yuji itadori doesn’t mean to break you.

he’s all sunshine and sweetness with his wide shoulders, pink hair. the kind of boy who helps old ladies with their bags and says “bless you” when people sneeze.

and he has no idea that every time he hugs you (tight, arms low, cheek pressed to your temple), he’s giving you another reason to lose your mind when you’re alone.

because he’s big. he’s warm. and he doesn’t pull away when your thick thighs brush his or when your soft belly presses against his abs.

you try to be normal. polite. sweet.

but then there’s him, stretching beside you in a tank top, moaning about how sore his muscles are. tossing his hoodie off like it doesn’t drive you crazy. and laughing, always laughing, in that boyish, god-help-me way that makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

like riding his thigh. or sitting on his face until you cry. or letting him hold your wrists while he pushes his big, meaty cock into your weeping cunt.

“you okay?” he asks one day, blinking those honey eyes at you.

no. you’re not. you’re soaked and sinful and ruined just from looking at him.

but you smile. you nod. because you’re a good girl.

and good girls don’t beg to be split in two by their best friend.