot like a human should, especially when he's rock hard and eager, pressing into your thigh, leaving small streaks of pre in its tracks.

He groans and grinds into you, whispering your name right back into your mouth as his thin, ringed fingers grab and pull at your sheets and thighs.

When you kiss him, you can taste the chemical draw of his drugs, numbing your lips, and throwing your mind with them. Suguru's addicting in only this way — because he touches you like you're real, hips slotting at that perfect angle to push inside of you.

You cry his name into his mouth, clawing hands winding around his neck to draw him even closer. Against your strength, he buckles, falling chest to chest with you, breath whimpering and deep as he ruts into you like a desperate dog.

"S-Sa—Suguru," You whisper, holding him close as he regains his footing. Suguru sits up, digging his knee into the mattress, hiking your hips up with it. The sharp, new angle draws a whine from your chest. He shakes his head.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" He finally whispers, an open palm right next to your head, pushing you deep into the mattress. "You almost said his name,"

"What are you—

"It's okay." He grunts, driving his cock deeper inside of you like he's trying to make a point. "I know we need to talk, it's okay."

You pause, heart stilling in your chest as you stare up at him. Reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, you stop him. "Suguru…"

"I just wanna…" He starts again, fucking into you slowly, surely, like he's trying to prove something. "Let's just… f-fuck, let's just finish. T-then we'll talk."

So, you do. And it's actually… good. You're satisfied, catching your breath as you turn on your side, facing the window. Suguru sits up as soon as he rolls off of you, swallowing around his own heavy breathing. He stretches his legs over the side of the bed and cracks his neck, then looks back at your bare frame.

"You think I'm an idiot." He starts slowly, like how everything bad tends to start. The air is so loose and warm that his tone could feel inviting if you two were on 'good terms'. "Everyone thinks you're fucking him. You've seen that, right? Those headlines poking at your 'sexual chemistry'?"

"I actually haven't, and that's crazy for anyone to say." You reply, keeping your eyes pushed shut even though you're facing the wall. "Everyone knows we're together."

"I don't think it really seems like that when people are taking pictures of you two cuddling at the park."

This time, you shut up. There's more on his breath; he hasn't swallowed his words after that last sentence.

"…are you having sex with him?"

You sit up, flustered and suddenly on edge as he pokes that raw, Satoru-shaped wound that sat so heavy on your chest. "I'm not cheating on you; I was performing."

"You are not allowed to 'perform' like that, ever again. It's bad enough you forced him into our—

"Don't act like you stopped caring about the music long before he came along."

"Would you let me speak?" He replies, just as flustered as you once were. Suguru's exhausted, springing up around the eyes because he wants to cry and beg for you. "This is what he does, can't you see?" He starts, standing up and snatching his pants from the edge of the bed. He steps into them like he's rushing, no underwear, his silver belt buckle clashing with his chunky rings. "He sees what I have and gets grabby. I have a successful music career; he wants in. I have you, he wants in. He forces his way in. It's always been like this…" His voice cracks, and you stand up.

You fall silent as he rushes around for his ratty t-shirt, back hunched as he feverishly tucks his long, unbrushed hair behind his pierced ears. In his bones, you can tell he wants to flee, but something in his head wills him to stay and try to speak.

"I… love you, Suguru. Nothing can change that." You reassure, pulling your bare knees into your chest as you settle back in. "Whether people think I'm with him or you, it doesn't matter, because I only love you."

"Are you stupid? It does matter what people think. Fuck the truth, baby. This is show business." He sniffles, pinching his nostrils closed before shaking his head. "I don't want him in the band. Neither does Nanami. He's an obvious distraction."

"You two are unbelievable."

"We two want you to have a career, and you're running yourself into a brick wall. Don't you understand that? You can't see how he's sabotaging us?"

"Satoru literally just wants to play with us."

"Because he wants to fuck you!" Suguru finally breaks, and it's in a million shards sprinkled at your feet. You can't take a step in fear of drawing blood, and you're shaking at the sound of his raised voice. "He wants to fuck you, then take you from me. I told you, he has a type, and this is always how things have been!"

"You're being paranoid—

"I'm not going to keep fighting with you on this." He deadpans, his belt undone and hanging at his waist as he storms out of the hotel bedroom. You sit for a moment, shell-shocked and a bit emotional at the sudden outburst. Still, if it's your duty to run to him, naked as the day you were born, to get more out of him, you'd do it.

"Suguru, wait. Don't go." You try, voice even as you step into the hallway, hot on his tracks. "It doesn't have to be like this — we can just keep him in the band. I mean, our fans love him."

"More than me, yeah."

"Stop." You deadpan, forcing yourself out of an eye roll so Suguru knows he can collapse back into you safely. "We both know that's not true. He didn't write the entire catalogue that made us what we are."

"He damn-sure played it as he did." He offers his final words on the situation just thrown at you in an emotional heap. You can tell it's a mix of insecurity, their past, and you, being the catalyst.

It's just so impossibly hard to ignore Satoru — he walks with an airiness that sweeps you into it. His voice is calm, sweet, and protective, making it nearly impossible not to fall for him. The universe has set you up in a way you can't control; now it's coming to bite you in the back. "Please, just hear me out."

He turns around, pointing at his ears like he's accusing you of the gift of sound. "Are you hearing yourself? Seriously. You're fighting me to keep him in the band and be able to see him outside of rehearsals, then say you two aren't having sex? Are you a liar or just confused?"

You shake your head, feeling about two sizes smaller under his belittling tone. "You don't have to… talk to me like that."

"Something isn't working in your mind. Nothing's clicking up there, hm?" He sucks his cheeks, hands on his sharp hips as he watches you masquerade for passion right in front of him, naked and uncaring. "You're just a wreck. Fucking look at you."

You're crying now, not that you weren't the second he started raising his voice, but it hurts. "Suguru, please don't do this to me. Don't do this to us."

"Us?! There is no more fucking, us! Not while he's around, why can't you see that?"

"N-no—

"And I'm not going to let him take you right in front of me." He pauses, eyes wide and wild, begging to shed a tear. "So I'm done. That's it — We're done."

You stand for a moment, bare chest hiccuping up the words you want to say as he goes to turn and walk out of your life. There's something different about this time, something that feels more tangible than any emotion you've seen from him in the past year. Your heart burns — your stomach is in your ass, and you can't breathe. It feels like your world is closing in.

Suguru moves in slow motion, rounding the front of the sofa to snatch the throw blanket, tossing it haphazardly into your chest. You don't even scramble to catch it as it hits your bare body and slides to the floor.

"At least make yourself decent—

"I hate you." You rush out like it's venom staining your throat. "You could wait until I was dressed before doing it, I hate—

"Right. So sorry. Should've waited until you were…" He pauses, back to you as he walks to the doorway out of your life. There's nothing you can do — you're inconsolable, dripping snot, tears, and broken begs all over your body.

"Till you, uh," He can't even look at you, reaching for the gold-plated doorknob as your knees get weak.

"Fuck it." Is what he chooses to leave you with — quiet and mealy. Barely there, barely spoken with enough respect to mean goodbye.

When that door shuts, and he's… gone… You don't feel better, you buckle.

Falling to your knees onto cold wood, your nervous system shuts down. Sobs wrack your body, spilling down your neck and collecting against your collarbone as you scream and cry for him. Suguru slammed the door, and it felt like you were stuck between the hinges, bloody and barely able to breathe, let alone exist in this moment without him.

And so, it begins again. That same cruel cycle that you live once a year.

Since Suguru left, you haven't gotten out of bed. You're dead to the world, wallowing in your own tears, because you can't fathom why this time feels so different.

Maybe it's the presence of Satoru — the knowing that he's there, and ready for you. But maybe it's Suguru's silence on the other end of things. He hasn't spoken to you in a week. That's how long it's been since the breakup.

If you could die in this hotel bed, the same one you two made love on for the last time, you would. But you have a seven-hour flight back home in four hours, and you still can't get up.

It takes a miracle and two blue eyes to pull you back to life.

Satoru hasn't heard from you in a week, and it's been eating him alive. At first, he thinks it's him, then he talks to Nanami and learns that even he hasn't heard from you. Choso, either. Satoru hasn't spoken to Suguru.

So he takes it upon himself to seek you out. Sure, he has the excuse of your departing flight hanging over his head, but his heart trumps that. It's his heart that leads him to your hotel room door.

Satoru doesn't just knock on your door; he bangs. He starts and doesn't stop pounding on the wood until you get up, wearing close to nothing, and answer it. He feels like he knows you, now. There's something about you, so fractured and golden that he can't help but feel drawn. That's all he sees when you come back into his vision — an unshowered mess covered in dry tears.

He frowns. "Hi, sleepy—

"Don't…" You shy away, covering up your eyes as if it'd shield you from his bright, optimistic gaze. "I-I know, our flight leaves soon."

"Yes, and." He swallows back the boyish grin he can't hide by being in your presence. "I haven't seen you since… last week." Satoru doesn't see the crust around your eyes — the remnants of tears that you couldn't rub away in time. You can't hide the rolling of your tummy, angry because all you've eaten in the past two days were your own tears and snot.

He pauses for a bit as he… really looks at you, pressing a big hand over the face of the door to push it open. "What happened? Is Suguru okay?"

At the sound of his name, your chest thrums. You shy away, pushing weakly against his weight. "I-I'll be down in a bit."

"No, that's not what I asked." His tone dips a bit, like he's ordering you. Of course, you buckle.

Still shielding your face down, he pushes the door open into your blacked-out hotel room. You stand back, letting him, pulling your arms over your chest.

Satoru tries not to notice the mess — or, the lack of one. This place doesn't look lived in, and you've been here for the past week. That worries him; you worry him. You're wearing close to nothing, but he doesn't quite notice. He sees the way you reach to cover your loose chest — how you look down and don't even offer him a passing glance. You just step back, staring at your bare toes as he forces himself into the dark room.

"Just… leave me be." You try, if only for naught, to say you refused to be his pity case. "I'll be at the airport in like… two hours. I'll call a car."

"Why should I believe that?"

"Because I told you that's what I'm going to do." You try putting your foot down in a meager, barely-there tone that Satoru stomps all over as he shuts the door behind him.

"You go ghost for a week and expect me to believe you're okay? Or to even leave you alone?"

"Yeah? If that's true, why'd it take you a week to see if I was okay?"

He shuts up, giving you a fake little chuckle from his throat. "You fucking scare me, that's why."

"You're full of shit." You reply, turning around as a fresh wave of unrelated tears springs to your eyes. It's all part of the grieving process — the overwhelming burn of tears at any given moment. "All of you… just so full of it."

As you walk away, Satoru shamelessly lets his eyes wander, raking up your backside, cocking a hip, and trying to gather the balls to give you what he knows you need to hear. "Babe,"

"Don't call me that."

"If you could just tell me… what's wrong…"

"Post-gig blues." You lie, trudging towards the back windows to pull the blackout shades you've been living under. The foggy London skyline shrouds the room in greyish, midday hues for the first time in what feels like forever, and you don't actually mind. The weather in this city feels a lot like how you feel. "Haven't heard from Suguru, either."

Satoru fiddles with his long, scarred fingers, sucking his cheek as you stare out into the bustling streets, losing yourself in the foreign cars. "Was with Nanami the other day, signing some papers, overheard him mentioning Suguru. I guess he's back in New York. Have you heard about that?"

"Does it look like I know where he is?"

Satoru throws his hands up, then blinks up at you… wearily. "Worth a try, eh?"

 "Okay, there you are…" His voice is hazy, sticky like honey as it gathers in your ear canal. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

"I— I'm gonna puke," You cry, head hanging between your shoulders as Satoru holds you up. It's a Friday night downtown — the concrete is moist with the afterglow of rain. Crowds are gathered along the bar-lined street, and smoke fills the air, rising from the subway grates and mysterious, unkempt vents. Your world is spinning, taking your head with it as you try to gain your composure. "I ha-hate him so f— so much,"

"There, there," Satoru reassures, offering his tall body as a support beam for you to bend over, wrists tossed over his broad shoulders, thick spit falling from your numb, parted lips. He peeks over to Choso, nursing a cigarette as he leans against the bar railing. The kid raises his brows, and Satoru looks shellshocked. Neither of them has seen you so… drunk.

"Su..grur…"

"Jesus, fuck—

"Just call her a car?" Choso's voice is steady, cutting through the chatter of the city just loud enough to feel real in the chaos. He stands up straight, raccoon eyes wide and sober as Satoru peeks back at him. "I call her a car?"

"So she can puke in it? No — sorry," Satoru mumbles, pulling you to the edge of the sidewalk as a group of friends pushes through into the bar. The jolting movement makes you dry heave, a sob following afterwards as you beg your body for any form of mercy. "They charge money for that, over here, Cho. Like, an insane amount of money, eh?"

The drummer shrugs, slipping his cigarette back between his lips before standing up straight. He's ready to go — has been ready to leave since he stepped foot in this place, but couldn't tell you or Satoru as much. It's your first night back in the city after… everything with Suguru that you wouldn't dare speak about, but the boys can gauge your emotions thus far. It's just another breakup in the hat of hundreds.

"We're supposed to walk her home?" He jogs down the platform, wind pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. Choso looks younger like this, with his hair down. It'd be something you could've appreciated if you weren't so gone, but he smiles at you like you're all there — that same stunning figure that graces the stage he's come to know all too well.

"You take one shoulder, I take the other?"

"I'll pay money, I don't mind—

"Just grab her," Satoru demands with a quick tone, grunting as he hoists up your falling figure. "Hey, pretty — we're walking home, okay? Back to your place?"

He's all you can see. All of your tequila daydreams are visions of his face — getting lost in the inky darkness of his hair and ingesting his scent like it's a potion. "S—sugu-

"I don't think he's the answer right now, babe."

You hear that in some semblance of the truth, and expel it all over Satoru's jeans and shoes, letting it drip and pool from your parted lips and spill all over the sidewalk. The group of girls next to you reacts, drunk off their own asses and too freaked out to be empathetic. Satoru dissociates for a second, unblinking as he feels his brand new shoes ruin on his first night out in this big, new city. "It's okay, let it out."

"I'm calling a car, now."

"Fine."

@sheep-infog @jjmeii @lucilles-witchery @hypomanic-oneirataxia @vinsushi @cherribxio @casssiesthings @gktdh @rinshoe @levi-levitate @undedin @feralforfushiguro @miyunia @veilofsixeyes @ssatoruology @automemoryd0ll @storuhrts @dawnsoblivion @billiondollarworth @hyacinthl8l @b1untcharm @kuraemiii @inmywhitegown @weeping-statue @fairygardenprincesss @re-tired-succubus @elisbraindoesntwork @jovaena @dogggggggblog-kaye @namgisho @helloxkittylo

the thrill that moves through you has you gasping into his mouth, pussy fluttering from how easily he overwhelms your senses. melting into him, letting him kiss you stupid. growing too horny to continue this way, you hold onto him and somehow manage to get him to lay on the couch.

his back resting on the cushions with you straddling him. "i wanna ride you," words spoken soft and tantalising, hand slipping under his shirt again to rest where it once was.

gojo's shirt rides up with your touch, the warm pressure of your soft palm has his cock twitching in his pants. "are you waiting for an invitation?"

"more like a plea," you challenge his glib attitude.

"pleaseee sit on my dick, pretty," his hands slide up your thighs to grip your hips, "i'm aching for it." and as if to prove his point, he ruts his hips up under you. grinding his erection against your clothed cunt.

your nails lightly scratch against his skin, lungs shuddering from the much needed stimulation. you're digging your teeth into your lower lip to stifle down any pathetic sound he might be able to pull from you. failing completely when he tugs you down at the same time that he's rutting up.

"fuuuuck– hold on– hnn– this feels soo—" he doesn't finish his sentence, head tilting back as he keeps dry humping you.

his skin is all flushed and radiating heat, eyes dazed and lost in the muted pleasure he's gaining from this. he's acting like a dog as he keeps relentlessly grinding against you. a small and pitiful whimper leaves him and you're keening into it. hands tugging his shirt up more, palms perched on him as you meet his grinds.

"wait– wait– hng– i'm gonna—" even though he's asking you to wait he doesn't stop his hips, continuing until he's shuddering through his own orgasm.

his pants growing damp as he cums in them, gojo can feel the way his seed clings to his clothes. coating his dick in his own sticky release. if it hadn't felt so fucking good he'd probably be embarrassed but he's in complete bliss right now.

"did you just cum?" you ask him, somehow even more aroused. his relaxed and borderline fucked out expression making you want him more.

he's panting softly, eyes glazed over as he answers, "you shouldn't have looked at me like that."

And okay, there had been a handful of heated hookups after long nights of breastfeeding and soothing your daughter back to sleep in her crib, where you'd begrudgingly let him pry your thighs apart on the couch to bury his tongue inside of you or sleepily fuck you on the stained cushions with your face buried in the pillows. But you'd made it clear each time that you still couldn't stand him.

You were using him for sex.

The sad thing was he didn't mind.

Not when his skin was on yours, when your mouth was still saying his name instead of someone else's.

He tried to propose to you. Four times.

You called him a manchild for thinking a marriage would make the two of you magically work.

"Think she'd say yes if I asked her on a real date then?" Sukuna said, trying to piss him off today as he leaned back in his own chair and chuckled. He didn't like the way he said real. Like the two of you had been on something that could've qualified as a date before without him knowing.

God, the only reason that asshole even came was because he heard that you were dropping off her.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo groaned, tempted to reach across the table and throttle him for suggesting it.

Having a baby with someone he was hopelessly in love with was hard enough.

Did all of his friends have to fucking audition to be the stepfather?

Sukuna hadn't even known you until after he'd knocked you up.

Never met you until you begrudgingly showed up to the frat house with a pregnancy test in hand and a scowl etched across your pretty face.

"I mean, who would you rather have be the stepdaddy?" Sukuna dryly mocked, actively ragebaiting him as he snagged the muffin that had been meant for you, unwrapping it and taking a big bite before talking with a full mouth. "Me? Or Suguru?"

Gojo would actually rather die than watch either of them marry you.

What the fuck was he supposed to do to stop them from speaking to you though?

Especially when the latter had managed to end up firmly planted in your good graces with those irritatingly smooth lines of his? Cooking you meals and murmuring in your ear what a good mother you were?

All while he just fucking sat there and stumbled over his words, feeling shittier and shittier as they tried to steal you and his daughter right out from underneath his nose.

"Neither," he grimaced, turning his attention back to his baby.

She was awake, kicking her legs in her seat as he bent forward to unbuckle her, carefully picking her up before placing her in his lap.

His heart pounded in his chest, pressure pushing down and making his ribs constrict at the thought of fucking this up.

He didn't know how to be a father. Not really. He'd never even been anyone's boyfriend. Never had any pets growing up to take care of.

Becoming frat president was the first real responsibility he ever had.

And now he had an entire human that was half-him to raise.

Drunk idiots were a lot fucking different than a baby. Who needed to be fed and bathed and loved and a million other overwhelming things he was struggling to keep track of.

She blinked up at him, familiar blue eyes squinting at him before they started to well up with tears, face scrunching up like she was about to start wailing.

He tried bouncing her up and down, but it only seemed to make her more upset, panic bubbling up before Sukuna was getting up out of his seat.

"Here," he grunted, scooping her out of his arms and cradling her against his chest as if it came naturally. "I've got her."

Her tiny body relaxed, eyes softening as he murmured something under his breath - not to Gojo, but to her. Soothing her in a way that simply didn't come naturally to him.

Going from on the verge of bawling to batting her lashes in a matter of seconds.

His daughter didn't even prefer him.

And he only had himself to blame.

Maybe if he managed to make up with you sooner, actually make you his, he could actually be living with you full time. Sharing a bed, sharing breakfast, being there to handle all the dirty diaper changes and spilled milk instead of just stopping in and begging you to let him stay to do night shafts.

You didn't trust him. Thought he was just a temporary fixture. Someone who was here for now instead of forever.

Every time he got close to convincing you he was here permanently, he always screwed it up.

God, he almost missed you giving birth just because some goddamn sorority girl stole his phone at a stupid party Suguru had insisted he show up to for at least an hour. But he'd been the one to accept the first beer - and the second.

The shots were harder to excuse.

If it wasn't for you calling Suguru in between contractions, he probably wouldn't have gotten there minutes before you had to start pushing. You had glared at him, stray strands of hair sticking to your forehead as you studied the glazed over look in his eyes and scoffed that you could smell the alcohol on him.

All he'd done was stain the memory of meeting your baby for the first time.

Fucked it all up from that very first moment.

He overheard you on the phone a couple days later, muttering something about how you couldn't believe he couldn't just stay sober when he knew you were about to go into labor any day.

Gojo hadn't touched a drink since.

He still had to show up to parties sometimes, had frat duties he couldn't exactly dodge, but he didn't let it interfere with him being a dad anymore.

"You're lucky she looks like you," Sukuna muttered, reaching up to scruff up her hair.

"Yeah," he swallowed, although part of him still wished she had more of you.

"No one would believe she's actually yours if she didn't," he dryly commented, picking out the the stitches of wounds Gojo was still licking.

"Can you stop being a dick for like, a day?" Gojo grumbled, rubbing his eyes as he glanced away from his daughter out the window at the people passing by on the street.

Staring a little too long at the happy families, his mouth twitching down at the tiny kids chattering to their parents, struggling to accept the fact that one day his own would be that be that big.

"I'm just sayin'," he shrugged. "How'd you even get her to fuck you?"

Sheer luck?

Pure chance that you somehow found his stupidity cute when you weren't sober?

He had etched the night in his head, held onto the memory with the worry that it could somehow be ripped from him too.

One of the few moments he'd gotten with you that was relatively untainted by everything that happened since.

Playing it back like a movie in his head, convinced that if he closed your eyes, he could smell the perfume you wore that night, feel your skin on his again.

He'd barely been brave enough to work up the courage to come over to you, jittery as he made an awful joke about running into you here while you tilted your head to the side and replied that you were surprised he even recognized you.

It wasn't like he'd even spoken to you before.

Not technically.

He'd bumped into you once after class, too distracted on his phone to pay attention to what was actually in front of him. In his defense, you weren't looking either, leaning against the wall to rummage through your bag for something with one hand and a coffee clutched in the other one.

The collision spilled your drink, mostly onto the floor as he immediately stopped and gawked at what just happened while you huffed an insult under your breath.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but you just glared up at him like he was worse than gum getting stuck on the soles of your shoes, nose scrunching up as you rolled your eyes and sarcastically thanked him for wasting the one treat you'd gotten yourself this week.

Gojo was pretty sure he fell in love with you from the first scowl.

Clumsily shoving his hands in his pockets and fumbling for a fifty from his wallet, holding it out as he tried to convince his tongue to move and tell you to take it. But you just shook your head and mumbled that you were going to find a janitor to mop up the mess.

His crush hadn't ended there.

Not when he couldn't stop himself from picking you out every time you passed by him on campus, feeling like a creep when he tried to come up with some way to casually run into you again.

So, yeah, when you showed up to his frat house, wearing a pretty little dress and sipping shitty beer out of a solo cup, he was rushing over before any of his brothers could notice how cute you looked when you frowned.

"Come to spill my drink?" You sarcastically asked, arching up an eyebrow when he inserted himself in the space next to you.

"That was an accident," he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip and hoping you didn't find it completely cringy. "Can't I make it up to you?"

He couldn't fucking believe it when your mouth curled up in a soft smile instead of an automatic scoff, his heart slamming so hard against his ribs he was sure it was going to burst before he even got your number.

"What do you have in mind?" You asked.

He was ready to get on his knees then.

More with every second you spent by his side, giggling at his awful attempts of flirting as you kept him at arm's length, forcing him to try harder than he had with any other girl before just to take a single body shot off of you.

His cock throbbing and aching in his jeans when your lips softly pressed against his collarbone, drifting up to drink the vodka you poured in the divot above it. His hands had been on your waist, fingers sinking in like he couldn't quite tell if you were real or just some dizzyingly beautiful hallucination his drunk brain had conjured up.

It wasn't until he managed to pull you back into his room, bending you over the bed and shimmying your dress down that he let himself believe this was actually happening.

"So you fuck every girl you take body shots with?" You teased, out of breath while he felt his own get caught in his throat at all your exposed skin.

"Just you," he lied.

Although, now that he was with you, he couldn't remember a single one that had come before.

"Uh-huh," you muttered, not believing it for a second.

He wished you had.

"You're the prettiest girl at this party," he purred, although he was already thinking that maybe he should've said planet as he dragged his tongue over the inside of your thigh, up to where your lace panties were still bunched between your legs. Leaving a damp patch as he greedily tried to eat you out through the thin fabric, acting like a desperate loser in love with someone leagues above him.

Gojo always thought he was a catch.

Cocky enough to find confidence in his position as class president, in his body and his brains, in his financial and social status.

But he couldn't shake the fucking feeling you thought he was beneath you.

It only made him crave you more.

It wasn't good enough to have you writhing underneath him, chest heaving when he finally buried his cock inside of you, hastily just grabbing a random condom from the closest drawer and carelessly sheathing himself in it. It wasn't enough to make you moan his name as he bottomed out again and again, focused more on your pleasure than how tight the condom was as his fingers sloppily played with your clit.

Gracelessly grinding as deep as he could inside you, gritting his teeth as he watched every tiny flicker of your face, searching it for a tiny inkling of passion, of hunger that wasn't just primal.

Gojo wanted you to want him for him.

Not just a quick fuck that you'd forget about sooner rather than later.

Still, he never meant for the condom to break.

He'd known from the second he saw it register on your face that you weren't going to give him a second chance. That he'd totally fucking blown it as he stammered out apologies and spread your thighs further apart to fish out the broken bits of condom from inside you, cum leaking down your thighs as you bit your lip and stared at the ceiling.

"Are you on birth control?" He asked, his voice thin and strained as he pulled out the last piece, a funny feeling settling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his own cum dripping out of you, the way the panties he'd forgotten to fully take off of you had gotten soaked as you stared at him with unfettered irritation.

"No," you spoke quietly, a hint of embarrassment shining in your eyes as you looked away from him to the state of his messy room. "I don't really do...this."

"Oh," he swallowed.

He didn't know what to say.

What to do. How to fix something he'd never had before.

So he just awkwardly threw away the condom, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tried to put on a casual grin. "Do you, uh, wanna shower or something? Stay the night?"

"Fine," you muttered, the mood still ruined no matter what he did to lift it again. Anxiety creeping in and making his usual aftercare routine awkward and tense until you were both laying on different sides of the bed, him staring at your back while you faced away from him.

He hoped that you would be there the next morning.

That the next day would be the start of a different story. He'd take you out for breakfast and reassure you that you probably wouldn't get pregnant anyway.

Really, what were the chances of it even happening?

He fell asleep fantasizing about ways to make you fall for him too.

But you were gone when he got up, rolling over to find a cold place where your body should be.

The bed was empty, your clothes missing from the floor and no note left behind.

No phone number for him to call or text to beg for a date. He stopped seeing you around campus too.

In some sick way, he felt a fucked-up sense of satisfaction when you showed back up to tell him you were pregnant.

He thought that it'd mean you were stuck with him.

Not that he'd be spending the next year scrambling to keep your attention to himself.

And away from them.

Sukuna reclined back more in his chair, his hard features softening as he dragged his thumb to wipe away the drool from his daughter's mouth.

"You're kind of a shitty dad, dude," Sukuna grunted, not even glancing up at him.

Was he?

He didn't know what a good one looked like.

His dad had barely been there for him growing up. Too busy to be at the dinner table or attend his soccer games.

"Can you stop talking like you're her stepdad?" Gojo grumbled, exhaling as he held out his arms, ready to take her back just for his baby to betray him again, clinging onto Sukuna's shirt with her tiny fists.

"I'm not the one you should be pissy with," Sukuna shrugged, a little glint in his eyes that made his stomach churn. Already aware that something he wouldn't want to hear was about to leave his friend's mouth. "Suguru's the one taking her out to dinner tonight."

Since when?

His jaw locked, fist clenching under the table at the thought of you and Suguru sitting at a table together at some fancy place, his hand sneaking out to brush over yours as he ordered you wine and wooed you.

How the hell was he supposed to let his best friend fuck his baby momma?

"Do you know where?"

a/n: i'll let you guys name their baby, drop suggestions in the comments!!

“satoru!” you cried out with a low whimper as your legs kicked once in overstimulation as you all but toppled over the edge, head thrown back in pleasure, the menace above you groaning with a soft grin. the little shit. 

satoru prided himself on knowing women, of course he did. he would have to be stupid not to with the experience he had. but something about you was different. 

maybe it was because he’d never had a steady fuck, but at times, he didn’t know where you ended and he began. satoru acknowledged that it was a problem when he started noticing things he hadn't before. 

like the clench of your jaw when you were overstimulated, the adorable way your eyes would grow all big and teary when you were close and his favorite thing of all, the way your legs kicked when you just felt too fucking good. 

he found himself chasing those little kicks, going harder and faster until he felt you kick against him with that tiny throaty whimper in the back of your throat. fuck, it was an art.

and you knew it too, what with the way he grew impossibly harder whenever your legs pushed out. a menace, really. 

“i know, baby, i know…” satoru soothed against your neck, voice low and amused like he lived for the dragging torture of it all, hands tightening on your hips as you bucked below him, “there she is, c’mon, baby, look at you…” 

you exhaled softly, whimpered maybe, fingers pressing into his abdomen as his thrusts slowed to a low grind allowing you both to ride out the wave of euphoria, now all too familiar, even comforting. you liked the aftermath, basked in the floaty feeling you couldn’t control. 

you could tell satoru was already gazing down at you, his large hand caressing the soft skin of your side, slow and deliberate as you tried to catch your breath. 

yes, the quiet. that was the sole reason you decided to push aside geto’s words from the other night. 

if this is bored then god help us when he's actually invested.

you allowed yourself a day to dwell on his words, to spiral into a pit of what if’s before you willed yourself not to run. every ounce of you wanted to flee. 

fuck, the mere thought of satoru caring for you in that way made you shiver in protest. god forbid. 

one day. you let one day pass before you decided that suguru had to be mistaken. 

how could someone like the notoriously noncommital satoru gojo go from what you knew him to be to something so completely out of character in the short time you knew him? 

it was simply not possible.

so you let it go because frankly, the sex was all too good for you to throw it all away because of a throw away comment that very possibly meant nothing. 

“good job, trouble.” satoru muttered breathlessly as your eyes finally met his own, the man holding his palm towards you in a boyish attempt to high-five you, a lopsided grin on his face. 

you huffed softly, hand still warm against his abdomen as you pushed gently, eyes blank with a nonchalance that irked the white-haired frat boy to no end. 

“get off me, gojo.” 

he was still inside you, half throbbing despite having finished twice inside you. 

and you could feel it. which is why you so desperately needed the man to get off, his weight pressing against your smaller form. 

it was like a timer started the moment you came down from the high he placed you in. every second following the moment you grew coherent and aware were seconds you were allowing him to be with you, to touch and feel and see you because you wanted to. you allowed him to. 

and that was the last thing you wanted, those damned lines blurred anymore than they already were. 

satoru rolled his eyes gently, hand dropping as his eyes shifted down, hips beginning to pull out of you, but your eyes remained on him. 

him and that damned kicked puppy look he always got when you dismissed his attempts to make whatever this was into something softer than the transactional agreement you’d agreed on. 

you noticed everything about him, unfortunately, ever the observer you were. 

the slight clench of his jaw, the way his nostrils flared just barely, the tension that dragged him back down from whatever cloud he always seemed to float on after sex.

you waited for that familiar tug beneath your ribs, that pull to soften and let him blur the lines just a little more.

the feeling never came. and the second he pulled out, you were quick to swing your legs over the side of the bed and walk towards his en suite without sparing him a glance. 

still, you could feel his stare on the expanse of your back, every single time you walked away from him. 

you knew it without turning your head, the weight of his gaze settling somewhere, uncomfortable and heavy in a way you couldn’t quite explain. 

you hated it. despised it, even. 

you especially hated when he looked at you like you were something to figure out, when his stark blue gaze met yours and you could tell- 

sometimes i wanna break open your skull and read all your thoughts. 

you remember almost physically recoiling when he’d uttered that late one night. it wasn’t out of fear, either, but because you felt the collision of his sincerity. 

the memory of him, his eyes, all earnest beneath the light, it felt dangerously close to being seen. 

it made your throat tighten just the slightest bit.

exposed vulnerability never integrated too well with you. 

and your response was predicted, rooted in both irritation at his persistence and the urge to evade any possibility of the conversation growing any more serious than it already was.

don’t make it weird, gojo. 

and what followed is what always treaded on the heels of your unrelenting nature. 

that same dampened smile that was not as bright as his usual cocky grin. a smile smaller than usual but still there for you anyway. 

after a quick shower, you stepped back into his room, steam still clinging to your skin as you tightened the towel around yourself. 

satoru was sprawled across the bed, one arm tucked beneath his head while the other rested low against his stomach, eyes already fixed on you the second you’d emerged. 

“already?” his voice came, softer now, as you began collecting your clothes from the carpeted floor, the towel tight around you.

“yeah.” you answered lowly, eyes downcast as you began pulling up your underwear. 

a beat passed, “stay a bit.” 

you resisted the urge to sigh. 

stay? why would you? 

but you paused just enough for him to notice, sitting up as you began pulling on the rest of your clothes as if his words hadn’t even registered. 

“well, don’t get too excited.” satoru grinned gently, a smile you could see right through but ignored all the same. “here...”

satoru leaned over his bed to the little mini fridge, puling out two chilled bottles and tossing one towards you lazily. 

“thanks.” you stated as he hummed gently, chugging his own down while watching you over the rim as you sipped yours, eyes remaining on him and his the same. eyes meeting somewhere you both couldn’t name. 

“what are you doing tonight?” satoru questioned as you fixed up your tousled hair in the mirror, eyes drifting to him as he sat up, forearms resting against his knees, gaze softer than you liked. 

“chilling, why?”

satoru grinned, “there’s a-”

“party?” you deadpanned, turning to face the grinning man as he crossed his arms.

satoru lips twitched, “ugh, you're obsessed with me.”

you rolled your eyes once, despite that strange tension that still lingered beneath everything. 

subtle and easy to ignore, especially for you, but there nonetheless. 

a week had passed since that conversation with suguru and despite only avoiding satoru for a day, something had shifted afterward, just a bit. 

maybe you were colder now, or maybe you were simply paying attention to things you didn’t before. 

either way, satoru noticed too. 

because despite your distance, despite the walls and avoidance and clipped responses, you still came whenever he called. 

“not a party this time," satoru promised with a smirk, "we’re all goin’ to a bar tonight.” 

you hummed before turning to face him, “how grown of you.” 

he huffed out a laugh, “shut up.” 

you simply shook your head, taking another sip of water as he continued watching you from the bed, “you should come.”

your eyes flicked to him instantly and you resisted the urge to scoff. 

absolutely not. 

you and frat parties were already enough of a social nightmare, but voluntarily accompanying satoru and his friends to a crowded bar sounded like genuine psychological warfare. 

“should i?” you deadpanned, words smothered in a lack of enthusiasm satoru caught, “no thanks.”

his grin widened immediately like he’d expected the answer before the thought had even entered his brain, “y’didn’t even think about it!”

“i did,” you replied flatly, reaching for your bag by the door, "thought about it very quickly.”

“c’mon,” he dragged out, a pout practically painting his lips and though you didn’t particularly dwell over him, it was nice to see him more like himself, “it’ll be fun.”

you scoffed softly, “we have very different definitions of fun, gojo.”

“ouch,” gojo gasped, hand pressing to his chest in mock offense, “real judgemental from someone who was screaming my name not even thirty minutes ago.”

you merely shot him a look and he laughed then, properly this time. 

god, he had a nice laugh. 

you hated that too. 

“just think about it,” he stated after a moment, quieter now, “don’t gotta say yes now.” 

“i’m probably not going, gojo.”

his eyes brightened, “probably?” 

you rolled your eyes. of course he’d latch onto that word alone. 

“don’t start.” 

“that sounds better than no to me,” he grinned before finally relenting with a shake of his head, “m’just sayin’. could be nice.” 

there it was again. that softness he kept trying to slip between the cracks of your arrangement like he was hoping you wouldn’t notice. you noticed everything. 

which is exactly why he wouldn't be seeing you tonight. 

“a lotta things could be nice,” you huffed as you placed the strap of your bag on your shoulder, “bye, gojo.”

he watched you walk out of his room, the door shutting behind you and exhaled slowly through his nose. 

something was off. 

he didn’t know what exactly but he felt it every tine you looked at him now. as if you ever looked at him with anything but that bluntness in your gaze, but it just seemed more prominent now. 

you used to soften, at least just after sex. his truth serum dick window. 

a mere fifteen to twenty minutes where your head was still fuzzy in a cloud of euphoria, he could talk to you about practically anything, ask you about anything. 

now, even after sex, you stiffened when he got too close to whatever invisible line you kept drawn between you both. 

and fuck, he hated that line. and he hated how aware of it he’d become. 

before you, satoru never really cared whether people stayed or left. 

girls came and went in an endless rotation of fucks, they were merely a blur in his mind, faces and names fading into the background of frat parties and bad decisions, only temporary fun. 

satoru liked people, he knew them well. he was charming to a fault, able to present himself in any way he needed to to get his way. 

but he never needed them. 

not his fuckass family, not even his frat.

but you? 

well, he didn’t know if needed was the right word. but you were different in the worst possible way. 

you stayed in his head, fucked with him all the fucking time.

he’d be in class thinking about the way your nose scrunched when you were annoyed. he’d be at practice remembering some comment you’d muttered three nights ago. 

his fifteen minute window post-sex allowed him to collect little memories and information about you that he cherished more than he liked to admit. 

it was pathetic. worse, it was new. 

satoru gojo had never been this guy before. 

the kind of man who waited around for texts or replayed conversations trying to figure out what shifted. or the kind to stare at his ceiling at two in the morning wondering where someone was or whether they got home safe. 

he’d especially never been the kind of idiot who wanted to know someone this badly. 

because that was it, really.

it wasn’t just sex, he wasn’t sure it ever was. he wanted to know things, 

he wanted to know why your mood shifted whenever he asked about family, why you always looked half-ready to run, why you never stayed the night, why you looked at him sometimes like caring about you was the worst thing he could possibly do. 

and every time he tried getting closer, you shut another door in his face. 

still, he kept trying. like a fucking idiot. 

satoru dropped back against his pillows with a groan, dragging both his hands down his face. 

this was so unfair. 

of all the people he could’ve ended up wanting like this, of all the girls on campus who would've gladly fallen into his arms without making him work for every microscopic inch…

he had to feel these emotions for the first time towards the one girl who treated vulnerability like a disease.

he was absolutely fucked. 

☀︎

the bar was loud in the way only campus bars could be, all sticky floors and the music too heavy and laughter bled into shouting until everything became one overwhelming blur of bodies and alcohol. 

satoru usually loved this bar, he thrived in these very environments. 

he loved the noise, the attention, the easy feeling of walking into a room and knowing people would gravitate toward him without him having to try. 

tonight, though, something felt off. 

“for the last fuckin’ time,” shoko graoned from beside him, cigarette balaced lazily between her fingers despite the bartender glaring daggers her way, “stop looking at the door then checking your phone then looking at the door then checking your phone then-”

“shut up.” satoru muttered with a huff, leaning back against the booth as his eyes wandered over the sea of people. 

some of the boys were playing pool with a group of girls while the other half were drunkenly playing darts which would end with sukuna pulling a dart out of choso’s arm. again. 

utahime leaned against the counter beside her with a sigh, “what are you waiting for, satoru? your pretty biker?” 

satoru instantly glared at her, “i was checking the time.” 

“you checked the time four times in one minute.” shoko deadpaned, sharing a glance with utahime that screamed this guy’s pathetic. 

satoru scoffed, “time changes.”

“ugh, you’re so embarrassing…” utahime muttered into her drink as satoru ignored them both, though his jaw tightened slightly as his knee bounced beneath the counter. 

he felt so fucking stupid. why did he think probably meant anything other than absolutely fucking not. 

it was you. of course you weren’t coming. 

still, some stupid part of him kept glancing toward the entrance anyway, half expecting to see you walk in with that bored expression on your utterly pretty face, as if you hadn't occupied his every waking thought for the past six hours. 

“seriously, though, what the hell’s wrong with you lately?” shoko leaned forward, eyeing him carefully, “you’ve been off.” 

“i haven’t been off-”

“you’ve been off.” choso stated as he took a seat by hime, rubbing his bicep where satoru could see a little scratch from the dart, eyes downcast as he grabbed a nacho from the plate.

satoru scoffed, “the hell do you know-”

“you got rejected or somethin’?” choso continued through a mouthful of cheesy nachos making shoko grimace as satoru’s jaw clenched, opening his mouth to speak-

“he absolutely got rejected,” suguru breathed out, taking a seat beside shoko breathlessly, “repeatedly, actually. at his own accord-”

“shut the fuck up.” satoru practically growled, leg kicking against suguru’s shin as he groaned at the impact. 

“so this really is all about that girl-” 

“the biker chick?” sukuna walked towards them then, choso moving to allow the vice president to sit beside him, “ah yeah, he’s down catastrophic.” 

the table then got into a discussion about who was down worse, sukuna or satoru. 

satoru didn’t hear a thing, the group dissolving into discussion and teasing and laughter while satoru leaned back against the booth with an irritated sigh, fingers twitching toward his phone before stopping himself. 

he really needed to get a fucking grip. he was satoru fucking gojo. 

girls practically fell at his feet, he was absolute royalty. 

he wasn’t supposed to be the one sitting in a bar feeling badly because one emotionally constipated girl hadn't show up. 

“another round?” suguru asked, already signaling the bartender for more. 

“fuckin’ please.” satoru muttered instantly and maybe that was his first mistake. 

because one round turned into three surprisingly quick, then four, and suddenly, the buzzing beneath his skin dulled just enough for him to stop checking the entrance every five seconds. 

it was around one in the morning when a familiar dark-haired girl slid into the empty spot beside him. 

emi. her sultry almond eyes were the same, all manipulation and false affection. 

she laughed at everything he said, touched his arm too much, leaned into his space just enough to have him leaning back into her. 

the past few weeks, girls’ advances weren’t quite met back with enthusiasm by the frat president, because he already had his fix. 

this time, though, he didn’t stop her. 

“missed you, toru…” she stated lowly, hands resting against his thigh as his head leaned back against the booth, those very eyes drifting between her eyes and hands. 

“yeah?” satoru lowly stated, voice all husky and deep, hazy from the plethora of drinks. 

it felt good to be wanted. and fuck, did emi want him. 

everyone knew that much. 

his mind couldn’t help but drift to you for a moment, of course it did. 

you wanted him when you needed him, but you didn’t just want him like he wanted you. you didn’t want him all the time. 

and that was what you’d agreed on, so why was it such a big deal now? 

maybe he needed this, to stop acting insane over a girl who couldn’t give a fuck less what he was doing. 

your deal didn’t include exclusivity or not to sleep with other people. it was just to keep each other in the loop if you did. 

fuck, satoru felt his stomach churn at the prospect of you with another man. 

he pushed that thought away before it could fully consume him, just as emi leaned closer, breath tickling the skin of his neck, right over the little mark you’d left on his jaw this morning. 

he wore it like a badge of honor, like a goddamn idiot. 

“we had a lotta fun, remember, babe?” she stated more than asked, grinning all nice like and satoru smirked drunkenly, her face a bit blurry but still visually appealing enough to have him leaning in just a bit. 

“oh, i know.” 

she giggled at that, her other hand moving to rest on his chest.

shoko and utahime had already gone back home an hour ago, sukuna as well. 

the rest of the boys were scattered around the bar and suguru kept his eyes on his snow-haired friend where he stood across the room. 

their eyes met for half a second and suguru’s expression shifted instantly. don’t. 

satoru looked away first. 

why shouldn’t he? 

just because this uncharacteristic version of himself was amusing to suguru? it was hell. 

granted, suguru, as well as his entire frat hated emi’s guts. for many reasons. 

before he could even attempt to recall those very reasons, emi was kissing him, quick and needy. 

satoru kissed her back, hands by his sides but lips moving against hers like muscle memory had taken over.

it felt different. he was waiting for that shot of electricity up his spine that he’d grown accustomed to. for that feral need to touch to come over him.

the girl practically climbed atop his lap, hands still by his sides as she cupped his jaw, lips moving messily and eagerly over him, no rhyme or rhythm. 

“ugh, you’re so hot-” she moaned before she pressed herself against him once more, satoru growing stiffer instead of melting by the second.

just enough time passed for him to realize that this felt absolutely nothing like kissing you. you and your pillowy soft lips, the soft sounds that came from somewhere deep in your throat, as if they clawed their way out, despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. 

you and the honeyed way you said his name, his actual name. 

satoru. the word left you rarely but so fucking devastatingly, your gentle hands and your pretty body that fit against his like fate itself intervened when placing you in his path.

you were so fucking addicting, even having a pretty girl on his lap did nothing for him. 

what the fuck were you doing to him? 

satoru pulled away then, lips all swollen as he looked to the side, eyes still hazy but mind more sober. 

emi began peppering kisses down his jaw, his neck, until he pressed a hand to her shoulder. 

“stop,” satoru stated, gently maneuvering her away from him to the seat once more, “m’not into this.” 

emi scoffed instantly, eyes firing up in that familiar way he remembered, “not into this?! oh please, you were obsessed with me!”

satoru almost wanted to laugh. 

emi was the obsessed one, following him around since freshman year. 

she was the head girl of kappa kappa gamma, and you could tell with a glance that she wasn’t used to hearing the word no. which is probably why she was so enamored with satoru. 

she came back after the summer of their first year looking good. she’d gotten her tits done, that was a given. all of campus were talking about it at the time. he’s sure something else had changed but either way, she looked good. 

so he fucked her. 

aside from you, she was his most steady fuck, on and off all of sophmore year. 

they were never exclusive or anything and he still slept with other girls if he pleased, but he knew she was there if he needed a quick fix.

until she started acting just a bit too crazy and satoru cut her off. she’d been obsessed with him since then. 

satoru almost wanted to laugh, karma really was a bitch because this time around, with you, he was the fucking crazy one.

oh please, you were obsessed with me!

satoru wanted to laugh at that too. 

if he was obsessed with her then what was it that he felt for you? 

did he fucking worship you? was that it? 

if obsession was emi than you must have been driving him to insanity. 

satoru couldn’t recall what had taken place after that, all he knew was that choso and sugugu were pulling the short-haired girl off of him and pulling him up, his long arms dangling over each of their shoulders. 

“c’mon, mr president, lets take you home.” choso stated, blunt resting between his lips as they walked him towards the door, satoru leaning his head against his shoulder in imbalance.

fuck, he’d wished you’d just shown up. 

☀︎

“should we call someone?” oscar questioned, eyes squinted as he tilted his head. 

you hummed from your place beside him, your own eyes widened, “like who?” 

the little boy shifted, knees digging into the couch as one arm rested around your shoulder, small fingers fidgeting with the ends of your hair gently, “i don’t know, like, the pope?” 

you scoffed, “what would the pope do, oz?”

“something! i’ve never seen this before!” 

your little brother’s eyes that mirrored your own was filled with genuine concern, yours equally so.

it was comical the way both your heads tilted in sync as you watched the scene before you-

“y’know i can hear your stupid asses, right?” the eldest of your two younger brothers muttered without looking up from the worksheet in front of him, pen tapping aggressively against the paper. 

sonny, who was hunched over the dining room table, a pen in hand as he did…homework. voluntarily. 

“language, asshole!” you scolded as oscar huffed gently.

“grandma says if you swear too much, your hair falls out!” oscar informed, face serious and eyes wide. 

sonny finally looked up then, “grandma also said that stupid drawing you brought home was like picasso’s.” 

“sonny!” you scolded, hand moving to oscar’s back as he gaped at his older brother. 

“this is why grandma says you’re a delinquent!” 

“spell delinquent-”

“okay, enough.” you shushed them both as you stood up, moving towards sonny who was hunched over his algebra homework, “you feeling okay, kid?” 

sonny scoffed gently, “yes, i’m fine, mom.”

you crossed your arms, “you sure?”

sonnu huffed, slamming his pen down as his eyes met yours, “yes, i’m sure, what is up with you?” 

you shrugged gently, “i don’t know. i just thought the day i see you doing homework, i’d also see pigs in the sky.” 

sonny rolled his eyes as oscar padded over, moving to stand beside you, mirroring your crossed arms. 

you resisted the urge to smile, a little mini you. 

“is this because grandma took your xbox?”

realization dawned on you as you laughed softly, “ahh, this makes sense now.” 

sonny merely met your eyes with a blank stare, “she said if i failed another test, she’s selling it.” 

you pulled out the chair across from him as oscar followed beside you. 

you glanced at the paper to see two bolded words atop that made you gasp softly, “this is extra credit.”

sonny’s jaw clenched as oscar giggled softly, “sun’s a nerd!” 

you giggled gently along with him, eyes racking over your brother’s red cheeks.

“shut UP.” sonny hissed, lunging for the eight year old boy who darted behind you instantly, laughing hysterically.

another soft laugh left you as oscar clutched at the back of your shirt, “okay, settle down, einstein.” 

sonny huffed as he relented, sitting back down with his arms crossed. 

you softened then, a small smile playing on your lips as a sense of gentle relief filled you. 

you often worried about sonny more than you did oscar, more than your grandma. 

he wasn’t a delinquent, as your grandma often exaggerated, but he was somewhat troubled. something you didn’t blame him for being, especially as you played a part.

you leaving for college only worsened his misbehavior, something you couldn't help but still carried the guilt of. 

“why are you doing extra credit, sun?”

sonny shifted in his seat, eyes still blazing, “for extra credit. it’s in the name, dumbass.” 

“that’s a chunk of hair gone!” oscar stated as he munched on the cut up fruit on the table. 

sonny glared at the little boy before gazing back up at you, your eyes soft, familiar and gentle enough to have his shoulders dropping, “i like my xbox.” 

your head tilted back in laughter as the boy huffed, “will you help me or not?” 

you tried to keep your smile at bay, truly, you did. 

but sony looked so genuinely irritated by all of this that another round of laughter bubbled out before you could stop it, oscar quick to follow as sonny huffed, gathering his things as if he was about to make a run for it. 

“no, no, i’m sorry! i’ll help!” you grinned, relenting as the boy glared at you but remained put, allowing you to slide the paper over to you and oscar’s side. 

both of you huddled over the paper, your youngest brother merely copying your movements because god knows, he knew fuck all about algebra. 

“okay,” you muttered, scanning the page, “what the fuck is this?” 

“language!” oscar yelled as you patted his back gently, eyes still squinting over the page.

“let me get this straight, you can do that whole organic chemistry shit but you can’t do algebra?”

you scoffed, "i haven’t done algebra since freaking high school! there’s a reason i chose science, idiot!”

sonny scoffed, “right, i’m the idiot.” 

sonny then proceeded to go into this whole story about this one guy in his class, oscar nodding along like his older brother’s words were gospel. something in your chest loosened just a little.

it was all so achingly familiar, so heartbreakingly nostalgic. 

the noise and bickering, oscar attached to your side and sonny pretending like he didn’t care whether you came home or not despite hovering around you the second you walked through the door. 

you knew what role you occupied here, something your poor grandma couldn’t replicate which is why sonny gives her such a hard time. 

sometimes it felt like you’d skipped being a teenager entirely and maybe that was why people like satoru made you itch beneath your skin. 

he made things easier, softer in a way you weren’t familiar with. 

you hated it. 

☀︎

the second the train doors opened, rain slammed into you sideways. 

hard and violent enough that people exiting beside you immediately cursed under their breaths, some scrambling to pull jackets over their heads as thunder cracked overhead. 

you paused beneath the station awning with a frustrated sigh, arms crossing over your sweater clad body, completely void of a proper jacket. you had forgotten it home at your grandma’s. 

fuck, your apartment was a thirty minute walk which was usually fine, except it was fucking freezing and probably bound to storm soon. 

you pulled out your phone, opening your messages quickly and scrolling through until you found luna’s number, going to press on her contact name before your screen went black. 

“oh, fuck off.” you muttered as your head tilted back against the cold bricks, eyes shutting in absolute disbelief. just your fucking luck. 

“lady, it’s about to storm, you should get going. all outgoing trains are cancelled.” a man with a navy vest stated, the pin at his chest indicating his place as one of the train staff. 

“right. thanks.” you stated before he nodded, walking away as you looked ahead at the heavy rain. 

another crash of thunder echoed overhead, rainwater splashing violently against the pavement while people rushed towards cars and buses around you. 

you narrowed your eyes at the black sky before sighing. fuck it.

hugging yourself tightly, you stepped out into the rain. 

ten minutes later, you deeply regretted every decision that had led you to this point. 

you knew it was gonna rain and still decided to come back to campus because of your stupid lab tomorrow morning that you truly afforded to miss. 

your shoes squelched with every miserable step, jeans soaked through entirely while freezing rainwater clung to your lashes, tote bag barely hanging onto your shoulder. 

the wind nearly knocked you off your feet as you swayed with every huge gust, another crack of thunder splitting overhead. 

“you look fuckin’ homeless.” 

you stopped walking instantly, a black truck crawled alongside the curb beside you, window rolled down just enough to reveal sukuna’s unimpressed face beneath the glow of passing streetlights. 

you stared at him blankly, “good to see you too.” 

sukuna’s lip twitched, “get in the truck.” 

you resisted the urge to scoff, “said the kidnapper.” 

you turned on your feet, continuing your dreadful walk and after a mere ten seconds, sukuna’s truck followed, “get in the truck.”

“i’m good.” 

“you are visibly not good, stupid.” 

your jaw clenched, turning to face the pink haired vice president, “please don’t be so convincing.” 

the rain came in sheets as you squinted once more, continuing your walk before sukuna scoffed, truck slowly moving beside you, “look, i’d like nothin’ more than to leave your ass freezin’ out here but my girl told me that people have this thing called a conscience, so.”

you shivered, “god bless your girlfriend’s patience.”

another gust of wind hit you directly then and you physically recoiled.

sukuna noticed instantly, “get. in.” 

“you’re such a-”

a bike whirled passed then, right over a puddle that ended up flooding the front of you completely and your jaw clenched so tight, your molars hurt.

you could practically feel the smirk on the vice president’s face, “i imagine you’re coming in then.” 

no words left you as you climbed into the passenger seat of his truck, warmth hitting you instantly, you almost moaned in appreciation. 

sukuna snorted beside you as you slammed the door shut, “fuckin’ pathetic.” 

“fuck you.” 

you shoved your wet hair away from your face while he pulled back onto the main road, windshield wipers fighting for their lives against the storm outside. 

for a minute, silence settled between you outside the low hum of the engine.

“why are you even walking in this weather?” sukuna scoffed after a moment.

“just decided to take a nice stroll.” you stated emotionlessly, eyes trained on the blur of cars outside before glancing at the man, “train.” 

“your survival instincts are ass.” 

you rolled your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat, “i’m well aware.” 

“you from the city too?” sukuna questioned as you glanced over at him once more, his hand clutching the steering wheel, forearms thick and littered with tattoos. 

one stood out, a small pair of angel wings on his hand. it was pretty. 

“yeah.” you stated simply. the last thing you wanted was to have small talk when you were soaking wet with rain water. 

you knew sukuna understood that, the silence enveloping you both, a mutual understanding settling between you. 

if it was fucking satoru here, he’d properly yap your ear off about god knows what. you’d shush him over and over and he’d still find the energy to talk. 

he’d properly distract you from the wet cold feeling against you, though. he was funny when he wanted to be. he’d also be able to keep you warm because you didn’t mind when he touched you, unlike other people, men especially. 

you even flinched when luna hugged you. 

the last time you’d seen satoru was two days ago, the same morning he’d asked you to come to the bar with his friends. and he hadn’t texted you since then which was strange for him. 

you appreciated the space, though. but it made it evidently clear that you were growing used to the annoyance that was satoru gojo. 

yu wondered what he was doing. surely no party was happening in the midst of a storm, but you wouldn’t completely put it past him. 

if anything, he’d make a theme of it all. 

as if sukuna could read your mind, the familiar strip of greek row came into view and your stomach churned, “why are we here?” 

sukuna hummed, “because i dnon’t know where the fuck you live and the frat was only ten minutes away. i’m not driving in a storm, dipshit.”

your jaw clenched alongside your fists, “i didn’t fucking tell you to drive in the storm, did i, asshole? you’re the one who pestered me-”

“spell pestered-”

“i’m gonna-” 

sukuna was already climbing out of the truck, the vehicle shutting off, the warmth being stripped away from you as you shivered almost instantly. 

“your choice, grumpy,” sukuna stated as he walked towards the frat, glancing at you over his shoulder, "either make the walk or come in.” 

with that, he began walked down the pathway to the house as you jumped out of the truck, genuinely contemplating for a moment.

either you go home which was twenty minutes away or go in and leave your pride right here. 

fuck, you pride was still on the steps of that goddamn train station. 

rain was soaking you all over again during the short sprint toward the front door. 

“asshole.” you stated as sukuna smirked. 

“witch.” he replied as you huffed. 

music and shouting echoed faintly inside once sukuna shoved the door open, warmth flooding over you once more as you shivered still, teeth chattering just the slightest bit.

you had to be on the verge of hypothermia. 

the living room was crowded with frat boys sprawled across the couches and the carpeted floor, yelling over a cod match playing loudly on the tv, four boys taking a hold of their own controllers. 

and you hated the way your eyes seeked him out almost instantly, eyes racking over the faceless boys before settling on the one face that no one could really miss. 

satoru was stretched across the couch in grey sweats and a black compression shirt, controller loose in one hand while he laughed at something choso said beside him. 

“hands off my shit, assholes.” sukuna glared at the two pledges who had sukuna’s switch in their hands, their eyes instantly widening. you would bet on the fact that they had shit themselves right then and there. 

sukuna’s booming voice had satoru glancing up and his gaze almost instantly flickered to you. you, you, you. 

everything stopped, really and truly, satoru felt the moment shift. 

his grin vanished instantly, and he could swear he was hallucinating. 

the situation didn’t even register. why would you be here? why would you be with the likes of ryomen sukuna of all people? 

though his mind embarrassingly often conjured up thoughts of you, the flushing of your cheeks, the softness of your hair, the way your lashes fluttered, he was still struck every single time he saw you. 

“hey.” the word left you then and he physically gulped. 

his heart stilled momentarily and he knew he wasn’t going crazy then. this was no hallucination. 

he could recall how soft your voice was, how gentle and calming despite your usual blunt nature but the underlying emotion, the shaky breath, the subtle depth he couldn’t conjure up. not in with his greatest efforts. 

he knows because he’s tried.

“what the fuck?” 

you barely had time to react before he was standing before you, making it to you in three long strides, controller abandoned and game forgotten.

his eyes flicked over to sukuna, eyes unusually heated, “why the fuck-”

sukuna was quick to interrupt him, “found your girl wanderin’ the streets like a wet cat.”

with that, the pink-haired frat boy made his way up to his room, allowing satoru to glare at him momentarily before deciding he had more important things to deal with.

his eyes dragged over you rapidly like he was checking for injuries. 

you blinked once, eyes tinted a slight blue making his heart clench, “he’s insufferable.” 

satoru couldn’t stop the grin that split his lips then, eyes racking over the pretty expanse of your face, heart clenching in appreciation. he fucking missed you.

“yeah, that’s sukuna for ya.”

you merely hummed, a shiver taking over as satoru tutted once, hands reaching out and brushing over your soaked sleeves.

“hell, you’re freezing.” 

“i’m fine.” you muttered through chattering teeth. 

“you’re shivering.” 

“that’s how cold works, gojo.”

his hands clenched at the name, huffing as he dragged you toward the stairs by your hand and you’d usually hate this, but you so desperately ached for the warmth you knew he could provide. 

you needed a bath and a change of clothes yesterday. 

the familiar expanse of his room was warm as he shoved the door open, immediately moving around the space while you hovered awkwardly near the entrance dripping rainwater on the floor.

“go shower,” satoru instantly began moving around the room, “i’ll get you a change of clothes.”

you blinked, swallowing down the urge to flee at the obvious concern in his tone. 

a part of you wanted to make up an excuse and just go home, storm be damned. 

except he looked so utterly real. 

you never thought you’d envy satoru gojo, not in the slightest. 

alas, here you were. 

you desperately wanted to know how he did it. how he didn’t shy away from anything remotely out of his depth. how he was so unapologetically him in the most admirable way possible. 

ugh, did you admire satoru of all people? 

yes, you admired his ability to never run. 

you wished you could be that brave. 

“what are you doing?” satoru stood there, a hoodie and plaid pajama pants in his hands.

“what?” you uttered dumbly as the man scoffed.

“you’re soaked.” 

“observant.” 

satoru shot you a look before handing you the clothes and a soft grey towel, “smartass.” 

you shook your head, eyes looking up at him in a way that made his ribs thump uncomfortably. 

god, you couldn’t be real. 

the way your lips were plump from your biting, cheeks flushed with the cold, eyes big and trusting in a way he hadn’t expected, the way your soaked tresses framed your pretty face. 

you made him feel so much, he could barely stand. 

“they won’t fit you, but whatever…” he breathed out, as if someone had stolen it right from his lungs. 

your gaze lingered on him longer than it ever had before because beneath all the attitude, he seemed worried. for you. 

please, no no no no. 

“thanks.” you muttered quietly, eyes finally glancing away towards the clothes in hand, taking ahold of them before moving towards the bathroom. 

you didn’t miss the way his expression had softened. dangerously so. 

☀︎

by the time you’d stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, the storm had somehow gotten worse. 

rain hammered violently against the windows while thunder rattled the room itself.

your damp hair clung to your skin under the large hoodie that had engulfed you entirely, his plaid pants being held up by your hair tie that had knotted the extra fabric. 

satoru looked up from his phone the second you’d emerged, visibly freezing. 

his eyes dragged over you slowly. 

his clothes had swallowed you adorably, cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower this time and his chest physically ached in a way that had his jaw clenching. 

something shifted in his ace instantly, something devastatingly soft. 

“what.” you demanded more than asked, shifting from one foot to the other. 

satoru blinked once before shrugging, “nothing.” 

you glanced towards the window as lightning flashed outside, “storm’s bad.”

“yeah,” satoru muttered, eyes still fixed on you, “road’s are fucked.” 

you reached for your phone instinctively before remembering your earlier issue.

“can i use your charger?” 

“yea-” 

as if the world had it out for you, you specifically, darkness enveloped you whole then. 

the light of the bathroom shut completely, the soft sound of his mini fridge stalling and everything went dark. 

you couldn’t help the slight terror that brushed over you for a moment, “satoru?!”

“m’here, baby, c’mere.” 

you felt a brush of something against your sleeve and you immediately followed his voice, huddling close as you heard the chaos of the boys downstairs. 

“fucking fuck,” satoru cursed as he let oit a breath, arm around your shoulders as he gently maneuvered you to take a seat on the edge of his bed, “m’gonna grab some candles. wait here, okay?”

“where else would i go, gojo?” 

the man simply ignored your words, feeling his way through the darkness for his phone before finding it by the edge of his desk. 

he turned the flash on, glancing at you once before making his way out of the room. 

ten minutes later, the entirety of satoru’s room was littered with candles, setting the room aglow, a soft yellow and orange tone that flickered against the walls and ceiling. 

it should’ve felt eerie but instead, it felt strangely warm. 

it was intimate in a way that made something beneath your ribs tighten. 

satoru dripped back onto the floor beside the bed with a dramatic sigh, long legs stretched out in front of him as rain battered violently against the windows. 

“well,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “this is romantic.”

you started blankly at the man, “for who?” 

“me,” he answered instantly, grinning obnoxiously, “you’re in my clothes. power’s out. surrounded by candlelight…this should be our first date.” 

you couldn’t help the tilt of your lips at his utter ridiculousness. 

“there it is,” he grinned softly, “like striking gold. every time.” 

your brows furrowed, “what?” 

“that tiny smile.” 

“i’m not smiling.” you scoffed instantly, almost offended at the very prospect.

“okay, trouble, whatever you say.” 

you rolled your eyes once, huffing gently as your eyes roamed around his room. 

it looked different in candlelight, softer and more boyish. 

the pictures of him and his friends littered across his room in little glimpses of his life that you never really cared to ask about. it all seemed more endearing under the glow. 

silence settled between you both, comfortable, which somehow felt more dangerous than the flirting. 

your gaze drifted towards the mini fridge by his desk, “you got anything to drink?” 

“mhm,” satoru pushed himself up immediately before crouching beside it, “cherry coke, perhaps?"

your brows furrowed, “how do you-”

“you told me.”

how did he seem to continuously gather this information about you when you had no recollection of telling him about it?

you loved cherry coke, it was an absolute god send. 

there was something so achingly nostalgic and delicious about it. 

“fuck…” satoru muttered as he reached into the fridge. 

“what?”

he turned slowly, holding up a single can of diet cherry coke. one. 

“it’s mine.” you stated with a furrow in your brow as satoru grinned menacingly. 

“hmm, i dunno…” he muttered, allowing the door of the fridge to shut as he made his way back over, sitting back down with the coke in hand, “y’know, you really put me on these. having one doesn’t sound so bad right now.”

you glared at him, jaw clenching just a bit as you eyed the can in his hand, “give it, gojo.” 

satoru’s eyes brightened, “alright, yeah, i will...if you agree to play a game with me.”

your eyes narrowed at the man, distrusting but also contemplative. 

you really wanted a cherry coke right now. 

“what game?” 

and you could physically see the shift in his gaze, the way his blue eyes had been overcome with something dangerous, borderlining on menacing as he leaned back on the side of the bed, one knee bent lazily. 

“truth or strip.” 

you stared at him blankly, “are you twelve?” 

satoru shrugged with a hum, eyes glancing down to the can in hand, long fingers cracking open the can with menacing cruelty, “i’ll just take my drink then.” 

you narrowed your eyes at him as he lofted the can to his lips, the soft fizz from the inside mocking you as he took a sip. 

“fine.” 

satoru pulled the can away from his lips, a smirk painting his features as his head tilted at you, tonguing the inside of his cheek just the slightest bit. 

“good girl,” he stated with a grin before sitting up properly, “rules of the game. each of us gets to ask a question in turns. about anything and everything. and the other has to be honest. if you’re not, you lose. if you don’t wanna answer a question, strip one item of clothing.” 

your brows furrowed, “and how will we know if the other is lying?” 

satoru smirked, “because i pinky promise i won’t lie.” 

you rolled your eyes at the mocking tone of his words, his pinky held out as you eyed him with mild irritation. 

you clasped your finger around his anyways, “fine. give me the coke.” 

just like that, the can of coke was in your hands and you were in satoru’s. 

☀︎

“how is beautiful boy your favorite movie? it’s so depressing!” satoru argued as he laid on his back on the floor while you remained in a criss cross position across from him.

satoru was now shirtless and you were missing both of your socks which he claimed was cheating. 

“gojo, you cannot argue and ask more questions about every single answer i give you.” you stated for what might possibly be the fifth time. 

satoru huffed gently, head turning to glance up at you, “you’re a sociopath.”

you merely rolled your eyes, taking a sip of your coke as you glanced at his bare chest and abs where the candlelight flickered nicely. he looked good. 

“your turn, trouble.” 

you hummed before glancing around his room, as if it would magically conjure up some questions to ask. 

your eyes fell upon a picture of a younger satoru gojo beside an older woman with the same striking blue eyes and stark white hair. 

“are you close with your parents?” 

a lame question, really, but this was hard for you. 

you hated receiving questions, let alone asking them. 

and to be completely honest, you didn't really care to. you didn’t need to know satoru like that, you knew enough. you knew what you needed to know. 

except, something came over satoru then, in a way you’d never seen before. his eyes, usually expressive and carrying his emotions like a blanket, grew blank in a way that was all too familiar to you.

you watched him for a moment, the way his eyes casted over with something you couldn’t name, his jaw clenching along with it. 

“my mom, yeah.” 

his voice carried a heaviness you never really found with satoru, something so utterly different than his usual light-heartedness. 

his eyes didn’t meet yours and silence followed. 

again, you didn't really want to particularly pry so you let it go. but you did store away that little piece of information away. 

stupid damn game. 

“my turn,” as if a switch flipped, he was grinning again, the cloudiness in his gaze dwindling as he looked up at you, “why do you go back to the city so often?” 

your heart thumped once, hand tightening against the drink in your hand. 

you had your pants and hoodie left, meaning only two more questions you could dodge. fuck. 

“i visit my brothers.” you answered simply, taking a sip of your drink as satoru watched you like he couch read your very thoughts as they conjured up. 

you think it was his eyes, they were always way too intense for possibly anyone he was speaking to. 

“are you close with them-”

“again with the follow up questions, gojo.” you stated in irritation as you traced the rim of the can in hand, satoru sitting up and leaning against the bedframe beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. 

and you didn’t know if it was the heat of him beside you or the candlelit room that made you stupidly utter, “have you ever been in love?” 

satoru paused, head leaning back against the bed, tilted to the side so he gazed upon the side of your face. you looked up slowly, eyes meeting his and his breath hitched. 

satoru pondered it for a moment. had he been in love? no. 

mostly because he never gave anyone the chance. 

“no, i don’t think i have…” satoru muttered, breath fanning the softness of your face. he was so close, “don’t think i ever wanted someone long enough.” 

fair enough. you simply hummed in understanding as you took a sip of your coke. 

“right back at ya.” satoru whispered as you swallowed softly. 

have you ever been in love?

“umm, no.” you replied with a small shrug, “no, i don’t think i have.” 

satoru wasn’t surprised, “why?”

this time, you merely shot him a glare at his question and he smirked softly, though there was no teasing beneath it. 

you were aware of the subtle shift, of the tension that had been building since he suggested this stupid game. you ignored it. 

“why are you not close with your dad?” 

really, it didn’t matter if he answered or not but you knew this had to be a touchy subject based on his previous answer, so there was a higher likelihood of him stripping. 

satoru’s jaw clenched once before he began tugging his sweats off, now only in his black briefs. 

“why do you always rush away after sex?” he questioned as you paused momentarily. 

and just like that, you were shrugging his hoodie up and over your head, except you weren’t wearing a bra because it was currently damp with rain and drying on his bathtub. 

your forearm spread over your tits as satoru watched you like something holy, as if he hadn’t seen you topless multiple times beforehand. 

still, his jaw clenched with effort, eyes gazing upon familiar exposed skin, beauty marks littering here and there, little constellations he’d traced with his tongue more times than he could count. 

under the soft glow of the candles, you looked impossibly pretty, it made him instantly strain against his boxers. fuck, you were gonna make him insane. 

“nothin’ i haven’t seen before, baby…” satoru drawled lowly, eyes hooded and tracing your skin as you huffed gently. 

you could tell he was growing aroused, the game coming to a close sooner than you’d anticipated. you recognized the look in his eyes, the half lidded nature, the baby that only left him during sex. 

“my turn,” you muttered, eyes trained on him and his never left yours, “why do you always try to make things weird?” 

satoru groaned lowly as he immediately began shrugging off his briefs, as if he hadn’t even registered the question, but merely wanted to get naked for you. 

and naked, he was. 

satoru gojo completely bare and exposed beneath the warm glow of candlelight was honestly a ridiculous sight. ridiculous because truly, no one should be able to look that good. 

his snowy locks were messy from his tugging, ocean eyes dark and heavy as they traced over you slowly. the bar skin of your stomach, your wide eyes, every miniscule expression that you tried so desperately to suppress. like he wanted to commit it all to memory. 

you swallowed softly and satoru watched with a heavy gaze, “your turn.”

you had expected satoru to say hell with the game and pull you into him, however, you underestimated just how much satoru wanted to know. just how badly he needed to know more. 

“tell me more about your brothers.”

“that’s not a question.”

“can you tell me more about your brothers?”

you glared at the man, “that doesn’t count.” 

satoru scoffed instantly, “yes, it does.” 

you huffed gently, shuffling onto your feet, standing before the man as he looked up at you with eyes so utterly devoted, filled with desire you could barely comprehend. 

in one smooth motion, you tugged at your hair tie by your hip, allowing the plaid pants to pool at your feet, standing completely bare in front of a man who looked hungry. 

“fuckin’ hell, baby…” 

satoru was quick to tug you down onto the carpeted floor, your hair fanning around you in a halo that revealed you as the angel you surely had to be. 

the rain tapped against the window in harsh motions as your chest heaved, satoru hovering above you, breathing uneven as his lips brushed against yours. 

you were so fucking beautiful.

“game over, huh,” satoru’s lips met yours with fervor then, slotting against your own as you moaned into him, back arching as your breasts brushed against his chest. 

his tongue swept across your bottom lip before nibbling gently, causing a low whimper to escape the back of your throat making satoru groan against you. 

you pressed against his chest gently as he conceded, allowing you to catch your breath while he pressed wet kisses down the expanse of your jaw to the sensitive skin beneath your ear. 

“you make me fuckin’ insane, y’know that?” satoru muttered breathlessly as you nodded against him mindlessly making him smirk just a bit at how dumb you’d already gotten, high off of him and him alone. 

fuck, he was only getting started. 

☀︎

the room smelled faintly of rain and the sandalwood candle that was slowly melting beside the bed. 

your heartbeat was still erratic as your head rested against satoru’s chest while his fingers dragged lazily up and down your spine, as if coaxing you back down. 

it was all comfortable, too comfortable. 

this was the part where you’d usually begin coming to your senses and getting dressed, except there was a whole storm outside, meaning you had nowhere to go. 

you stared blankly at the light dancing across the ceiling while satoru played absentmindedly with the ends of your damp hair. 

you felt the rising urge to panic, to flee, to run, but where would you go? 

you were trapped. 

“you okay?” satoru muttered eventually, voice rough with exhaustion as you hummed once, “alright…m’gonna shower before the hot water disappears.”

you merely shifted away from him as he made his way into the bathroom without a word, the sound of the shower starting moments later. 

then silence settled over the room once more. 

when he showered is when you’d usually make your escape. 

you exhaled slowly before sitting up, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. 

you swung your legs over the side of the bed, yawning gently as you made your way to the fridge by his desk, desperate for something to soothe your hoarse throat from earlier. 

the little fridge hummed softly when you opened it and your eyes immediately landed on it. 

a can of diet cherry coke. 

cold condensation clung to the red aluminum beneath the dim candlelight. 

you stared at it blankly for a moment. then the other one tucked behind it. and another behind that. 

that little shit. 

a laugh almost escaped you then, quiet and disbelieving, a realization settling beneath your ribs. 

he’d fucking played you. just to play a stupid game. 

your fingers brushed against the cold can thoughtfully as the shower continued running in the next room. 

fair fucking play.

☀︎

The temperature of the day will be imprinted on your skin in permanent droplets of sweat if it was a muggy day in August. Or violent shivers that will rack your bones if it were a snowy day in December. Your body keeps you attached to the day when you finally grasped onto something that you knew would never slip away from you.

You believe there are a million instances, sometimes more, that you could mangle into one montage to describe what this is. If you let your brain take over and break down each interaction like a scene by scene movie screening, you'd be well within your adulthood, and your body will react just the same as it did when you were eighteen years old when you first heard him speak to you.

You have a person to thank — your fingers constantly wanting to reach for thank you cards at your nearest discount store. The need to thank your friend, Yuta Okkutsu, for asking you to take that English class with him freshman year, sits so heavily on your shoulders that you can't help but almost weep when you see him. Grab his cheeks and give him a kiss that he's always been so desperate to get from you.

But, you don't.

You can't.

He doesn't know about your feelings for the long haired professor who racks your brain every single moment of any given day. He can't know about the way you grip the essays given back to you, squeezing them between your thighs, hoping you'd feel a phantom touch — thinking about how softly his fingerprints brushed against your words. You can't make your friend aware of the eye contact you keep whenever he looks your way in class, his dark eyes taking in your body as you wither and shine under his glare.

So, you take your professor's words, rushed glances, and his scent that you've come to memorize — spending evenings at the mall to find the exact cologne he uses, gathering all the free mini samples you could fit in your purses, and keeping them hidden near your bedside table. Your hands mindlessly reaching for them when you're fighting sleep, bringing the tubes to your nose and envisioning that his body is squeezing next to yours on your twin bed.

Your eyes shutting closed as you drift off into that a state of sleep that only shows you images of him: his hands running through his hair as he reads off a line from a classic; or his back turned, muscles rippling underneath his button up as he writes the names of authors we should know; his eyes tracing your legs as you fiddle in your seat, quickly jumping from the tops of your thighs to where your ankles cross.

You keep these moments to yourself. Have them add up until it breaks the bank of your mind. Geto Suguru flashing against every curve and bump of your brain, easing his way into your nervous system and finding a home in your bloodstream.

He can live there, get comfortable enough to become infused with everything that you are and everything you'd ever be. Your final life goal to be everything to and for him.

But, you thank and let Yuta know about other things — things that still make their way back to your professor, but it's easier and more practical to give your faux gratefulness to him. That first class marks the moment you found your space in your future, finding what you know is meant for you.

The horror of starting college not knowing what to do, relying on the expectations of your parents and their heavy pockets, paying for your future career. The minute you left that first English 101 class, the late summer air dripped you in a sweat that matched the one that dripped between your shoulder blades when Professor Geto asked for your name — wetting your shirt as you dashed to your advisor — immediately changing your major from whatever your father had planned to English.

"Fiction," you sat with your pens perfectly aligned in their pouch. Your eyes take in your professor pacing the front of the class, his steps quiet but felt as if they kissed the floor with a degree of authority. "It is one of the few spaces in the world where a reader or a writer can be everything all at once." He smiled at his own words, and you felt yourself lean forward, ready to swallow whatever else he was about to offer the class, offer you. "You can feel everything, and no one can ever blame you for feeling those things."

Yuta sat to the right of you, his foot tapping in clashes of disorganized bursts. You can feel his boredom creeping from his pores, and on his desk, his need to break into a conversation is so hungry you can't help but get annoyed. You don't turn your head an inch his way, not submitting to his call of engagement — your body and mind captivated by the words flailing above your head and rushing into the ears of all other students in the lecture hall.

"Readers, as well as the artists, typically project meaning into the tiniest of movements," someone behind you lets out a wet cough, the sound echoing like a bullet in an empty room. Professor Geto ignores the sound, ignores the yawns that flutter by, and continues. "The blink of an eye. The curve of a smile. The way someone smells, and how the scent throws you into a moment in time where everything was okay, everything was yours."

"It is all up to us as the artists and the consumers to make it whatever we want it to be." His long hair waves behind him, a random gentle breeze following his steps like a flutter of an angel's wing. The fluorescent lights that usually give you a migraine, forcing you to truck it back to your dorm and sleep for six hours, warm his skin perfectly. Shining on his cheekbone, his chiseled jaw, his relaxed brows.

"Everyone reacts to these spaces differently than the person sitting to the right." Your eyes widen, a hurried sideways glance at your friend, who looked like he was about to doze off into a dreamless nap. "Or the left of you."

You started to feel warm, sweat filling in the gaps between your toes. The room was moving to the left as he walked to that side of the room — your pencils in your pouch, rolling with the new tilt of your world.

"It's why the fusion of obsession and love is such a popular concept in modern and classic writing. Obsession is taboo, but love is normal — it's reached for by every single person in the world regardless of where it may come from."

He pauses, as if he is rethinking his words or he's trying to grasp onto instances where his words seem true in his own life. And right at that moment, you wanted the room to empty and have him finish with only your ears as his witness.

"Do any of you have any examples of books that project obsession as equal to love and vice versa?"

Your hand shoots up before you could settle for an answer — so many books rummaging through your brain catalog. Words from the first books you hid under your bed in elementary school to the ones crowding your current day desk draw across your slow blinking eyelids.

He looks your way, and everything stops. You don't hear Yuta's foot tapping anymore, and you can't make out the heavy breathing of whoever is behind you. You can't even feel the hunger sound of your growling stomach. The only thing moving is your heart beating, faster than it's ever beat before, and his dark eyes that stare into yours.

"Lolita," you rushed out, a wave of lightheartedness rendering you almost unconscious. But you blink through it, keeping his eyes latched to yours and your brain categorizing this moment for a future day. "It's cliche, but-" you stop yourself, offering a halfhearted shrug.

"It's not." His pacing stopped, head tilted to the side as he stared at you. Narrowed eyes settling on your puckered lips and, in a fleeting dance, bouncing around the rest of your body that was visible to him. Goosebumps braised your arms as you watched him 'try' not to watch you.

You couldn't make out his exact emotion then, but later, when replaying this scene in your mind before sleep, his scent wrapped around you — you knew you had it figured out. You knew that he saw you the way you saw him.

He didn't move from your answer, silence, and his observing eye sat loudly in the room. It sat on your shoulders, on the projector behind him — displaying your wide eyes and erratically beating heart. It sat on the corner of his lips, tugging them to give you the smallest but most honest grin you think you ever saw.

It felt like the entire hour had passed by, the lecture coming to its inevitable end before he finally continued to talk.

"People label it as cliche because it's uncomfortable to sit with." He looks away, his attention pulled by someone shifting in their seat before looking at the ground. It's a quick look, like he's bracing his mind for the best words to feed you — words he knows that you'd hang onto.

You wonder if you're making it obvious enough.

"Most people," he paused again, his left hand sliding down the front of his shirt — your eyes trained on that fourth finger. No visible sign of a ring or a tan shaped of one. "Authors', I'm touching on — they usually dress obsession up as love, so that it's easier to accept."

"However, I personally believe that love should be uncomfortable." His voice lowers just a decibel, and you believe he is whispering a secret into your hair.

You shiver, sweat gathering at your hairline as you did a glance to your right — hoping to see that Yuta wasn't aware of the shattering of your earth. All of the pieces tumbling onto the floor and rearranging themselves into a replica of the dark haired man in front of you.

You shot your head back towards him, his eyes found yours again — bright and quick, gone just as fast as they came. His body moves across the front of the class again, jumping to talk about due dates and the syllabus.

But you caught it and found a meaning in it that gnaws on your bones every minute of every fucking day.

Rushed words run across his line of sight — crumpled corners of coffee stained papers and the smell of frat basements penetrates the room. His overused red pen crosses through run on sentences and adds question marks where he can tell the material was lost on the author of the paper. His eyes are dry from the excessive reading he's done this evening, the day slipping from him just as fast as a student's grade slips from them when they get into a new relationship.

He's sitting in his university office, the room tight with years of different interpretations of the words he's shared in the lecture hall a floor below and pleas for passing grades, despite the lackluster work that was handed in. The lights are dimmed, just a lamp over his head to give his eyes guidance to the papers crowding his desk.

He can hear professors shuffling by, dragging their tenure jobs to another night of grading and hoping to win the lottery. Their feet led them to loveless marriages and dreams of new jobs that offer unlimited funds and a great healthcare package. Nanami sighs, the sound weaving from his office just on the other side of the wall, his exhaustion rushing through the shared wall and landing on Suguru's aged shoulders. His button down shirt feels tethered and just as old as the building is.

He can make out the life of the average university student from his window — the distant boom of some presumptuous pop song blasting out of a ratty speaker. Whispered comments about which frat boy fucked who mingle with the notes, the common college qualms hitting his back from the cracked window.

He sighs, loud and long, before drifting back to the stack of papers in front of him. His pen jumping at the thrill of grading, his eyes screaming for a nap, and his knee bumping into the 'secret' cabinet that he has under his desk that homes his bottle of whiskey.

A breeze from the window flaps the pages of the next paper in the pile, the paper in pristine condition — no crumpled corners, a perfect header that consists of the name and class the paper is for. Your name is calling from the header, perfectly spaced and lined for him to read.

Professor Geto stiffens in his seat, hand reaching for the essay with a new speed that's been lost on him since he started grading hours ago. The tiredness that weighed on his eyelids and tacked itself on his broad shoulders eases a bit, his posture straightening as he delves into the ideas that he hopes you spent a night stewing over.

You are one of his most promising students. Your words are as eloquent as the glances you send his way when you think he isn't paying attention. Your slender arm is always up in the air to answer a question, running along your chest when you see that he's giving you his undivided attention to your words. Your essays are always written in the voice of someone wiser than the twenty-something year old he assumes you are. At times, it's as if you pushed your way into his brain and wrote exactly what he was thinking.

He often finds himself thinking back on conversations he has had in class, your thoughts merging with those of his students and saying exactly what he wants to hear — what he hopes that every student has gathered from his tedious lesson plans. He remembers almost all of your answers, and the gleam in your eyes that accompanies it whenever you make sure he's heard it.

There is no denying that Professor Geto Suguru thinks that you, his student for three years, are beautiful. The attraction a fast growing feat that he's learned to swallow down and spread in other ways — complimenting your papers, adding extra notes to your quizzes when he reads the well thought out answer he saw you thinking of on the spot, answering your emails about homework at any hour that your email comes his way.

Noticing that his taboo attraction to his young student might come off as slightly creepy, or in other words, unethical, he relaxed with his glances, making sure his eyes didn't rake over your legs more than twice each class session. Skipping over your raised hand and offering other students a chance to speak their thoughts. Keeping comments on paper minimal, offering you a "good job" every once in a while, and slipping his pen from your paper to his grade book.

But that didn't stop you. He couldn't stop you; he didn't really want to.

A breeze creeps in from the open window, hitting the goosebumps that have started to pebble on the back of his neck and his forearms. A light drip of sweat dusts his hairline, crowding his eyebrows as he starts to try to read whatever it is that you typed.

The words are all hazy, his eyes skipping over every other one, trying to find the actual meaning of them. Looking for your understanding of the simple task, the question that's been wrenching its way into every class conversation. Between books and daily everyday life interactions, it's a subject that he knows students of all ages gravitate to. It is what makes his job easy, as the details and meanings are all right there; they sew themselves in silly one night stands with "fratbros" or with lifelong high school sweethearts who believe that they have found the fountain of undying love.

What is obsession, if not love? Use books we've studied to support your answer!

Your usual hefty papers do not compare to this one floating in front of him. The sheet feels bare; if he wasn't gripping onto it, it might've slipped out of the window and down to the quad behind him. He breathes through his nose, huffing out a stream of confusion as well as untethered tension bubbling in his gut.

It takes him a minute, a long, grueling sixty seconds to realize, in his tired haze and giddy excitement of your words to come, that he's read the same sentence. Twice now.

Three times. Four times. Five times. One quick look, and each line down to the end of the page is the same six words over and over again.

In perfect unison, like you've decided to drop out of school and hunch over a dirty coffee shop table and work your life around these specific words:

Obsession becomes love when it’s seen.

A phone rings in an office near his, and he hears the sound so loudly, he wonders if it's you calling him personally — making sure the lines are delivered to his ear and his alone.

He shuffles in his seat, the chair creaking under his weight; back straightening, left hand gripping the flimsy essay a little too tightly, right hand flat on the desk with the red pen pressing under his palm.

He knows this is bait — your act of defiance acting as a dedication page in a bestselling novel he lazily reached for at his local bookstore. The usual paragraphs of gratitude to husbands and parents lie here as a buried love letter to him, Suguru Geto, Geto Suguru — the English professor at the declining university you just so happened to attend.

It is so obvious that he thinks that's the irony in it. He knows, but he also knows that it is wrong.

He is a man of power — years hovering over you in experience and life. A power of authority that he sometimes is a little too nonchalant with, but it is there, and he knows that you're aware of that. He frequently has to remind himself of it.

He never does forget his place with anyone else… only you. He keeps his voice firm and steady when telling a student crying over a due date that was three weeks ago. He keeps his eyes straight, looking into the eyes of the brains he's educating. He doesn't offer extra compliments on papers or finds himself reaching for their reused hands in a quest to dip into their brain.

But when it comes to you, and your favorite seat situated directly in front of his podium, he is constantly reminding himself of the world that you two live in. Him as your professor, a professional. And you are his student.

Even if you're his favorite one. His star pupil.

He swallows down the lump that has formed in his throat. You repeated the line sitting on his chest, but images of you flashed across his eyelids. A plethora of actions are happening all at once, and he almost forgets that he is in his office. The little office with the lock that doesn't lock and with papers from students from all his courses.

The deep sighs of his neighbor are muted, and the quad outside seems to settle into a quiet expanse of space.

The itch to complain and cross that red pen all over your paper, filling it with question marks and his inked confessions of understanding. His annoyance at your lack of thought, or the game you're trying to win, swings out the window along with the tired sighs and the smells that have accumulated in his room.

He can only focus on the image of your bare, stockingless legs folding over one another. The crotch area of his pants is becoming tighter, and his dick is throbbing in a silent plea to be released from his constraints.

"No," he huffs out firmly. His authority figure reaches out to put him in his place and halt the images of your plumped lips puckering around a pen when you're thinking too hard about an answer. "Fuck."

One glance at the six words again, and a stomach rolling with the heat of guilt and a sexual need that needs to be scratched immediately, his right hand rushes to his leather belt. The red pen rolled behind it and quietly dropped to the stained carpet below his creaky chair. His fingers hurriedly unbuckled his belt, hurried and shameful — as if he wanted everyone in his lectures to be aware of the moment happening right now. The window turns into a projector that plasters his dream of your half-naked body and sweet voice lulling him in with solid answers and shared opinions.

Mind boggling with nothing but your narrowed eyes and the voice screaming at him at how this is wrong, his hand weakly reaches for this hard length. Tip already wet with precum and his fingers finding their home around the girth of his base.

His ears are burning at the tips; he's sure they're as red as the polish you have on your nails. His eyes are bobbing from the doorknob that could be turned any moment, to the paper that started this all, to his hand wrapped around his thick cock. His knee bumps into the cabinet, spilling around his whiskey bottle, and he feels like he hears his morals swimming with the brown liquid. They're laughing at the weakened state of his ethical demise, at the man he claims to be.

"Suguru," his voice stutters as he tries to settle his running mind, the brain grooves leading back to you. His fist starts to twist around his shaft, a slow pace starting from his base, knuckles brushing against his heavy balls before twisting to his swollen tip. His thumb collecting the salty heat of his arousal.

His stomach tightens in anticipation, his release just a few pumps away, and your face inked in the back of his eyelids to help him cross over. But, with a shaky hand and the brewing of disgust festering in his bones, he pauses his movements on his aching cock.

Professor Geto ignores the realization that one, he'd have to fail you for this paper, and search for a reason as to why you’re struggling. And two, he may have crossed a boundary that he'll never be able to step back from.

As of lately, Professor Geto's eyes have been sweeping over you quickly before they divert to another student who mumbles a line straight from the book as an answer. His ears do not tint in color when you give a well thought out answer, reaching for an analytical conversation that would offer you a peek into his brain. His comments on your papers went from lengthy dissertations to single line statements that offer you nothing but proof that he read your name on the top left corner and gave you the grade you deserve.

You feel the world shift left every time you're given a crumb — the desk you sit in bobbing through the course like you're in a paper boat in rocky waters. Land nowhere in sight, your professor is the lighthouse that is calling you to safety — the promise of warmth and light and the stability of the firm ground below your feet.

The room is quiet; the usual clipped whispers from students behind you are muted. The day that shines bright outside the building and shines through the windows doesn't warm your skin the same way your Professor's dodging eyes burn on your skin. He walks away from your seat, walking slowly and gathering the words he is to share with the class — to educate the minds of the people who pay to learn.

You watch with hungry eyes, his back flexing with every step as your desk scoots towards him. Your thighs are on the chair as you try to move your body in any direction where his eyes follow. Body perking up when he turns towards you, walking the opposite way, and into your trap — your panties missing from your outfit and your skirt shorter than it's ever been before.

You had to find a way to get his attention back on you. You've done the well written essays. You've raised your hand with tales of classic literature that you re-read before class to impress him with. You matured yourself to be the woman you believe he needs, not the college student that he sometimes bats his lashes at and smiles too widely at. You find little ways to become a part of his psyche, the way that he's become a part of yours.

It's why you wrote those words in your essay a couple of nights back. Your brain was racking to find a way to call out for him, lure him to the area you know you will spend your life fighting to live in.

Obsession becomes love when it’s seen.

And right now, you're going to do everything in your power to be seen by Suguru Geto.

"We have read many books this semester," his voice oozes into the room, feeling like molten lava in the pit of your stomach. You smile, looking down at your knees before spreading your legs a little wide. The humidity of the room dips between your legs.

"Some focused on the consequences of love and the woes of inevitable damage of devotion."

He stops at his podium, his long hair draping over his shoulders. His eyes drop to your desk, quick and fleeting like he's running from a ghost.

"What is devotion?"

You don't raise your hand. You do not wait for another student to belt out an answer dipped in faux intelligence and remnants of an answer they picked up from Google.

You stare directly at him. "A fixation," your words fly out quickly, like a shooting star you want to wish upon. Sending out a silent ask to the galaxies and constellations for your professor's devotion back.

He finally looks at you, gracing your body with unadulterated attention. The bodies of the students around you become bright blurs, and your chest feels heavy and hollow. You breathe in, smelling his cologne that has wrapped around your sheets and lingers in your hair.

Hooded eyes clouded with an emotion you don't believe you've ever seen from him. His jaw tight, locked to keep his eyes on yours — no movement to inch down your chest to the smoothness of your thighs and the buckle of your knees.

"And from what book or definition are you grabbing this answer from?"

"Lolita," you nod at him, and he swallows. "And Wuthering Heights," you finish, smiling at yourself as you lead him astray.

You don't give him time to respond, to ask you any more questions. You straighten yourself in your seat; back straight, arms folded on your chest, giving your breasts a more plump look.

"Catherine doesn't love Heathcliff in a common sense." Your voice is steady, fingers shaky under your arms. You can feel your fingertips rub against the material of your thin shirt. " She becomes him. There isn't a line of separation between the definition of love and the definition of a fixation."

Someone coughs from the back of the class, bringing you back to the lecture hall. Your professor is staring at you from his perch at the front of the room. His eyes are still fighting every call to look down from your eyes to your body.

"However, I believe there is joy in it. There isn't a choice. Cathy lets herself be taken over by her emotions for her lover."

His eyes flicker, darken under the lights shining so brightly against the halo of his head. His hands grip the edges of the podium, knuckles turning white as if he is gripping the words that want to slip out of his mouth and into yours.

"And in Lolit-," he cuts you off.

"Do you still find it to be a cliche?"

And your world seems to be offering you grace and love. An answer that you gave him years ago is still on his mind, living in his opinions of you, as everything he does lives in you.

"No," you shake your head, teeth gnawing on your bottom lip as you try to hide the smile inching up your lips. "Didn't you state it's labeled a cliche because of the uncertainty of its nature?"

You lean forward, elbows now pressing into the desk. He breathes slowly out his nose, and you think you can feel the breeze dusting your knees like a gentle kiss.

"Shoko," he calls from his podium at the front of the class. Multiple pairs of eyes land on him, ready for him to continue. Finishing the little private lessons you squeezed out of him, however, he can only feel yours, feel your stare burn onto his face.

Suguru was well aware of what you were trying to do.

He likes to take pride in knowing that he's always a few feet ahead of the people he's dealing with. Prepared for what they might do, say, or react to him in whatever form he offers the space for them to do so.

From feet away, he senses the way you shift in your seat, purposefully. Your legs opening up in swift movement, your mini skirt inching up higher than what is deemed appropriate in a school setting.

His throat dries up, and he feels as if you two swapped ages. You're aged and experienced in making him crumble, and he's the kid who just crept out of his teenage years, who is still too scared of the world. The inexperienced adult who is trying to act older than he truly is.

"You'll lead the rest of class," he says, looking at his teaching assistant, her shoulders perpetually relaxed — no care in the world, no knowledge of the miniature battle of tension happening between her mentor and a student that's more her peer than his. "I have papers," his hand waves at the stack of already graded papers sitting high on the podium, "to grade, and-," his eyes flutter away from Shoko, finding their way back to you.

Grinning, almost shyly — as if you're trying to play coy in this undisclosed game. You keep eye contact, your pupils dilating under the too bright fluorescent lights above. A shimmer in them, as if you're aware of where you have placed him. As if you know what he did in his office a few days ago.

"Professor," you call out, your voice sweet but almost chilling. "Shoko is asking you a question."

"I heard," he lies. He hasn't heard a word from anyone but you. Your voice is living in the step of his feet and the swing of his arms. The faces of students morphing into different versions of you, your face in every corner he tries to turn to.

He can make out a mumble, a distorted sound that doesn't make any sense to him.

"So," your voice rings loud and clear. "Answer."

"Yes."

"Yes?" Shoko's voice finally clears into the space. "You want me to go over the classifications in which classics use physicality to make space for the confusion of obsession and love?"

"Sure,"

He's moving, hands reaching for the papers. The sheets felt heavy in his arms. His pants are feeling tight around his belt. His legs are leading him towards you, kind of like a pirate to a siren. His eyes slipped towards the shadows at the top of your thighs, the soft skin glistening under the light.

Behind him, Shoko is shuffling behind him to take his space. Students huffing out in boredom, their minds drifting to what party they can get drunk at later, not at the event happening in their faces.

Not looking at you, inches away from your desk, as he tries to make his way from you.

"See me after class," he whispers, sure that you've heard him. Sure that he'd find you where he wants you later.

You're standing in front of the oak door. Suguru Geto was engraved on the wood in perfect script. Your fingers almost shakily trace the letters to solidify this moment and be another thing that you'll feel when you're falling asleep with the smell under your nose and his name on your tongue.

Your knees bump into each other, the nerves of being alone in a closed off room with your obsession settle low in your gut. Your thighs pressing into each other, the absence of your panties acts almost as a saving grace from how hot you're feeling.

"You can come in," he calls from the other side of the door. Bodies of students running to other classes and meetings with advisors rush behind you. But it feels as if everything happening in front of you is moving in slow motion, that line that you're about to cross, throwing you into a forever — what you'd been hanging on to since this obsession started.

Softly, your fingers wrap around the doorknob, twisting ever so lightly before opening the door. You're greeted with your professor standing by his window, his arms folded against his thick chest. His eyes were low, staring at the door as if he had been in this exact position since he had asked you to come after class.

You steady your voice, swallowing down the lump of excitement in your throat. "Professor?" Shuffling in, having the heavy door shut behind you as you make quick steps into his space.

Books line the walls, old stories watching this moment unfold in real time. Papers litter his desk, red ink lining the words and definitions from your peers. The window behind him is cracked open, the sunlight creeping in and shining amongst his slender body and his firm stance.

You stand in front of his desk. A bag heavy on your shoulder, books from his lectures weighing you down. You currently do not know what to say; words are lost as you stare at the beautiful man in front of you.

"Are you okay?" He steps away from the window, a small step towards you. His scent is creeping into the small space between you two.

You tilt your head, watching him. Your bag is dropping onto the chair across from his at his desk. "Do I not seem okay?" You shrug, feeling the weight of the previous class discussion and the classics wiggle off your shoulder.

"Your latest essay seems to offer a different insight."

"I was trying something new."

"New?" A chuckle rumbles from his chest, and it shoots straight in between your thighs. "Or attention grabbing?" And at this moment, you are aware that he has been depriving you of his attention. He has been holding off on his extra long comments and his heavy stares that trace every movement you fluidly make for him to grab on to.

Your stomach rolls in a knot, knees hitting each other as you try to find the balance to stay standing tall and straight for his studious gaze. His lips ticked up in a gentle, but teasing grin — an action that doesn't match the heat that's growing in his eyes. He thinks this is funny, and you know that this is turning into something you will never turn from.

"Well," you walk just an inch closer. Your feet feel like you're floating instead of taking actual steps that kiss the stains on the carpet that is probably older than you. "Did it grab yours?"

You find the confidence to move even closer, get into his space, and make a home in the air that he is breathing in so easily. You circle his desk, body brushing his on your way over. A buzz of fire lightning in your arm that was able to touch him. You almost double over, feeling lightheaded and tired at the moment.

"I can fail you," he turns his head to the side to watch you, his hair moving in the movement of where you're leading him. He's still standing just a few feet away from you. His hands were still folded against his chest, catching the soft breaths he was breathing in and out.

"Oh," you perch yourself up on his desk. Your ass is sitting on the edge. Papers crumbling under your hands, the sound loud compared to your breathing. Some nervousness is creeping up your spine as you realize how they can affect your future, just how tricky this act is becoming.

"Unless," he hums. In one quick moment, he's in front of you. His steps are quiet and predatory as he stands tall, blinking down at you. His hands are gripping the head of his chair, slowly pulling it away from where your legs dangle. One of his hands brushes against your knee. His skin kisses yours, and slick slips between your folds and pools between your thighs. You wonder if it'll be enough to wet any of the papers crowding his desk.

"Unless?"

"What are you willing to do to not fail?"

"Anything you want me to do." You widen your thighs, mini skirt rolled up past the top of your thighs. Your bare cunt is wet with arousal that's been slipping between your lips since the class session some time ago. He lets out a stuttery breath, his eyes dropping from your face to the mess that's in between your legs.

"Show me," he pushes himself closer, his knees touching yours. One hand braced on the desk near your thigh, and the other balled up in a fist, balanced on your knee. His restraint is still holding on like a golden medal, but you know it's slipping. You know he wants you in all the ways that you want him. "Show me what I do to you," his voice is low, so low that you believe you two are the only people in the world at that moment.

You're nervous. The severity of the newfound freedom of having another man, your professor, be the one between your legs looking at your virgin sex rushes through you like a bullet. Your fingers quickly inch down the slope of your belly and hover over the heat of your cunt.

You swallow, long and hard. Your eyes jump from where his body presses into yours. Knees bucking into the skin of his slacks, his crotch is becoming tight — stretching against the thickness of his thighs, to where your index finger follows the line of your cunt and gets wet with your essence. Your slender finger pauses at the nub of your clit, feeling the throbbing of your tension and his stare.

"How long have you been waiting to do this?"

You sweep your index finger back down, fingertip tapping at your tight entrance that's gushing around the heat of the room. "I-," before you can offer him a solid answer, you slip your finger into your tight cunt, head falling back against your shoulders as you let out a mewl of surprise at the wetness you're feeling.

"Fuck," one fluid movement once more, and he's dropping to his knees. Face inches away from where your soaked cunt lies bare for him, your finger wiggling in your hole, back arched to offer him full view of your folds inked in arousal made by him.

Your elbow kisses the desk, head heavily rolled forward so you can stare down at him with hazy, wide eyes and your lips swollen from your teeth sinking into them. "Spread them for me," he whispers, face moving closer, your thighs awaking, starting to close, hiding away from the man, bringing his wet lips closer to your cunt. One of his hands grips your thigh. Keep your left leg wide enough to offer him enough space to move even closer. Your chest rising and falling rapidly, no words roaming in your brain to call out and send his way. Your finger, still in your cunt, your juices gushed around the intrusion. "My star pupil."

You moan, soft and breathy. Your finger slips out of your drenched pussy and meets your middle finger. Your two fingers are rubbing up between your folds and spreading your lips wide for him to peek at your cunt. His face is moving closer, the top of his head the only thing visible to you. His hand leaves his fingerprints on your thigh, his other hand missing between your bodies, fumbling where his cock kisses the zipper of his pants.

He moves your hands, placing them on your thighs. Your slick feeling cold on your hot thighs. You feel dizzy and like a brand new woman, your spirit watching you from above head as your professor leans forward and places his tongue right at your leaking entrance.

His warm tongue laps at the slick spilling from your cunt, a zap rushing from where his mouth meets your warmth. Your back arches, pushing you closer and causing his nose to bump into your folds.

"Professor," you whisper, your hands gripping at the papers under you, not knowing where to go. What to touch, how to react as he devours your cunt as if he's been starved for years.

He nods into you, his nose nudging your swollen clit. His tongue slipping from your clenching core and running up, flicking between your wet folds and suckling at your clit as it throbs his name in Morse code.

You're almost seeing white, head feeling airy and empty. Arms feeling loose like spaghetti, fingers clumsily feeling the words of essays on the lines of your palms. His head confined its movements, his mouth feasting upon your pussy.

You could die right here. Not only lose your right to breathe, drifting in the space between heaven and here, but you could also reincarnate into every living thing that Geto Suguru will ever come in contact with in his life.

You’ll be the birds that tweet sweet words when he’s drinking his morning coffee, you’ll be the plants in his bathroom, absorbing the humidity of the hot shower he stacks under as he pumps himself to release.

You hope to God that the image of him between your legs is the image that plays against his eyelids when he wraps his hand around his cock.

"I'm not teaching you anything," he mumbles against your folds. His chin is leaking with your slick, and his tongue is roaming every crevice of your cunt.

Your chin kisses your chest, eyes lasered on his rapid movements between your thighs. "G-geto," his tongue dips back into your entrance, your walls clamping around him as he curls to hit that sweet spot you were not aware of. "Oh, my God."

He lifts himself, hair slightly messy. Chin is dripping with a mix of your juices and his slavia. You stare at him, eyes tired but hungry to keep this very image of your professor locked in your brain for the rest of your life.

One of his hands is still gripping your hip, pulling you closer to his body. His chest pressing into yours, foreheads melting into each other as his wet mouth brushes against your swollen lips. "You taste just how imagined," he breathes into you. Your body, jerking from the heat of his words. His free hand fumbling between your bodies as he starts to unbuckle his pants, belt cold against your belly. "Open your mouth for me, little minx."

You do, no questions asked. Looking up at him from your damp lashes. Your tongue runs across your bottom lip. He leans forward, his mouth puckered. His mouth hanging above you, a thick, hot wad of spit falling from his mouth onto your flat tongue.

Your mouth closes immediately, throat swallowing the taste of you and him. Your chest is hot under the nastiness that's being thrust upon you, shyness out the window, and nothing but pure awe sent your professor's way.

You feel the hardness of his shaft pressing into your wet thigh. "Prof— Geto," you pull closer, body chasing after the heat you're sure to come. You don't look down, a chill dusting your shoulders as you don't want to see just how big he is. "Go slow?"

"You're a virgin?" He stops moving, his voice soft. Eyes locked on yours. His shirt disheveled, hair a mess, and his face shining so brightly you almost cover your eyes.

"I was waiting," you mumble, suddenly shy and tired. Looking away at where his hands wrap around the girth of his length and line up at your awaiting entrance. "For you."

"Fuck," he loses himself for a minute, the boyish nature that every man has slips out of him as he excitedly gets ready to mark his claim on the virgin in front of him. You shudder, eyes still following the stains on the carpet that lead their way to where the window lets in a gentle springtime breeze and the sounds of regular college students living the lives their parents expected them to. "I'll try to."

He's so close you can feel the sweat that's gathering under his button down shirt. The ends of his hair curl over your shoulder. The tip of his cock is kissing your entrance, getting wet from the amount gushing out of your cunt.

He stares at you, his face stretched with a dozen emotions floating from his chest. His restraint slips as his eagerness carries to a higher degree. He grips your waist, pulling you down as his cock plunges into your pussy — slowly, a burn growing in your gut.

Your mouth opens, but no sounds come out. Your hands reaching for his shoulders to grab him closer, pushing him deeper into your tight hole.

He shivers under your touch, his hands reaching from your hips and grabbing at your flimsy t-shirt — bunching it above your breasts in the process.

The room is filled to the brim with breathy whispers of each other's names, the slap of skin. The plashing of his dick thrusting into your gripping hole, mingles with the stomps of people running outside and students complaining about classes.

Every move of his hips, push of his cock, his swollen tip kissing your cervix whenever he pushed in to the hilt made you see stars, your thighs curling along his slacked pants.

"You're killing me," he moans, his voice wrecked. He almost didn't sound like himself. He grabs at one of your tits, palm stretched across your bra-clad breast. His hips are driving deeper into the slippery escape between your legs. "Your looks, these fuckin' skirts," he bucks into you pretty roughly, a saccharine moan slipping out of your mouth and fanning against his cheekbones.

"Do you think of me the way I think of you?" You whisper, voice breaking after every word. Your cunt clenching around him, making it harder for him to pull out whenever he tried to move in rhythm. His balls slapping the skin of your ass, cock crushing whenever you pushed closer to here the was fucking into you.

He doesn't offer you a verbal response. His gorans acting as his words as his body slaps into yours, his cock plunges in and out of your slippery cunt. Your slick staining your thighs, the red pen marks on the papers below you, smudging his thoughts and his morals. Your legs hook behind him to keep him closer, making you feel him as deeply as you always envisioned you'd feel him.

"I love you." You whisper, head falling in the crook of his neck. His body stiffening from the confession, a croak of a sound escaping from his lips before you feel the warmth of his cum shoot inside of you. Your heart is blooming from the closeness, this acts as, and his head is reeling from the thoughts that must be dancing in your head.

His hips move slowly, a whine following his movements. His hand balled on the paper slips between your conjoined bodies. His length slipping out of your heat, his tip smearing coats of thick white excess cum on your inner thighs. His chest still pressing into yours, his lips pressing rushed kisses on your shoulder blade.

You shiver from the loss of his stretch, his reaction not easy to figure out as you don't have any time to swallow away your moans. Two of his thick fingers immediately pump into your cunt, the squelch of his cum being pushed back into your sloppy cunt. Your eyes shut closed, hands wrapping around his neck as you try to pull your body into his, feeling the tiredness that's settling in his bones and the questions that he wants to rush out in your ear.

He is slow with his movements. His fingers curling whenver he pumps all the way in, knuckles grinding against your cum painted walls.

Your professor pulls back, shock drawn all over his features. His eyebrows almost touching his hairline, sweat dripping down his temples. You can feel the tone shift, the way his hand is gripping your thigh so tightly that you almost yelp into his ear. The fingers that were moving in your tight cunt pause, your walls fluttering around him like a butterfly kiss. You scoot your hips up, wanting his fingers to be deeper into your sopping hole.

"I don't think you do," his voice cracks, the sound loud in your right ear. His breath fanned across your shoulder blades and the top of your plump tits. "This is wrong," and it sounds like he is trying to convince himself more than he's trying to convince you.

Your fingers gently play with the ends of his hair, which is tickling your arm. A smile tugging at your lips, sweat slipping between the valley of your breast and down the navel of your belly. Landing where his fingers are still stretching you out, a thick coat of white rings around his thick digits. "Does it feel wrong?" Your voice has the same vibrato that you carry in class, the nervousness gone and trashed along with your virginity. "And if it did, would you stop?"

When Dad doesn't want to cook, they find themselves here — basking in the lonely sanctuary Geto keeps when his favorite daughter isn't around. The twins are… about. In, and out of the front door to meet friends in town, but not without stopping in to run for items and to say goodbyes they forgot to grab. Megumi thinks they're both grating and unfamiliar. So much so that he hardly regards them. They're nothing like you — not carrying on your prose or poise when they exist around him. They just don't exist for him, and that's not what Megumi is used to.

Still, he enjoys your Dad well enough. The conversation is short and focused on him, his after-school plans, and the news of the new Prime Minister. Still, Megumi can't just sit next to him and swallow down the obvious — the one thing keeping their string connected through the coldness. "Have you heard from her?"

"Mm," Geto swallows over his scalding sip of tea — lips cherry red with the lingering heat. Then, he smiles and chuckles like he was waiting for this, reaching up to tuck some hair behind his ear. "I was ready to ask you the same thing."

"I have a friend in Tokyo who does some pretty good work in Martial Arts." Geto hums out his words like he's offering the boy song lyrics instead of opportunity. "He's been my little spy on her for the past few days… But he is a shitty one — pardon me."

Megumi laughs a bit, sitting back in the rickety, hand-woven bamboo. Vaguely, across the tatami, they hear footsteps close in. Heavy ones that they don't have to place, because a second later, Toji's head slips from the open doors. He's smiling like he just walked into a confessional — two overflowing plates of flayed fish with all of their expertly doted-on sides being his heavy white flag.

Suguru sits up, ease painted all over his once-tense face. "Now, doesn't that look delicious?"

"Ah— you made it."

"Which is why it looks so delicious, mm? Here, Fushiguro." Suguru takes the plate handed to him and hands it off, bowing in Toji's direction. "Thank you, Zen'in, for—

"Don't even finish your sentence." Toji holds the other plate out for him deftly — looking over his shoulder like a mere passing glance was too much to give the man who slaved over his dinner.

"Pull up a chair, won't you? You can unroll the futon—

"Not letting you finish that one, either," Toji mumbles as he walks back into the house, sweatpants dragging behind his bare feet. He grumbles all the way back to the kitchen, more than satisfied to pick at the fish carcass and drink Geto's beer while he talks to the kid. On the TV, the horse race drones on invisibly, backing the quiet chews and the click in his aging jaw.

"Thank you for the meal."

Suguru nods, crossing his knees as he sits back in his chair, leaning over to pick at his hearty dinner, but more interested in the conversation Megumi seems to want to hold. Through closeness and years, easy conversation like this is rare. "Anyhow, Satoru is a fine martial artist. I believe he specializes in Judo, but he dabbles in quite a bit. Kenjutsu is another one of his strengths."

Megumi doesn't give up eye contact, polite and hesitant to poke at his food with this harsh, authoritative figure hovering so close. There is no you to shield Megumi from your father's all-seeing gaze, just the chirp of the evening crickets and the low hum from the outdated box television just inside. But, when Geto mentions something about sword-wielding, his eyes catch the glimmer of the moonlight, shooting up as he takes in a small flake of roasted fish.

It's… stupid, just a hobby he entertains in his elective course, but Geto knows. He helped Toji commission Megumi's first Katana when he left for school. Since then, he's always kept it in the back of his heart for his daughter's favorite.

So, he continues, "No harm in taking a few courses while you're out for the summer, mm? Free of charge?"

"You want me to do it there? In Tokyo?"

"Well, I just assumed you'd be happy to be with her for a weekend. Surely you and Okkotsu can find something nice to do while the girls are enjoying themselves." Suguru continues eating away at his dinner, stopping to chew pristinely. "Just an idea." He doesn't forget to add — turning his tone into something pitchier than his everyday, calculated drawl. "The girls and I were thinking… Well, we were deciding whether to still take our vacation up there this summer. Of course, we wouldn't dream of imposing, so I would rather offer it to you."

Megumi doesn't know what to say. Or, rather, he doesn't want to say it. "She left for Tokyo, and I haven't heard from her since." The topic has been sitting unsaid on his chest for a while — something he's been shouldering down in favor of the eerie calm your absence seems to hold. "So, I think she's okay without me."

"Fushiguro…" Suguru's voice softens into something fatherly and gentle, petting the kids back, a way he had to learn after the loss of his wife. He's become so empathetic to human nature, now, that he's sure he could cry on cue. "Would you let me give you some advice on my daughter?"

Megumi doesn't answer, so Suguru gives it anyway. "She needs structure." He starts, stopping at the perfect second to scoop a bite of food into his mouth. He chews gracefully, then continues. "The only way I will ever see her, or get her to do anything, is if I orchestrate it."

"I think she's just that way with you."

Suguru shakes his head like it's the easiest thing ever. "Not when she waits by the phone all day, awaiting your invitation to the lake or into town. There is no dominant bone in her body — that kid."

Megumi chuckles, because he doesn't know what else to do. He knows that Suguru is right, and he hates that he's right. That pitiful, soft-spoken way you get about yourself is suffocating, but he'd never relay that to your Dad — your best friend.

"If you won't do it for her, do it for me… please."

 So, Megumi gets on the train the next day, and it's all so stupid.

He didn't agree right away. In fact, he let it simmer and sizzle all night while he rested his head over the situation. Of course, it didn't sit right with him, but he wanted to try. After a morning searching high and low, he discovered that the running rates with one of the highest-acclaimed Martial Artists in Tokyo were far higher than what his Dad takes home in a month. They're luxe — exclusive and showy, just like the bright-haired, smiling face on the business website.

Gojo Satoru — 6th Dan Black Belt 20+ active service years. Multifaceted.

15-minute onboarding lesson - ¥380000 30-minute lesson (weekly) - ¥150000 45-minute lesson (weekly) - ¥153000 60-minute lesson (weekly) - ¥168000

So he agrees, even if it's only for a few shoddy credits that he can put towards his career, hopeful for a life in the city that lets him nurse his hobbies. It's what he studies so hard for, and the six figures staring back at him in blue light last night didn't lie.

Megumi packs that morning, then calls Geto to take him up on the offer. In fact, he overpacks for the two or three days he's expecting to stay, though Geto offered him a week. It felt like he was intruding on the handout enough as it is — never mind his apprehension about being in such a city alone.

The train ride feels like a ritual, and the walk to the hotel accommodation is like a knife to the gut. He's tried to get in contact with you, but his messages don't go through — he can't find you on social media, but it doesn't ever cross his mind that you would block him. It's not in your nature, you two are attached at the hip if he lets you get close enough, so surely you should come running back to him with open arms… right?

The room is dark, save for the moody recessed lighting that creates a shadow over his nose, casting a color block in his shape against your skin. You can't even pretend to pay attention to whatever mindless, old anime is playing on the screen — he's been balancing sweet snacks on your lower belly and down your bare, sticky legs and licking them off. With each cheeky bite, he counts off, using a single number to track the serving size, deciding the one he just bit off your skin is lucky number eighteen.

"That tickles." You whisper in passing, reaching for your phone to distract your attention away. He's being tempting on purpose, knowing how easy you are and how long of a day he's had at work.

"Put that phone down, or I'll smash it to pieces." He hums around a sticky, fruity chew, dipping and letting his lips smooch at the skin leading into the simple cotton of your panties. You don't answer, blinking tiredly against the dimmed blue lights as you scroll through numbing text threads. "Hm? Don't be like that."

"What did you mean when you said that at lunch?" You finally gather the nerve to peek over your metal shield and stare down into his shadowed gaze, framed by wispy white hair that's fallen from his descent on your body. "To Higuruma-san?"

"What did I say? About the licensure? I assumed you just weren't listening." He goes back to plopping tiny candies on your skin, counting nine before blinking up at you again. "Don't be like that… What? A couple of big men made you feel small?"

Then you go to withdraw, folding your legs and pulling your shirt down as your smirk fades into a straight look of annoyance. Your top lip twitches as he sits up with you, a hand over the back of his mouth as he gains his bearings.

"You can't be serious, kid."

"You're such a dick."

"Yeah? That's what you need — doing all of that damn mumbling around…" He lies back down in the spot you kept warm, pressed up against the huddle of pillows you love to steal from him in the night. Satoru can't lie and say that he hasn't felt your energy shift since getting back home, but it's been too subtle to comment on. Now, you're showing your age by running from communication instead of giving it to him. "Stop with the mumbling. I can't help you if I can't hear you."

"Even if you heard me, there's nothing you can say to change my mind. So, it's just stupid." You shout, shoulders flying up as you make your way to his bathroom to get some space, if only for a second. You leave the door open only by a crack. Something inside of you just doesn't feel right, shutting him out like this. So, you hide. "So just forget I brought it up, it's so fucking stupid…"

A few tense seconds pass. Satoru sits up, blinking stars out of his eyes, moving his collection of snacks back to the nightstand. He wants to stand up and chase you back into his arms, knowing it'd work well enough to reel you back in. But, as he goes to stand, he can't help but shake his head, muttering just loud enough for you to hear, "You know, you can really act like your mother sometimes."

Your heart stills, the shadow of the echo hitting your ribcage as you stand, shellshocked, on the other side of the bathroom door. His footsteps are heavy, and so is his touch as it falls upon the doorknob. Time doesn't move — you don't really think about anything, because you can't deal with it. Everything you've ever known about your late mother was condensed into girlish yearning and a single picture your Dad kept in his bedroom. She has always been a ghost, never to be spoken about.

"Baby girl," He whispers, hands sliding blindly against the wall as he searches for a switch. "You're just standing in the dark? I'm sorry."

"W-why would you say that… about my Mom?" You instinctively take a step forward as he pushes against the door, arms crossed over your chest like you're shielding your heart from information that you're not ready for. Tears haven't fallen yet, but your eyes burn like they're about to.

Stepping in behind you, flipping the switch so that the room is engulfed in white, bright flames, Satoru doesn't say much. "What do you mean?"

"I'm…" You scoff, eyes burning red and heavy as you walk forward, making the space between you two more manageable. He can't reach out, and you don't want to see that kicked-puppy expression right now. "H-how am I acting like her? Why would you even say that?"

"I'm sorry you—

Satoru steadies himself, his light brows knit together. A chuckle gets lost in the room before he continues, shaking his head. "Sorry, I figured your Dad told you — we all went to the same University."

You're struck silent, staring straight into the wall with your knuckles between your teeth.

"And I mean, she was a girl to write home about, hm?" He offers, treading gently — slowly. He approaches you from behind, closing his hands over your shoulders gently. "Looked just like you, so gentle and beautiful like you are, my girl."

"I don't want you to talk about her."

"Why? It's no good to run from the truth. Your Dad is notorious for doing so, but it doesn't mean that you have to." His voice is even and gentle, knowing you're nothing but a festering, open wound when it comes to letting him in. You two know not to talk about Dad — God forbid you bring up your Mom, and now he knows. Still, all he wants is for you to listen to him, maybe just take what he's saying into account, so you could actually start to heal from a lifetime of half-truths. "Let me in."

"S-shut up, stop." You plead, voice curling around the edges as he turns you around, pulling you into his chest in an embrace that makes you feel so unbelievably small.

"Noooo," He smiles, huge hands rubbing up and down your back, bunching your soft shirt so his hands can slip against your skin. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay? Do you forgive me?"

"I just don't want to talk about it." You whisper, throat singing and raw as you try to give him words you know you can't hold in your chest forever. "I don't want to talk about that at all."

"Let Daddy in." He purrs against the shell of your ear, licking over the fuzzy silver jewelry you keep there. It tickles — you shiver, thighs rubbing together as you finally wrap your arms around him, starting low on his waist, letting your nails dig into the hard, toned skin. Satoru likes that, smiling against your body, kissing you again, and reaching behind you to squeeze your ass. He peeks over your shoulder so he can watch the way your simple, cotton panties get lost between the swell of your cheeks.

You want to cuss him out — know that you should, and run for the hills so you can cry to your best friend, but his grip holds you hostage, keeping you exactly where he wants you. In a way, you're trapped, but you're doing nothing to free yourself from this situation, so you relax. "Don't… say that. Are you crazy?"

"For you? Yeah?" He grunts, clawing at a handful of your precious ass before raining a smack against the unsuspecting skin. You squeal, jumping to the tips of your toes, grip digging in his bare skin with a vengeance. Against your tummy, you can feel the hard, aching length of his cock dig into your flesh — a sign, and the only one you need. You shiver, knowing there's nothing you want more right now than the brunt of his need.

"C-can we do it… Nice this time? Wanna have s-sex with you, but I wanna try—

Satoru doesn't let you finish; he lets your lewdly dipped words run down his spine like lava, erupting some corrupted part of his soul that wants to do the exact opposite of what you asked for, just to make you cry. "Want me to teach you how to make love? Nice 'n slow?"

You nod breathlessly, hands trailing up to his shoulders, where they grab as he walks you out of the bathroom. The entire way to the bed, he's in your ear, chuckling, licking, and whispering small phrases of endearing words that he knows will lower you into a dripping pile of want.

Again, you're so easy. It's easy to fall back into his arms after he spikes your blood. It's easy to rely on the feeling of his touch as it crosses his skin, as if he owns it. It even makes you smile as his voice tickles your soul, whispering, "Gonna fuck your little pussy like I love you." He spanks your ass again, reddening the other cheek.

You gasp, humming into his mouth as his words lead into a sensual kiss, carrying you all the way to the side of the bed. He lingers, the backs of his legs pressed against the wood as his lips focus on your jawline, sucking harshly, leaving little marks on the sensitive, paper-thin skin. In a burst of courage, you take the reins, pushing him onto the mattress and climbing over his lanky body before he can comment.

You sit your ass right down on his bulge, grinding your hips into the hardness, letting it slip right into that little space against your core. He can feel the heat you're exuding for him, head tossed back as you grind back down on him. "Touch me," You mewl, reaching down to grab his thick forearm, leading it against your clothed chest, and down to your tummy. Satoru's touch is big and warm — inviting and opening you up to all of his little quirks and nuances.

"Pretty baby," He replies, breathless as he blinks up at you. Satoru takes control of the arm you grabbed, leading his fingers to your bitten lips. "Suck 'em, sweetie…"

You reach for his wrist, wrapping both hands around his veiny limb, rubbing it gently as you lead two fingers into your mouth. Satoru's digits are salty and almost metallic — beaming with the afterglow of the light switch and sweetness. You hum around them, circling your hips like you're a professional concubine, reeling him in with little to no skill or strength. You can see it in his face when you blink down at him — how his thin, sunken eyes sparkle with something darker than lust. Satoru wants to possess you. He wants you on a leash within arm's length at all times, and he wants people to know. You're just so attractive to him — that naive look in your eye, and the tiny shake in your body as you try to seduce him. It all adds up to the perfect sequence of foreplay, needing to reach out and physically stop your hips when he swears he's about to soil his briefs.

"No more," He orders so naturally that it makes you weak. Since telling him how dominant you needed him to be that first time, he's never let that fall or falter. He grabs you and pulls you into place, gives piercing looks when you speak out of line, and commands you with words unsaid. You're constantly ready for him — singing in the core of your stomach whenever he just exists around you.

"Gonna cream my pants, just looking at you." He grunts, lifting his hips from the mattress and taking you with it. You gasp, falling over to your side so he can crawl over your body, taking it slow, but treating you with force. He flips you to your stomach and props your hips up.

"Will you let me cum inside?" He mumbles it in passing like it's the most casual collection of words he's ever touched. Satoru rises to his knees behind your propped body, smiling as you settle face down, ass up. He tugs at your panties, admiring the way the soft fabric sticks to your warm arousal, darkening around your slit and peeling away in strings of want. He guides you out of the pair, one foot followed by the next, with a strong hand over the small of your back. "Want to give it to you, baby."

"Give it to me." You slur, too taken and horny for your mind to even put this situation into perspective. You bury your face into the sheets, breathing out, wanting, determined breaths from your nose as he spreads you open, smiling at the mess he sees behind his favorite pair of thighs.

He brings the panties he stole from you to his nose, breathing heavily into the soiled want, smiling as the savory afterglow hits the back of his nose. It's like he can taste you in the spit he has to swallow down, raw and real — he's elated. "You taste as sweet as you are." He hums, moving the panties to his lips, sucking and licking at the crotch, humming obscenely as he fishes his rock-hard erection from his shorts.

Your cunt is winking at him, puffy and sensitive as you fiddle and writhe against the sheets. "P-please…" You mutter, pushing your ass back on him like it'd get you closer to the truth. "I want it so bad."

"Fucking risky," His words are muffled against the fabric of your underwear as he strokes his leaking cock against your entrance, letting it sit heavily across your sopping pussy, just teasing you for the inevitable. "But, mm— your hole was made for breeding."

You go to speak, but the only thing that comes out is a hard, uncomfortable moan as you feel him push past your quivering hole. He starts easy at first, needing to collect his composure as he feels your heat wrap around him like a glove. He groans into your panties, both hands situated at your hips, squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your ass. His cock bends with the tightness of your being, and the pressure makes him fucking feral. His blood is running hotter than it's ever been, and he knows he can't last like this.

But when he looks down and sees the way your hole is struggling to take him, he blacks out. With a stutter of his hips and a deep growl, Satoru tosses his head back and cums faster than he ever has — grip bruising and hips shivering as he pumps you to the brim with his load before he can even get inside of you.

Surprised, yet oddly taken, you squeak and lift your head, trying to look back on his shirtless, tall figure, but coming up short when your neck can't bear the awkward stretch of the maneuver. He fills you up, and that's exactly what it feels like — you feel overwhelmingly full, like your belly is on fire, and it just keeps pumping. He whines and groans against every spurt, cursing against your name and inhaling traces of your sweet cunt in the underwear he's sucking on like a soothing device.

When he finishes, he pinches off the base of his cock, stroking off the shaft not buried inside of you like he's milking himself dry. His essence is already leaking out of your hole — bubbling and nasty, mixing with arousal and dripping down into the sheets. "Oh, baby— fuck, I just came so hard."

"'m so full,"

"I know, baby doll." He grunts, tossing your soaked panties behind him. He pulls himself back together inside of you, slowly pushing his hips deeper, forcing more of his pearly white seed out in a ring around his pale cock.

"U-uncomfortable," You moan, shifting so you can bury your head back in the sheets. You whine and buck forward every time he pushes deeper, tears burning your eyes as you try to get used to the foreign feeling. "So—oooo deep," You rub your feet together, propped by your joined knees, and the pressure rushes straight to your toes. Overwhelmed, you twirl and flex them together.

Satoru stares and admires the sight like he's in love — blue eyes sparkling, pink lips parted as his cock pushes in even deeper. Arousal-soaked cum leaks and pools from your hole, and it's so lewd that he needs to reach for this again. He can't let his memory go astray.

"W-where's your phone?" He calls you out through the intimacy by name, slapping down on your left cheek like it'd bring you back to reality. Under him, you're struggling to take it all, forehead pressed to your crossed forearms, sweat beading at your brow.

"Don't know — Mmf, on t-the thing."

"What thing?"

"The be- ah, fuck! Mm, I don't know."

Satoru shakes his head, deeming you a useless pile of need as he quickly feels and glances around his immediate space for any sign of a recording device — yours or his. Still, he knows he doesn't keep his phone around, and yours is always glued to your hip. "Need you to see this… Fuck, it's so sexy."

You hum, experimentally rocking your hips back into him, then gasping and withdrawing as he feels around for the phone. After a few seconds, he finds it, already knowing your passcode, and presses against the homescreen and all your new-gen apps for that familiar little camera icon in the bottom left. His thumb shivers as he clicks over it, swallowing down thick breaths as his night-heavy room flicks onto the screen.

"Pose for the camera, little one — show 'em what you got." He purrs deep in his wrecked throat, angling the camera to your fluttering cunt, groaning as the mingling cum drips down your thighs and around his cock every time one of you moves. He zooms in on it, too, pulling your cheeks apart and ogling at the sight. "Soooo sexy,"

"Wait, I don't—

"Shh, there you are…" His hands slide up your back, getting lost in the lip of your t-shirt, gathering it past the tiny little tramp stamp tattoo so he can see it as he fucks into you slowly. He audibly shivers as the moonlight kisses it into view, the camera shaking as it peeks down to his cum-covered cock, then to his thick fingers massaging over your tattoo. He swallows thick enough for the camera to catch, "Oh, Geto."

You whine, gnawing your bottom lip as his cum drives deeper and deeper inside of you, touching parts of your soul that you didn't even know existed. You reach down to cradle your tummy, rocking back into Satoru's steadying touch as you wince. "Mm, there's so much—

"Shh," He bites, swallowing into the camera as it catches the ghost of your movement. He pans down to your shaking arm, massaging the base of your stomach, then chuckles like a whisper. "You feel me in your womb, baby? Gonna give you a bunchhhh'a little blue-eyed brats to wrangle."

Satoru smiles as you whine and plead against these words spoken in the heat of the moment. They feel real with dripping honey and layers of want, but even in your inebriated state, you know the truth above all. "Want y-you,"

He nods, breath shaking as he records the tip of his thumb slipping through the mess on your skin. You finally find it in you to turn your head to the side, blinking up at his shirtless, toned body, flushed in crimson, so uber-focused on your sex through the screen that he can't focus on anything else. Satoru drags his thumb over your puckered, virgin asshole, chuffing when you bite out an unassuming whine.

Your heart races as you shuffle to sit back up on your forearms, arching your back dangerously, letting your chest kiss the mattress. Satoru smiles so wide behind that camera, massaging your hole with his thumb, seated halfway inside of you as his softening cock hardens right back up for you.

"Look at you… Just taking it." His voice is gone in a pitch you've never experienced before, and it makes your insides churn and swim like you're seasick. "Taking it all for Daddy, mm? Want me to give you some more? Another fucking load — watch you go crazy and dumb for it?"

Broken, and facing the camera as he finally pans it to your fucked-up smudged face, you say something you thought you'd never ever say in this position. "Please, daddy."

"So, Megumi — may I call you that, Megumi?" Satoru stands against the sun in his high-rise studio with a custom-made bokutō in his outstretched hands. He's tight in an all-black training getup — all compression, all sticking to his curves and ridges like he's a professional model too good to age out of his quirks.

In front of him, the kid Suguru, whom he was told about the day before, stands wordless and put off by the demeanor this world-class instructor is flaunting around like yesterday's pay. Still, Satoru smiles widely, flicking down at the bamboo, then to the dark-haired kid, offering it up like his left lung.

"You can call me whatever."

"Megumi," he coaxes, extending the makeshift sword towards him, wordlessly beckoning the kid to pick it up. "Suguru tells me that you have some formal experience with the concept of Kenjutsu. Have you ever wielded a proper katana?"

"I own one." Megumi deadpans, reaching his open palms up, letting Satoru shrug the custom piece into his grip. "Had it for years."

"Ah! Look at you — nearly a pro already." Their hands brush as the faux-weapon gets passed hand-to-hand. Megumi's shoulders slouch like the piece has real weight, weary with where to look, or even where he's standing right now.

As he gets adjusted to the weight, Satoru backs up with the biggest smile on his face, retrieving his own bokutō from its propped home against the window. Everything he owns is custom-made, but this tool was handed down to him through three generations of Kenjutsu masters. He holds it with grace, like he's holding onto a real weapon, hand curling with effort as he lowers the tool to his side.

Megumi watches him silently, swallowing back a weight in his throat as the older man takes two steps, holding himself in an unbreakable stance in front of him.

"Now, I really wanna talk to you about the history and use of Kenjutsu through the years, but I'd hate to be a bore."

"That sounds like a topic I'd pay six figures to get lectured to me." Megumi follows the instructor's lead, lowering the tool to his side, lips parted as he watches Satoru smile after everything he says. He knows what this is and recognizes that they can be polar opposites and the space can still be comfortable. Megumi feels… comfortable.

"Gonna show you how to properly hold a katana. What's the length of yours, at home? Do you remember?"

"N-No, my oji got it for me as a gift. Took one summer of training rounds until my Dad stopped paying for it."

"Your Oji is a good man, hm? Respectable?" Satoru brings the wood to his chest, turning his fist inward so the wood spans his chest. Megumi follows suit, assuming this intro lesson is an unspoken game of follow-the-leader. "He cares about you like a father, I can see."

"He just has a lot of money."

"A lot of connections, too." Satoru turns the bladed end of the tool inward. "The hardest thing about mastering something new is mastering the movement." He leans into his teaching mode like it's second nature, demonstrating a few resting and movement positions, never blinking, his smile never faltering as he bends and holds his body in ways Megumi hasn't seen before.

Satoru manages to make the apprehensive kid smile during the first half of the session; their conversation flows like the wind, bouncing between them as they scale the room in different offensive and defensive poses. When Megumi misreads a bluff, he ends up with a blunt bokutō at his throat. He likes that the instructor doesn't play around or baby him when there's an opening to be had. Satoru understands his strength from just one day in his presence, and Megumi knows he wants to be back.

 They're talking about their next session when you walk in.

You swear it's an accident — it's been an off day, one you didn't want to keep on the record, just because you felt so ugly and sick. It's Satoru, and whatever he did to you last night. You walk with a cramp, toes pointed inward in discomfort as you sit down and stand up.

Of course, he was all apologies and praises as he cleaned you up and out this morning, feet in the air like a boy, excited because he woke up with you next to him. Now the pain medication is wearing off, and you're tired of wasting time on the phone — trapped in a city too big for what you truly want.

So, you get up and walk to him, because you can. Satoru's never told you yes or no to work visits; you two have yet to really exist outside of the bedroom, but you want to try.

You're dressed… normally, as the elevator door opens to his floor. You're not fishing for eyes or compliments, just for Satoru's attention, because it couldn't be more obvious that you're wrapped in one of his shirts, comfortable in leggings and sandals. The goal is lunch — maybe a sweet crepe that you two can pretend to share, but Satoru ends up with most of it.

The goal is definitely not to run into your estranged ex.

As you drag down the hallway of glass-paned rooms, you're not paying attention to anything that isn't screaming at you. Then, it hits as you round the corner into Satoru's main studio, facing the west end of the city, looking out into an afternoon full of life.

They're not focused on you like you're focused on them, not at first. You're frozen in your tracks as you watch the boys wave around fake swords with smiles and stares. They're serious, stopping at occasional moments to nod or speak. Satoru dips in a squat after a few moments, taking time to drink water, of course, not without offering Megumi some.

It doesn't cross your mind to run or even duck. You can't hide, and you don't have a reason to. Instead, you walk closer to the glass walls, hovering your hand over the metal frame as their familiar voices bounce off the glass.

It feels like you're swallowing down fragments of this room — glass so sharp and heavy that you can't help but feel it for the rest of your life. You can hear them go on vaguely about the Japanese army and how their bloodline bled right back into their natural hobbies.

Satoru's a well-known eccentric — blaming his incredible talents on the obsessive time he spent on harnessing them, and making them his own. Accordingly, he lacks professional boundaries. He can really feel it bleed through this time when he throws Toji's son side-swipes and backhanded jabs, then looks up to see your shocked face through the wall.

Megumi notices the lapse in attention just in time, deciding not to land the perfect counter-attack on his unsuspecting senior when he sees his face drop. It's absentminded and stupid, the way Megumi whips his head over his shoulder to see who his instructor is ogling.

"Geto," Satoru mumbles, tossing his tool on the polished floor. He goes to greet you immediately, remembering he hadn't told you about this off-the-books lesson. It's something Suguru slipped onto his radar with a simple text, and you had no idea. "Sorry, just a moment—

Satoru also has no idea that this kid is the one you've devoted your life to.

Megumi doesn't say anything as Satoru crowds the door, only letting it open a crack, so he can slide out. You step back as he walks closer, brows furrowing as Megumi takes a break, watching you two with an expression so tense it feels like he's about to blow up.

Satoru doesn't touch you, not the way he would if it were just you and him. He makes sure the door is shut, dips his tone, and smiles in your face as you peer up at him. "Sorry, I should've told you I had a busy evening… I figured you'd know the kid, Suguru said he was coming down—

"What? My Dad sent him down here?"

"What?" Satoru feigns just as clueless as you feel, settled in face pulled together as you reach forward to grab his forearms. You can feel Megumi's glare burn from inside the studio, but you don't know what to do with it — it's not comfortable like Satoru's is anymore. It almost feels… demeaning. "He's your friend, right?"

"I'm gonna kill him."

"Who? Your Dad?"

"Megumi and my Dad." You whisper, gazing up at him, shaking your head clear of it, then peeking back in through the glass. Megumi waits like a fish in a bowl, stretching his thin arms above his head. "And you. You said you'd be back this afternoon."

"I forgot about this lesson, but I was going to pick up sushi."

"You're useless."

Satoru takes it as you push him away, both hands on his sturdy chest. "Ah, I know."

Somehow, Satoru can never quite let you go. He lets his touch linger over your bent elbow as you walk to the studio door. Megumi's standing on the other side, looking like he has all the time in the world for you, but you're just too terrified to take it.

"C-can you stay out here?" You whisper towards him, pulling your touch away just so it wouldn't teeter on too much, especially when Megumi was so close. He has the senses of a stray cat — razor sharp and honed in from trauma. It's something you grew to appreciate, but not something that makes conversation easy.

"For a moment, but he has like ten more minutes of this lesson—

You ignore him, reaching out for the knob and putting just enough weight on it for the hardware to click. You take a deep breath, you keep to yourself, reminding yourself that you're not afraid of him — The same Megumi who used to poke fun at you for wetting your pants as a kid.

The second the door clicks, Megumi lowers his stretched arms, breathing out an invisible sigh. He's being dodgy with his eye contact, peeking out at Satoru outside the studio, who shifts, wanting to get a better look at this conversation he was blatantly kicked out of.

He's thinking about it now. Suguru told him nothing — no attached history, sure, they may be friends, but that was it. The way you two are approaching each other looks more and more like you have history that runs deeper than friendship.

"Why are you here?"

"Your Dad—

"And you agreed?"

Satoru can't help it — he leans closer to the glass, studying the venom and the carelessness behind the joined tones. He almost wants to pick up his phone and call his best friend, but he assumes his neutrality would be for the best.

"Nobody came here for you. Anyways, you blocked me."

"Oh, so you finally noticed?" Your eye twitches as Megumi puts the sword down, moving about the room like he's packing up to leave early. Feeling brave with Satoru's gaze pressed against the glass, you continue poking. "I've been seeing someone who doesn't make me feel disgusting, by the way."

"Hope he realizes what a mess you are, quickly." You're right, Megumi's leaving — he walks to the head of the room and slips his shoes back on, shooting Satoru a quick look as he reaches for his bag. "Out of my way."

Megumi pushes past you as he leaves the room, and you're too flustered to care. "Can you just—

Satoru knows he has to call his friend when the two of you storm off down the hallways towards the elevator, spinning around each other like a pair of mating flies.

"Megumi, if you would just stop—

"Don't touch me, I'm just going to leave."

"Can we talk about it?"

Then the dreaded, "There's nothing to talk about." The elevator doors ding open. You give Satoru a passing glance, seeing him smiling into his phone while Megumi holds back sanity in an open elevator. You choose the bear's den, slipping into the elevator while Satoru turns back to his office without a care in the world.

"My Dad sent you here to spy on me."

"Your Dad sent me here because I wanted him to. Again, maybe everything is not about you."

 You're trying too hard to keep up with him, shuffling steps as you two argue through the entrance of the office building you've once respected. "Why the fuck else would you be in his studio? You two think I'm crazy!"

Megumi's making a point not to match your energy, pulling his sunglasses down when the harsh sunset strikes his eyes. He has plans to take the train for ramen — the one tourists clog like fatty arteries, and he did not want you there.

"Can you leave me be?" He deadpans, holding his dark backpack close to his body as he walks. You gasp, tears welling in your eyes but refusing to fall, as they turn into anger.

"Admit that you two are spying on me."

"You sound crazy. Please go away." It's an art, learning to ignore you once you get into one of these fits. Your constant quest and crawl for attention is similar to an annoying puppy biting at the bit. Megumi just needs to kick you away, put you down for a little, then speak to you once you've fizzled out.

He slips his headphones in his ears the second you open your mouth to speak, not even blinking an eye as he blasts Western rock in his eardrums. You leave him at the corner of the block, heart in your ass as he heads to the station without you even on his mind. You hate just how he fits into the evening rush, and you hate how you can't make him out once you blink.

Anger, resentment, and loathing circle in the pit of your stomach like a disgusting cocktail. It's sick and potent like a liquor, but all you want to do is throw it up — you can't hold it.

Carrying all of those nasty emotions, you turn around back towards Satoru's office, eyes bloodshot with the buried need to sob or punch something. You can't apologize to the lobby workers as you pass by, too focused on your quivering bottom lip as you thumb the call button.

You're not even paying attention to what you're feeling or what truly happened there. Sure, you lied and said you were seeing someone, but you really weren't. You were seeing the best thing that's ever happened to you, and you want nothing more than to rub it in Megumi's face. Still, you mash that floor button and step out like you have some wits about you, even if you have to act.

Satoru's voice carries like a song — his laughs and warmth, kissing the walls and the sun-streaked glass. It brings about an unusual sense of calm, even though it feels like your world is crumbling. You follow the familiarity into the space, gnawing on your lip as you try to ignore, to settle your emotions before they pop all over the wrong person.

"Running like wolves in my studio… These kids… Ah, she's uh — Oh, Megumi and I just clicked nicely, yeah. You know I'll talk to her, thinking she's scared of you, too… Alright, friend."

"…'Toru," You whisper once he finally peels the phone from his ear, leaning his heavy bodyweight against the cool windowsill at the end of the hallway. "W-was that my Dad?"

He stands up as soon as he sees you, breath picking up when he sees your pitiful, pent-up expression. His care makes you feel worse, causing those tears you've been holding up so well to finally break through the surface.

"I—Fucking, I hate him,"

Megumi sits beside you because he has to.

Because Suguru Geto himself called his phone and told him to.

It'd just be a meal — a slight peace-offering after what Satoru reported back to him, but it's the least of what you two needed.

Still, you went, because you're stupid and still think Megumi could love you — could love this life you can give him, if he just let you in. His issue is that he sees you as a sister; everything else is taboo and ugly, and it's impossible to exist.

So you do all the talking, blaming it on the one sip of beer you had before pushing it away. "All week after I landed, I just slept." You go on, touching on small talk as you pull out your phone. He's staring straight ahead, elbow on the table as he digs into a steaming bowl, giving it the attention he could never give you. "But in my last few days, look, we went to the National Garden. And see, look how many ramen packs were on that wall, it had to be at least a thousand." You go on and on, shoving him to grab his attention as you scroll through meaningless tourist pictures.

He wants to ignore you, but he also wants to say that he's here just for your Dad — he doesn't care about what you and Maki did. It's all none of his business, but it doesn't stop him from looking down as you swipe through.

Your voice is a jumbled, emotionless mess in his ear, meaningless and stark against the happy memories you're smiling around. He wants to tell you to shut up so bad — to just let him… think, but he can't bring himself to do so.

Instead of brushing you off, he leans down and takes another bite of his food, letting you swipe through your more recent memories. Satoru took you on tours through the bustle of Shibuya, but Megumi didn't need to see the ghost of his hand on your thigh or neck — certainly not pictures of him posing with his mouth around obscene street food.

You smile as you scroll past, tickled at the small, dumb collection that shows some real sense of love in your shared situation. You like Satoru, and you know he likes you, but that's all you can bring yourself to hold onto.

When Megumi sits back up, wiping his lips after a huge bite of noodles, you shove your phone in his view, urging him to look at the life-size animal plushies you two found in a gift shop in Shibuya. The picture is blurry, and it's one taken of you, so Megumi just assumes Maki might've been there with you.

But something catches his eye. Something Megumi can't really wrap his head around, and something he wishes he never fucking saw.

In the tiny carousel at the bottom of your phone, the third thumbnail of a video sits, staring back at him. Megumi's heart drops — the chopsticks fall. On the screen, he knows it's you. That little mark you have on your back, the hue of your skin, and the undeniable, sickening tattoo that croons out your surname is as undeniable as it is trashy. He has to swallow his noodles twice.

It's fleeting — you snatch your phone back immediately, but the damage is done. Megumi knows what he saw, he knows it's you and Satoru, and he knows… what you two were doing…

…He feels sick.

You try to call for him as he stands up, collecting yourself to chase after him as he turns off and locks down. Megumi will spend his life trying to unsee… that, and he'll spend a lifetime gaining even an ounce of respect back for you as you stand up to chase him… again.

 Megumi doesn't give you a reason when he leaves. Not that you really deserve one.

He leaves that next day and swears to never set foot in Tokyo, or see you, ever fucking again.

the ocean breezes across the upper deck, making your dress cling to your legs as you lean against the railing. the ship hums low beneath your feet, cutting through black water under a sky full of stars that feel too far away. it’s late, most of the crowd has disappeared into the ballroom or their private suites, leaving the decks almost empty.

you’re out here because everything inside feels fake and loud and suffocating. here it’s peaceful, peaceful as you watch the water, letting the wind mess up your hair.

“oi, don’t do it.”

the voice comes from behind you, you turn your head to see a tall, white haired man practically shining under the deck lights, he has those round sunglasses hiding his eyes even at night.

actually it's some weird looking guy you’ve never seen before on this cruise.

“seriously,” he says, “if you’re gonna jump, at least wait till i’m not watching. i’d have to save you, and i just had my hair done. i heard salt water ruins it.”

you roll your eyes. “i’m not jumping, idiot. go bother someone else.”

suddenly he moves fast, long strides eating up the distance until he’s right beside you, one hand already reaching out like he’s about to grab your arm.

you step back instinctively. “what the hell-”

“easy,” he says, fingers brushing your wrist anyway as he gently but firmly pulls you back from the railing. “no need to play dramatic. i’ve seen this before. pretty girl alone at night on the edge? titanic is a classic but trust me, the water’s cold and the rescue boats are slow. not worth it.”

you yank your arm free, anger flashing hot in your chest. “i’m not jumping, you asshole! i was just looking at the ocean. who even are you?”

he leans casually against the railing, completely unbothered by your tone, that grin still sitting on his face. “gojo satoru,” he says, voice light and easy.

you stare at him for a second, the wind whipping between you two. he’s tall, obnoxiously so, annoyingly handsome in a way. he looks sure, way too sure of himself.

“whatever,” you mutter, turning away from him. “just leave me alone.”

before he can say anything else you push off the railing and start walking, heels clicking against the polished deck as you head back toward the interior lights. 

without looking back, he calls after you. “hey, you didn’t tell me your name!”

you keep walking.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next night the ship feels even more endless. dinner in the main dining hall had been the same parade of small talk and overpriced wine. you slip out after the dessert course, needing air again, needing something that doesn’t feel suffocating. the upper deck is quieter tonight, fewer people scattered around, the moon hanging low and bright over the water.

it’s beautiful like this.

you find a spot near the glass windbreak, leaning there with a drink in hand, watching the waves catch silver light. 

“there you are.”

you turn and it’s him again—the weird guy from yesterday.

gojo satoru, was it? he’s well dressed tonight, black button down open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. he stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets.

“didn’t think i’d run into railing girl again so soon,” he says, tilting his head. “still not jumping?”

you sigh, already irritated. “do you just wander around looking for people to annoy?”

“only the interesting ones.” he steps closer, stopping beside you but keeping a little space this time. “you never gave me your name last night. kinda rude, don’t ya think?”

you glance at him sideways. he’s watching you, waiting. part of you wants to walk away again. part of you is curious why this loud, pushy stranger keeps showing up.

you give your name finally, keeping your voice flat.

he repeats your name, like he’s testing how it sounds. “nice. suits you.” he leans on the railing next to you, looking out at the dark ocean. “so, what brings someone like you out here alone two nights in a row? the party inside not exciting enough?”

you take a slow sip of your drink, the ice clinking softly. “i mean… is sitting fun for you?”

satoru laughs under his breath. “touché, eh you know you could dance too.” he nods toward the distant thump of music drifting from the ballroom.

you flip him off without even looking at him, middle finger raised as you keep staring at the waves.

“tell you what. since you’re clearly dying of boredom and i’m clearly the most interesting thing on this floating thing, how about we make a deal?”

“deal?”

“yeah.” his voice turns playful. “tonight, you let me show you the parts of this ship that aren’t boring as hell. if you still hate me by sunrise, i’ll leave you alone for the rest of the cruise. scout’s honor.”

you eye satoru for a long moment. he’s definitely annoying, pushy, and way too full of himself. but what else are you going to do anyway? and the idea of another hour standing here alone suddenly feels worse than giving in.

“fine,” you say, finishing your drink and setting the glass down. “but if it sucks, i’m throwing you overboard myself.”

“i like my women aggressive.”

"i'm gonna jump you."

"sure, let's save that for later."

you don't even bother replying anymore knowing he'll only find a way to annoy you more, instead you follow him down narrow metal stairs, heels echoing too loud until he tells you to take them off. the air changes the lower you go. you get to the staff corridor, a doors marked “crew only,” and satoru just winks at you before pushing one open.

“you’re going to get us kicked off the ship,” you hiss as you slip inside after him.

“where’s the fun without a little risk?”

the area below is alive in a different way. massive laundry rooms with industrial machines rumbling, crew members moving quickly with carts and linens. further down you reach the tender boat deck, the section where the smaller rescue and excursion boats are stored and maintained. 

satoru pulls you behind a stack of heavy equipment crates, crouching low so the workers won’t spot you. 

“shh,” he whispers, way too close to your ear, breath tickling your skin. “watch.”

you peer around the crate. one of the lifeboats is being lowered slightly on its davits for inspection. it’s strangely mesmerizing, the raw mechanics of the ship that the passengers never see.

“this is what keeps us from sinking,” satoru adds, “while everyone upstairs is sipping champagne, these guys make sure we don’t become a real titanic.”

you elbow him lightly giggling. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“hiding with me is kinda fun, right?” his eyes flick to you, grin flashing.

“you wish.” 

“still no?” he pouts then tugs your wrist again. “come, there's one even better but you gotta stay quiet.”

you climb more stairs this time, slipping through another restricted door he somehow has access to (you don’t even ask how). the passage narrows until you reach a small external platform high up on the side of the ship—an unauthorized maintenance overlook, hidden behind vents and structural beams.

the view is insane: the entire side of the massive cruise ship dropping away below you, ocean stretching forever. it feels dangerous, the railing lower than it should be.

satoru sits on the edge of a metal beam like it’s nothing, legs dangling, patting the spot next to him.

“best view on the whole damn ship,” he says proudly. “no one comes up here except crew, and they’re all busy tonight. hey sit c'mon.”

you sit carefully, close enough that your thigh brushes his.

“you’re insane,” you tell him. “if we get caught-”

“we won’t and even if we do, i’ll just flash the gojo name.” he jokes as he leans back on his hands.

this cocky asshole.

“so? still planning to throw me overboard, or is this not completely terrible?”

you look out at the water, then at him. well he’s still pushy, still too loud and too sure of himself. but the night stopped feeling boring the second he showed up again.

“it’s not the worst,” you admit grudgingly. “i mean you’re not the worst i guess…” 

the two of you stay up there for hours. conversation flows easier than you expected. satoru is relentlessly talkative, words spilling out of him like he has been saving them up for weeks. jumping from one topic to another without pause, cracking jokes, asking rapid-fire questions, then answering them himself when you stay quiet.

you learn that he is twenty-three, only a couple years older than you. you also learn he comes from a super wealthy family that basically owns half the luxury lines in this part of the ocean. he travels constantly, never staying in one place long enough to get bored, but this particular cruise is supposed to be “lowkey” for him or his version of a break. he hates the stuffy formal dinners and the small talk with rich strangers even more than you do, which is why he spends most nights wandering the ship.

he loves sweets more than anything, has a ridiculous sweet tooth that makes him sneak extra desserts from the kitchens, and he is weirdly knowledgeable about stars. pointing out constellations overhead and telling half-true stories about them that make you laugh despite yourself.

but under all the cockiness and dramatic flair, there is something restless about him. you now think that satoru is kinda like the ocean itself… always moving, always looking for the next thrill. it’s what makes him so exciting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next morning at the dining hall you walk in a little later than usual, still feeling the lack of sleep but oddly energized, scanning the room for an empty seat.

you spot him almost immediately.

satoru is already there, lounging at a table near the windows. he has a plate stacked high with pastries and fruit, one leg crossed casually over the other.

he notices you the second you enter. that signature grin spreads across his face as he raises a hand, waving you over without a shred of subtlety.

“morning!” he calls out, voice carrying enough to turn a few heads. “saved you a seat and half a croissant so don’t say i never did anything nice for you.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips as you make your way over, sliding into the chair across from him.

“still not tired of me?” you ask, picking up the croissant he has pushed toward you.

satoru leans forward, chin resting on his hand, sunglasses slipping down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those bright blue eyes.

“tired? after last night? nah. you’re officially the most interesting person on this oversized bathtub.” he pops a piece of fruit into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. “besides, we’ve got a whole day ahead. what do you say we ditch the scheduled shore excursion and find our own trouble instead?”

“i’d like that.”

“wha–really?” satoru blinks, he did not expect you to agree so easily. he leans back in his chair, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “well damn, okay. let’s go after breakfast then.”

after breakfast you both slip away before anyone can rope you into the scheduled activities. the day unfolds slow under the bright sun. you wander the ship together, exploring the quieter corners you couldn’t last night.

at one point you end up by the pool area. satoru is standing near the edge, still running his mouth about some nonsense, when you get an idea. you step closer, pretending to listen just to then give him a firm shove with both hands right in the chest.

he lets out a surprised yelp as he loses balance and tumbles backward into the pool with a loud splash. water sprays everywhere. a second later his head pops up, white hair plastered to his forehead, sunglasses askew, looking comically shocked.

“you little-” he laughs, wiping water from his face. before you can step back he reaches up, grabs your wrist, and yanks you in with him.

“sator–!”

you hit the water with a shriek, when you surface you are both laughing, completely soaked, your dress clinging to your body and his shirt transparent against his skin.

“payback,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief.

the rest of the day passes in a blur of easy company. you stay wet for a while, drying slowly in the sun while sharing drinks and snacks from the poolside bar. you talk more, tease each other constantly, and somehow never run out of things to say. he keeps finding new ways to make you laugh, and you find yourself enjoying his energy more than you want to admit.

by late afternoon the sun has dried most of the water from your clothes, but you still feel sticky and damp. satoru notices you tugging at your clothes uncomfortably.

“come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the higher decks. “my suite has a proper shower. we can wash off properly before dinner… or whatever.”

his room is ridiculously luxurious compared to yours with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea, a massive bed, and a bathroom bigger than some cabins. he tosses you a soft towel and points you toward the shower first.

you rinse off quickly, changing into one of his oversized button-down shirts he offers you while your dress dries. when you step out he takes his turn, emerging a few minutes later.

satoru stands there, water still tracing slow paths down the defined lines of his chest and abs, the towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. his white hair is damp and messy, a few strands sticking to his forehead. those bright blue eyes lock onto you, no longer hidden behind sunglasses. something about him suddenly feels different.

you feel it in yourself too. the way his shirt drapes over your bare thighs, the hem brushing just below your ass, makes you hyper-aware of how little you’re wearing underneath.

he steps closer until he’s only a foot away. “you look good in my shirt,” he says, his fingers graze the collar lightly. “better than i do, honestly.”

you swallow trying to keep your voice steady. “flattery won’t get you everywhere, gojo.”

“satoru,” he corrects softly. “and i think it already is.”

before the space between you shrinks, “my necklace,” you say suddenly. you had taken it off before showering and left it on the bathroom counter. “can you… put it back on for me?”

satoru’s lips curve into a small smile. “yeah? come here.”

he follows you to the counter where the chain rests. you turn your back to him, lifting your hair with one hand to expose the nape of your neck. 

he steps in close, chest nearly brushing your back. the cool metal of the chain touches your skin first, then his warm fingers as he carefully clasps it at the back of your neck. his breath ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“there,” he whispers but he doesn’t step back. instead, his hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles over the fabric. “looks perfect on you.”

you lean back into him just slightly, feeling the hard plane of his chest against your shoulders. the towel slips a little lower on his hips. 

“satoru…” 

he turns you around slowly to face him, one hand cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up. his thumb brushes your lower lip. “tell me to stop and i will,” he says, eyes searching yours. “but i wan– i need you so bad, baby..”

you don’t tell him to stop.

instead, you rise up on your toes and kiss him.

satoru kisses you back instantly, his tongue sliding straight into your mouth without hesitation. his tongue curling against yours, tasting you like he has been waiting all day for this. one of his hands stays on your jaw while the other grips your waist tighter, pulling your body flush against his.

he tilts his head, deepening the kiss even more, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together.

his hands slide down your body, gripping the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing. he tugs it upward slowly, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thighs as he breaks the kiss just enough to pull the fabric over your head. the air makes your nipples harden instantly. you’re completely bare now except for the necklace he just fastened.

“fuck… look at you,” he leans down, mouth latching onto one of your breasts, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his hand kneads the other. you moan softly, fingers threading into his hair as he sucks and licks you.

he walks you backward until the back of your thighs hit the edge of the massive bed. you fall onto the soft mattress together, satoru hovering over you, towel finally slipping off his hips. his cock is already hard, pressing against your thigh as he settles between your legs. he kisses you again, just as messy and desperate like the last one.

his fingers find your pussy, sliding through your folds to discover how wet you already are. “so the feelings freaking mutual eh,” he groans against your mouth, circling your clit with two fingers before dipping one inside you. you arch into his touch, gasping as he adds a second finger, pumping them slowly while his thumb rubs tight circles over your clit. the stretch feels good, but it’s not enough. 

you need more.

“satoru… oh god please,” you breathe.

he chuckles as he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance. “you want it, baby? want me to fuck you?”

you nod quickly, nails digging into his shoulders. “yes—god, yes.”

satoru pushes in slow, stretching you open around his thick length. the feeling is wild, a perfect mix of pleasure and slight burn that makes you moan loudly. when he bottoms out, he pauses letting you adjust while he buries his face in your neck, breathing hard.

“you feel perfect,” he whispers. “i mean it. you’re fucking perfect.”

then he starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. he continuously hits that spot deep inside you every time. the pace gradually builds leading to him hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you up more so he can fuck you better.

his mouth finds yours again, tongue plunging in time with his thrusts.

“that’s it… fuck yes,” he growls, voice husky against your ear. “wanna feel you squeezing me when you cum.”

“satoru… toru, i f-feel it…shit!”

the words send you over the edge. so much that your orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him as you cry out. he flips you over suddenly, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. his hands grip your hips as he slides back inside you from behind, the new position making you moan even louder. he begins to thrusts, one hand reaching around to play with your clit again while the other tangles in your hair, tugging your head back gently so he can kiss and bite along your neck and shoulder.

“you’re mine tonight,” he pants. “gonna fill you up so good.”

“can i do that baby? am i allowed to?”

“yes, yes please.”

you push back against him, another orgasm building fast from the overwhelming pleasure. when it hits, your whole body shakes as you moan his name over and over. satoru follows right after, burying himself deep as he cums, filling you with hot spurts.

he collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest, both of you breathing hard. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as he presses soft kisses to your temple.

“stay with me tonight,” he whispers against your hair. “okay?”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the final night of the cruise arrives faster than either of you want. the days blended together into stolen kisses in hidden corners, late nights tangled in satoru’s massive bed, lazy afternoons laughing by the pool. truly the best days of your life.

the ship has felt smaller with him in it, warmer, brighter.

he makes everything feel light.

but now something is wrong.

the alarms start blaring just after sunset. piercing sirens cut through the music and chatter in the grand ballroom. the lights flicker once, twice, then dim to emergency red. the deck beneath your feet suddenly feels unsteady, a low groaning sound vibrating up from the hull.

people freeze for a split second before chaos erupts.

screams echo across the dining halls and corridors. passengers shove past each other, eyes wide with panic as they rush toward the lifeboat stations. a woman in a glittering gown trips over her heels and nearly gets trampled. crew members shout instructions over the intercom, their voices strained and overlapping: “remain calm. proceed to your assigned muster stations. this is not a drill.”

you and satoru are on the upper promenade deck when it happens. one moment you’re leaning against the railing together, his arm draped loosely around your waist while he teases you about stealing one last dessert from the kitchen, and the next the ship lurches hard to starboard. glasses and plates crash somewhere inside. 

“what the hell-” you start, gripping the railing tighter.

satoru’s playful expression vanishes instantly. his hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer as people begin pouring out onto the decks in droves. a man nearby is yelling into his phone, voice cracking. “we’re sinking! tell them we’re sinking!” a group of older passengers huddle together, one of them crying openly while another frantically reads the lifeboat instructions printed on a nearby sign.

the ship groans again, a loud sound that sends ice down your spine. lights on the lower decks start going out one by one. you see a few people directing the flow of panicked guests toward the lifeboats, but the crowd is too thick and terrified. someone bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance. satoru steadies you immediately, his body shielding yours from the surge of bodies.

“hey, stay with me,” he says. his bright blue eyes scan the chaos around you, calculating.

you can see the fear rippling through everyone—rich socialites who spent the week bragging about their wealth now clawing for space near the lifeboats, crew members pale-faced as they work the davits.

satoru’s fingers lace tightly through yours. “we’re getting to a lifeboat together. don’t ever fucking let go.”

“i’m so scared,” you start panicking as tears appear in your eyes. “toru, i’m scared.”

“i know, baby. i know,” he says, voice steady even as the ship tilts further and another alarm blares overhead. “but i’ve got you, nothing's ever gonna happen to you."

satoru’s grip on your hand is iron-tight as he pulls you through the surging crowd, his tall frame cutting a path like a shield. people shove and scream around you, he never lets go, elbowing past frantic passengers with a single-minded focus.

“come on, baby, keep moving,” he says. his free arm wraps around your waist, steadying you as the deck tilts another few degrees.

he guides you toward the starboard lifeboat station where the crew is loading women and children first, orange-vested officers shouting orders over the panic. a lifeboat is already swinging out on its davits, half-full and lowering slowly. women clutch children, some sobbing, others silent with shock.

satoru shoulders his way to the front, pulling you right up to the railing where crew members are helping people over.

“her first!” he barks at the nearest officer, already lifting you toward the gap. “she’s getting on this one now.”

you plant your feet hard, fingers digging into his shirt as terror and refusal surge through you.

 “no. satoru—no stop!”

he freezes, blue eyes snapping to yours, bright even in the red emergency glow. the ship lurches again, sending a fresh wave of screams rippling through the crowd.

“i’m not leaving without you,” you say fiercely, voice cracking but determined. your hands twist tighter into his shirt, refusing to release him. “i won’t. if you stay, i stay. don’t you dare—”

his expression shifts, desperation flashing across his face. he cups your cheeks with both hands, thumbs brushing your skin as the wind whips your hair wildly between you.

“baby, listen to me,” he says urgently, forehead pressing to yours. “they’re boarding women and kids first. i’ll get on the next one, i swear. i’ll find you. nothing’s keeping me from you.”

you shake your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “i don’t care about the rules. i’m not letting go of you.” your arms lock around his neck, body pressing flush against his as the deck tilts further. “please, satoru… don’t make me.”

you continue pleading, "i just learned how to be happy—please don't let me go."

he exhales sharply, eyes searching yours then he curses under his breath and crashes his mouth against yours.

the kiss is hard. his lips claim yours like it might be the last time, tongue sliding deep and hungry, tasting salt from your tears. one of his hands fists in your hair, the other grips your waist hard enough to bruise as he pulls you impossibly closer. you kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring everything into it.

you think about everything. the way he made this whole floating world feel alive. your fingers tangle in his white hair, tugging, clinging, refusing to release even an inch.

but the crew doesn’t wait. strong hands grab your arms from behind, prying you away from him as the lifeboat rocks dangerously below. you scream his name, thrashing against their hold.

“satoru!” you cry out as they lift you over the railing.

he reaches for you one last time, fingers brushing yours, but the gap widens. his bright blue eyes stay locked on yours, wide and broken.

“go,” he yells, voice breaking over the chaos. “get on the boat, baby. i’ll be right behind you, i promise—just go!”

you fight them the whole way down, arms stretched back toward him even as they lower you into the lifeboat. the last thing you see before the craft hits the dark water is satoru standing at the railing, white hair whipping in the wind, watching you drift away while the ship sinks deeper behind him. he stays there, unmoving, as the crowd surges around him and the distance between you grows wider and colder.

˚⟡˖ 

“wait, that’s it? does he die? no freakin’ way.”

satoru leans back against the headboard as he looks down at your daughter curled up under the blankets, eyes wide with disbelief.

“well…” he says dramatically, voice dropping like he’s revealing the world’s biggest secret, “the ship kept sinking, the water was freezing, and chaos was everywhere. the guy stayed right there at the railing, watching the love of his life float away in that little lifeboat. he didn’t get on the next one. he never made it off.”

your daughter gasps, clutching her stuffed animal tighter. “but that’s so sad daddy! he has to survive! tell me he swims to her!”

you stand in the doorway, watching the two of them with a fond smile. you step into the room and ruffle your daughter’s hair gently.

“alright you two, that’s enough storytelling for tonight. it’s bedtime.”

she whines immediately. “but mommy, i need to know what happens to the white-haired guy!”

“he’ll be fine. it’s just a story,” you say, shooting satoru a pointed look. you lean down and kiss her forehead, tucking the blanket up to her chin. “now close your eyes, baby. sweet dreams.”

once she’s settled and the nightlight is on, you grab satoru’s hand and pull him out of the bedroom with you, closing the door softly behind you both.

in the hallway you turn to him, poking his chest with one finger.

“satoru, you have got to stop making up the last part like it’s the titanic. every single time you tell her that story you make it tragic. she’s six. she doesn’t need to hear about the guy getting left behind to drown. give her a happy ending next time.”

“what? you liked titanic!” he whines as he catches your wrist before you can poke him again.

you open your mouth to argue but he’s already leaning in, stealing a quick kiss from your lips. you try to pull back but he follows, stealing another one, then another.

“satoru—” you start.

“we could’ve been jack and rose,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“then we actually wouldn’t be here, genius.”

“the better jack and rose then?” he says playfully, he steals one more slow kiss, his hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer.

you don’t fight anymore. that’s the rule.

until tonight.

“date go well?”

you freeze mid-step, the takeout bag in your hand crinkling. you don’t turn around. “what?”

“megumi told me,” he says from behind you, voice low and flat. “some guy picked you up. said he had flowers. cologne. nice car.”

you close your eyes, inhale slowly. of course he did.

“we went for dinner. nothing serious.”

“hm,” he hums. you can hear the crack of his gum. “he kiss you?”

your fingers tighten around the bag. “that’s none of your business.”

he laughs— low, sharp, ugly. “funny. didn’t know other men liked their mouths on used pussy.”

you whip around, slapping him before you can think. hard. the sound echoes in the entryway.

he doesn’t even flinch.

just tilts his head, jaw flexing, tongue running across his bottom lip. and then he’s moving— slowly crowding into your space until your back hits the wall and the food hits the floor.

“you done?” he asks, voice calm, hand on your waist like he’s done this a hundred times. “or you wanna hit me again before i fuck the attitude out of you?”

you breathe hard. you should shove him. scream. kick his ass out.

but your thighs are already clenching.

it’s toji— warm and big and dangerously familiar, his breath brushing your cheek, steady and unbothered. you hate him— you hate him— but you still dream about the way he used to fuck you like it was his goddamn right.

“fuck you,” you whisper.

his grin is slow and mean. “you will.”

+

you don’t remember how you ended up bent over the kitchen counter, panties shoved to the side, his fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, saliva already pooling on your tongue from how deep he forces them in. your cheek is pressed to the cool surface, breath stuttering, hips pinned back against him while he crowds over you like there’s nowhere left to run.

“two fuckin’ years,” he mutters, cock grinding against your slit, thick and heavy and leaking against your folds, smearing slick up and down until you twitch. “two years and you still get wet like this for me. pathetic.” he drags the head through your mess again, unhurried, purposeful, making you feel every second of it, and your thighs tremble around nothing.

you try to turn your head, muffle something unintelligible that sounds like “don’t—” but he grabs your jaw, forces you still, and spits directly in your mouth.

you gasp, choke on it— and he uses it, of course he does. leans down, tongue sliding over yours, licking it up with a low, filthy groan, his cock twitching against your entrance as your body jolts. “fuck,” he breathes against your lips, “still take me so easy.”

“no running this time,” he growls, voice dropping as he lines himself up, thick tip nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to make a tiny you whine escape you. “you hear me? you take it. every inch.”

and you try. you really do.

but he’s already pushing in, splitting you open raw and thick and ruthless from the first thrust, no warning, no patience— just taking. he buries himself to the base in one hard snap of his hips, forcing a broken, muffled moan out of you, “mnn- ahh—!” your fingers clawing uselessly at the counter as your body jolts forward. the stretch burns, too much, too sudden, and he just stays there for a second, seated deep, wanting you to feel every inch of him lodged inside you.

“shit,” he groans, low and wrecked, “still so fuckin’ tight, fuck—”

then he moves.

hard. fast. relentless.

the slap of his hips echoes through the kitchen, sharp and wet and filthy, each thrust stealing the airw from your lungs while your moans break around a sob, drool slipping down your chin. “ah- ahh- f-fuck—!” it spills out anyway, messy and high, your body jerking with every deep drag of his cock as he fucks into you like he’s pissed off, like he’s punishing you for something you don’t even remember doing.

“this pussy’s mine,” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair so your spine arches, forcing you deeper onto him. “doesn’t matter how many dates you go on. this—” he slams into you harder, knocking another choked cry out of you, “—belongs to me.”

you legs give out completely, knees buckling, but he doesn’t care. he just hauls one up, plants your foot on the counter, spreading you wider, folding you open so he can hit deeper, rougher— so deep it makes your stomach twist.

“look at you,” he pants, pace turning sloppy and heavy, “creamin’ on my cock already. fuckin’ mess- shit, listen to that.” his hand presses against your lower stomach, as if he can feel himself moving inside you, and the thought makes you whimper, broken. “you missed this, didn’t you? mmh, fuck, missed this fat cock stretchin’ you open, knockin’ the attitude outta you.”

you sob something like a yes, thoroughly wrecked, dissolving into breathy, dragged-out moans, “y-yes- hah- ahh—!” already unraveling, teetering on the edge, and he knows. he always knows. his hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing messy, unforgiving circles that make your whole body spasm.

“there it is,” he murmurs, almost mocking, overly pleased. “go on. cum on it.”

and you do.

you cum so hard your vision goes white, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing out of you as your body clenches around him, pulsing, dragging him deeper while your back arches and your hands slip against the counter.

and he doesn’t stop.

he never stops.

not when you squirm. not when you whimper. not when your voice goes soft and desperate, “t-toji, too much- mmh—!” not even when you sob into your arms and try to crawl away, hips twitching like you can escape the way he keeps dragging you back onto his cock.

“nuh-uh,” he grunts, grip bruising as he hauls you back, fucking you deeper, harder, like he’s chasing something. “where you goin’, huh? not done with you.” his pace turns mean all over again, each thrust punching a moan out of you. “you wanted to play house with someone else? go on lil’ dates like i’m dead?”

he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your ear, breath hot and rough as his hips snap into yours.

your steps are slow as you waddle from one corner of the shop onto the next, making your way to the back. everything's been set up for the workers coming in the morning, every last plate and cup washed, and yet, your eyes still scan around the place to see if everything's accounted for.

you're already a liability enough as it is, the last thing you need is nanami coming over to you with any complaints.

but everything's checked off, you come to realize upon further inspection. it's only then that you do quick work of untying your apron, a quiet sigh of relief leaving your lips at undoing the tight knot. it's quickly shoved into your locker, replaced instead by the cozy fleece sweater you'd worn on your way here.

a cold gust of air hits your face as soon as you step out of the warmth of the coffee shop, breaths coming out in little wisps. the door's handle's freezing underneath your fingertips, leaving you fumbling and trembling to try to get it locked. it takes you a minute to get it done, keys threatening to slip from your grasp, but you manage to get it done.

it's not far enough into the year yet to have snow filling up the streets, white flurries fluttering through the air in a dance, but it's still cold.

sukuna's leaning against the passenger seat of the car by the time you've finally finished locking up, holding the door open. "thanks for coming to pick me up," you greet when you're close enough, teeth chattering against each other.

"told you i'd be here when you needed me," sukuna merely shrugged, ushering you inside.

you step inside the car, immediately welcomed by a blasting heater and the noise of cocomelon blasting from the backseat. a little kid's up on a car seat, you come to realize upon looking back, sticky fingers swiping across the screen of his tablet. he hasn't even noticed you come in yet, or if he has, he hasn't made any move to acknowledge you just yet.

his eyes are glued down to the screen next to him, lips parted as he mouths the song playing at all volume. you find your gaze lingering onto the kid—wondering if that's what your little girl would look like. if she'd have sukuna's bright pink hair, if she'd look the same as this little kid sitting in the backseat.

"so uh…" you take a pause at that moment, trying to figure out how to word your question. how to figure out if your daughter had any other siblings you should keep in mind. "how many kids do you have scattered around?"

the air in the car settles tense. sukuna's fingers tighten against the steering wheel, knuckles a ghastly white. even the little boy's tablet buffers at the sudden loss of connection, everything completely quiet. you can hear yourself gulp. "the fuck are you going on about?" you feel a shiver go down your spine.

you quickly realize how the question sounds, a nervous laugh leaving your lips, "i mean i'm not judging, y'know, i'm sure you have money to provide and stuff," you quickly jump to explain, "just wondering, is all. how many kids you've.. umm… had and how many siblings our baby has."

in your defense, it was difficult to think otherwise, to be fair. the little boy in the back bore a striking resemblance to the man behind the wheel. from the pink spiky tufts of hair down to the same mannerisms, the way that his smile stretches from one cheek to the other.

"yuuji's not my kid." you mentally face palm at the realization, sinking into the leather seat. "he's my brother's. i'm stuck with babysitting duty while he's out on a date." despite stating it as a duty, it seems like anything but.

"oh, uh, i see." you settle for being quiet for the rest of the ride, lips tightly pressed together. the conversation runs through your mind in repeat, unrelenting as if your own brain took amusement in your embarrassment. a grimace settles on your face, your gaze focused out on the window.

the highway, much like the previous rides you've shared with sukuna around this time of night, is quiet. especially now that the temperature's starting to drop, leaves blowing in the wind and cold air seeping in through the windows despite the heater. it's a calm drive in spite of how awkward you're still feeling: sukuna's letting people cut him off without throwing a tantrum, he's going the speed limit, while yuuji's—moving to the front?

"uncle kuna!" the little boy piped up, tablet immediately tossed on the carpet underneath his feet. the song continues in the background while yuuji's head pops into the front, pointing a chubby finger at one of the many fluorescent restaurant banners lining up the edge of the highway, "i'm hungry!"

an exasperated huff escapes the man next to you, lowering the child's finger with his own. "just passed the exit," he muttered, speeding past the array of restaurants. they were quickly replaced by a gas station on every corner, prices nearly making your eyes pop out.

"but i'm starvinggggg," the little boy drawls out, face contorted into one of agony, "please uncle kuna, i could eat a horseeee," he continues to whine, pounding his little fists against the leather next to him.

"you ate a pack of cookies before we got here," sukuna deadpanned, making no effort to move any closer to get off the highway.

"please, please, please, ple-” yuuji gets about halfway into it before sukuna relents (either that or he simply gets tired of yuuji blabbering in his ear), "fine!"

the little boy takes what he can gets, a victorious smile immediately replacing his earlier frown. he picks up his tablet and goes back to swinging his feet as if nothing happened in the first place.

sukuna turns to look over at you, "what d'you feel like eating? burgers, pizza, wings? pho?" he lists off, slowing down as he approaches the ramp.

"i don't get paid until next week, i'll just eat something at home," you shrug off his concern, even if the idea of reheating a bowl of instant ramen was less than appetizing. you want him to leave the subject alone, and yet you're betrayed at that very moment. by your own belly, no less.

"im not asking if you have money to pay. i'm asking what you want to eat," he continues to press on, merging with ease into the empty street to turn right.

"i could go for a burger then."

"good, i know just the place then."

the diner's parking lot is deserted when sukuna pulls into the parking lot, the inside of the place even more so. only a few servers run around the back, trying to wait out their shift while a couple stragglers still cling onto the last hour before closing time. music plays off a rundown jukebox in the corner,

yuuji scampered off the leather seats once the doors were open, running across the parking lot over to the entrance. "damn brat's gonna make me go grey at twenty," he grumbled to himself, following after the kid. a bell dings loudly once the three of you step foot into the place, one of the waitresses looking over.

the inside feels more cozy than you expect, red leather seats worn down with age, peeling at the sides, a couple black and white photographs decorating the walls. the smell of coffee is still prominent at this time of night, drops pitter pattering as a fresh batch brews into the jug. the few people that are inside share a drink, talking amongst themselves and laughing.

"yuuji, hi pumpkin!" a blonde haired woman approaches from behind the counter, a bright smile on her face as she skates in your direction.

"yuki!" he beams up, sprinting in her direction at full speed. an 'oof' escapes from her lips, barely managing to stay standing as the boy tosses himself onto her. yuji wraps his arms around her legs, "i made a new friend today!"

"yeah?" yuuji nods his head like a malfunctioning bobble head, eager to talk about the little girl he'd met at the playground. "she's bossy but she's nice and she's got this hammer! it's amazing and and and…."

yuki leads the three of you over to a booth in the back, lights dimmed down for what seemed to be a romantic atmosphere, away from any of the other patrons. she's quick at dispersing menus on the table before pulling out a notepad and a pen. "alright, what can i get you started with?"

"juice! and chicky nuggies!" yuuji beams up, a toothy grin on his face.

"water." sukuna speaks up at nearly the same time, the little boy's grin fading just as quickly as it came. he clears his throat, looking over at a smiling yuki, "watered down juice."

"i'll take a water and the first burger, please," you speak up, handing the menu back once she jotted it down. sukuna orders a coke for himself along with a bacon burger, passing the menu back.

not even a minute passes by after yuki's left that sukuna's phone starts ringing in his pocket. at first, he ignores it. chalking it up to one of his frat brothers asking him to take some beer after they ran out. then, it rings again. attracting the attention of the patrons nearby.

he decides to pick up on the third time the call picks up again, immediately greeted with jin's scolding as soon as he did. you barely pick up on a, "he's not at a fucking party, trust me," before sukuna's standing up, making his way across to talk in private.

you're stuck with a very obvious yuuji trying to pretend like he's not listening in, the little boy inching closer and closer up until he was at the far edge of the booth. he barely manages to catch himself before he ends up falling, his fingers gripping onto the table in front of him.

"so, yuuji, what grade are you in?" you almost cringe at how old the question makes you seem, at how predictable it makes you. it's not enough to distract him completely, but at least, he's turned back to look at you.

"i'm in kindergarten, teach says i'm one of the fastest boys she's seen!" luckily enough for you, yuki decides to bring your food over in that moment. if there's something you've learned in these past twenty minutes, yuuji itadori doesn't play when it comes to his food—immediately scarfing down his fries.

sukuna looks tense as he speaks to whoever it is on the other side of the line, his shoulders hunched across his back. one hand holds the phone tightly against his ear, knuckles turning white from how hard his grip is, while the other is vividly flying in mid air. slowly growing more and more annoyed as the conversation progresses.

"are you uncle kuna's girlfriend?" the question makes you nearly choke on your burger, tears in your eyes from how hard you're coughing. sukuna even turns away from his phone call to look over at the commotion, a brow raised. you shrug it off, waiting for him to turn back around before you answered yuuji.

"no, i'm not his girlfriend," you sputter out, taking a large sip of water to clear your throat. wiping the tears away from your eyes, you notice yuuji's expression drop for half a second, "you're really pretty though. you should date him!"

if only if it was that easy. "yeah, we'll see about that."

you look up from your burger to see sukuna approaching, watching him shove his phone back into his jeans with more force than you deemed necessary. should you say something? or should you stay quiet? before you can think much of it, you finish chewing the last bit of your burger and ask, "everything okay?"

"everything's good, just some shit with my brother," he shrugs, reaching over to grab his burger off the table. it's not your place to push, you know that. but still, you can't bring yourself to completely ignore the edge in his voice. sukuna takes a large bite, tomatoes and lettuce flying onto the plate underneath. sauces splatter and smear across his lips, quickly wiped away with a napkin though.

"you sure?" you're prodding now, but sukuna doesnt comment on that. doesn't comment on the way yuuji's stopped tapping away at his tablet too.

"mhm. all good." any other protests were cut off by him saying these were the best burgers in town, that yuki's failed hopes and dreams were the best seasoning to be offered. you couldn't exactly disagree, the burger was pretty damn good. even if it sounded just slightly depressing.

he leaned over, wiping off a drop of ketchup clinging onto your lower lip with the pad of his thumb. his touch is gentle as it swipes across, collecting every last smidge before he brings his thumb up to his mouth. all the while, he doesn't quit staring at you, lips wrapped around his thumb. it tastes like artificial tomatoes and your lip gloss.

the air between the two of you feels more charged, much more intimate. you hate that you're the one to look away first, the one to give him any sign that he's affecting you. a stupid smile forms on his face but he doesn't comment on it, opting to eat his fries instead.

"so, what'd the baby end up being?" oh that's right. in between the mess with satoru and the previous months you spent ghosting prioritizing your mental health, he'd been left completely out of the loop.

"oh, i don't think i ever told you that you were right, baby turned out to be a girl," you mention casually, like you're talking about nothing more than just the weather. you take a large sip of your coke, slurping on the last drops clinging onto the bottom of the glass.

however, for sukuna, it came as something more than casual. he'd been halfway into dipping a fry into ketchup, the fry in question now submerged while he took in the news. the ketchup traveled up his finger the longer he stood still. "and how's she doing? everythin' all good?"

"she's doing good, doc's said she's growing past her percentile, which is a given, considering you know…" you vaguely gesture to the massive man in front of you. sukuna merely lets out a hum, proud of that newfound information.

"you got any pics of her?" did you ever. your collection of ultrasounds had been growing steadily since your first appointment, each one showing just how much your little girl had been growing in between. she's up to the size of a pineapple by now, more active than she's ever been and her heartbeat at 165.

sliding out the printed ultrasounds you had tucked away in your purse, you hand them over. she didn't look like anything other than a blob, really, at the beginning. anything other than a simple dot in your uterus. slowly and slowly growing into her surroundings as the weeks went by, each ultrasound showing something a new development.

from her facial features starting to take place to her fingers and toes taking shape.

you were lucky enough not to have any complications as of yet, to not have to worry about anything other than trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. it was a relief, a surge of luck that you didn't take for granted with each appointment you went for.

"want anything else? they got brownies, ice cream, sha—”

"i'll take an ice cream," you're quick to chime in before he recites the menu, mouth almost salivating at the taste. it's been a while since you've allowed yourself to indulge in anything sweet, even giving up your precious coffee in favor of keeping the baby safe. it wouldn't hurt to do it this once, right?

little yuuji takes the opportunity to steal a couple spoonfuls from your ice cream, smearing it all over his face in the process.

"come on, your dad's asking me to take you home." sukuna does quick work of putting yuji in the car, ensuring that his seatbelt's put on before opening the door up for you. his earlier anger's dissipated if only the slightest bit, less tense in the way he walks back to the driver's seat.

the little boy looks disappointed that his night out's coming to an end, arms tightly wound across his chest. "you promised i'd spend the night," he pouted, sending his leg flying across the seat, nearly pushing sukuna halfway onto the wheel. the man nearly scowled that a boy half his size pushed him that far, quickly readjusting in his seat. "choso promised he'd play guitar."

"choso can promise a lot of shit," sukuna mutters under his breath, looking over to be met with a glare from your direction. yuuji only pouts even harder if that's possible, bottom lip sticking out like he's holding back a river of tears.

"maybe next time you'll get to have choso play for you," you speak up, voice soft as you speak to the child. the assurance makes him sniffle, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. the sight tugs at your heartstrings. sukuna knows better by now.

"don't promise him anything. he's gotta be raised to know life's full of disappointments," his response comes out a scoff, completely serious. you almost can't believe you're having a kid with him.

"sukuna, he's five," you deadpan, eyes narrowed as you stare at him.

"so?"

you roll your eyes, turning to look back at yuuji. lightly placing a hand on his knee, trying to keep in mind he still didn't know you all too well. "you'll get to see choso again and you can ask him then."

yuuji doesn't stay dejected for long, nodding his head. "yeah, and we'll get to play mario kart and beat uncle kuna's grump butt!"

a reflection of sukuna (well, without the various tattoos across his face) stands at the door, arms folded across his chest. he's a lot smaller, less bulky than his brother, and wearing a green cardigan. the man pushes up his thin wire frame glasses with his pointer, a ragged sigh of relief leaving his lips.

it's as if sukuna had suddenly decided to step a library and decide to take the part, dressing up like an orientation guide. yuuji makes a show of putting on his shoes at a turtle's pace, slowlyy shoving them back on before getting out of the car.

sukuna steps out right after, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans. you figure it's not your place to intrude. you stay in the car. yuuji’s feet trudge over to where his father’s standing, the two men getting into conversation that only lasts for a minute or so.

yuuji begrudgingly gives sukuna a small wave, a frown adorning his features. "bye, nice lady!" he calls out, giving you a wave as well. you return the gesture, watching his father lead him inside. sukuna doesn't take off until the door slams shut, until he's certain yuuji's safe inside.

the drive back to your dorm is one he's recognized by now, maneuvering through each street with ease. a couple students stumble across the lot, despite the harsh winter winds blowing against their skin and rattling the tree branches. he pulls up into an available spot, switching the gear onto park. you don't shift away from your spot.

and he doesn't make a move to unlock the doors just yet. "it was nice going out with you," sukuna speaks up, breaking through the silence. you wanted to argue that it wasn't a date, but you figured for a guy who was probably used to 'coffee and study dates' as a prelude, this was practically a michelin star restaurant type of dinner date.

even if he'd spent most of it talking on the phone.

sukuna didn't do nervous, didn't do this type of asking out. wasn't sure if he asked someone out since middle school and even then, it'd been to play a joke on some girl in the courtyard. "and i want to get to know you and shit, at your pace," he continues, eyes directly locked in on yours.

you didn't know him. he didn't know you. the most you knew was what he sounded like when he'd cum, that he struggled with calculus, what kind of reputation he carried himself throughout campus with, but when it came to what kind of coffee he'd drink in the mornings, what kind of music he preferred when he wasn't blasting the frat's party playlist, that kind of knowledge was lost on you.

once again, not exactly the ideal person you thought you'd be having a kid with. the two of you were essentially strangers tied by one night of passion. (if you could even call it that much)

you bit down on your lip, avoiding his gaze. the effort that he was putting into being a good dad wasn't a detail that you missed, an effort into trying to be a better person from who he was. but you still didn't know how to see him as anything other than the man who so coldly told you to get rid of it. sukuna can practically his heartbeat pounding against his chest like a drum, thump thump thump, with each second you stay quiet.

your gaze drifts downwards, attention pinned down on one cookie crumb scattered on the car's carpet. "you didn't want anything to do with me." it doesn't come with an edge, doesn't come hurtful, it just comes out as a simple fact.

the look of disgust on his face at the mere notion of even having a connection to you just months back still haunted you, still made you feel like a fool for even considering his words. "i just don't know what made you change your mind. why we can't just be strangers and simply.. cooperate on parenting."

that would be the best solution, wouldn't it? never talk to each other unless it was about your daughter's well-being, never having to see each other unless it was for a designated pick-up. but sukuna's never been known to be a selfless man. "then let me prove it to you," "let me prove i'm being serious about all this shit, we can take it as slow, as fast as you want. just give me a chance." if you didn't know any better, you'd almost think he was begging.

"….fine."